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featseungmin · 21 days ago

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agape || bc

bang chan x female reader

agape - (noun, origin: greek) to love a human being by accepting that person's existence as it is given; unconditional, selfless love

✦ Summary: Sometimes the monsters aren’t what they say. ✦ Genre & Tropes: dnd au, fantasy, angst-ish, fluff-ish, strangers to ??, hurt/comfort ✦ Word Count: 8,059 ✦ Warnings: mob mentality, fighting monsters, murder, blood, bruises and other injuries, old men who are scared of things they don’t understand, cursed!reader, rage mode!chan, burns

✦ Notes: shout out to @lovetaroandtaemin for beta-ing and listening to me complain about this entire au. major thanks to @eerieedits for the absolutely gorgeous banners

part of my city of blood dnd au. check out the rest here.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The pounding on the door startles you. It’s late, and you’re just settling down for rest. But the banging interrupts your routine. For the briefest of moments, you consider just ignoring it. But it sounds urgent, and quite frankly, it’s annoying.

When you peek out the window to see who it is, you’re met with a pair of intense, mismatched eyes, one dark, one light.

You’ve known Chris for a week now, as he’s been in the area helping with odd jobs. Even if you got off to a rocky start, he’s been nice enough, though surely people around town have been talking to him. But now, he looks anxious. There’s a furrow to his brow and a worry in his eyes that have you concerned. His hair is mussed, as if he’s run his hand through it one too many times.

When you open the door, he practically throws himself against it. “Oh thank god.” He grabs your hand, squeezing gently. He doesn’t flinch away, even though you’re sure that your skin is icy. “We have to go.”

His touch is warm. “Chris, it’s midnight.”

There’s a slight tremble in his grip. He must hear something, because his head whips around to the left. His eyes narrow, and his free hand moves to rest casually on the hilt of the scimitar hanging on his hip.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he says cryptically, as if it answers any of the questions bouncing around in your head.

Quickly, he steps inside, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t take his cloak off, even though you’re sure that it’s warmer in your home than it is outside. You stand there dumbly, watching as he speeds around your living room, closing the curtains, peering out into the night as if some monster is going to leap from the forest at any moment.

“Chris, slow down, what-”

“They’re coming.” He crosses the room in two large strides. His hands grip your shoulders, and again, your mind clocks that he doesn’t recoil from the contact. “I don’t know why. But I managed to beat them here. We have minutes. I… I don’t know why they’re doing this.” Something foreign clouds his eyes. The way he tilts his head and scrunches his face, it looks almost like he’s in pain. “Pack light. We have to get out of here.”

There’s a moment where your mind slows, like you're stuck in a sea of molasses. They’re… coming. They’re coming? He doesn’t know why, but they’re coming. They’re coming and you have to leave.

Oh shit.

Your mind kicks into overdrive. Bag. You grab it from under your bed. It’s old, and well-worn, but it’s supple leather and holds more than it looks like it should. You point to a cabinet in the kitchen, and Chris opens it dutifully while you open your drawers and start stuffing clothes into the bag. He tosses you a waterskin and a tinderbox, and you shove those in, too.

Something in the woods startles a small group of birds, you can hear them chirping indignantly as they take flight. It’s far enough off that you still have time, but close enough that you push yourself to move faster.

Chris helps you roll up your blankets, unbuckling his belt and using it to secure it tightly to your bag. “Food?” he asks softly, taking the bag from you. He holds it by the shoulder straps, watching as you rush over to your cabinets. There’s a heel of bread there, and a bag of chestnuts. You know you have some dried meat in one of the cupboards, but your mind is going too fast and you can’t remember where it’s at. You open a few doors to try to find it, but when your third attempt is unsuccessful, you give up.

“Let’s go.” Chris grabs your hand, grip firm yet gentle, and opens your front door.

You pause. For a brief time, the fog of fear parts, and the rational part of your brain kicks in. “Wait.” Immediately, he halts. When he turns to look at you, his mismatched eyes are clouded in confusion. “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you helping me? You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” he says quietly, and you feel a brief pressure on your fingers as he squeezes your hand. “I know that you don’t deserve this. And that I owe you for nearly killing your friend.”

“But I’m-”

He waves you off. “Nah. Doesn’t matter. I want to help.” He ducks his head ever so slightly, his gaze gentle. Again, he squeezes your fingers. “Let me help?”

For the week that you’ve known him, this man has been an enigma. Terrible first impression notwithstanding, he’s been fairly trustworthy. He could have left after he’d almost killed Kham. But he didn’t. He came to apologize. He listened. He seemed to trust you. So you trust him on this.

After all, what do you have to lose?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Even without the two feet of snow on the ground, the village would have been difficult to find. Too small to be on any map, Chris had had to stop for directions at an inn along the Long Road, and even then, he’d almost missed the little hamlet buried in the snow.

It’s a nice little village. A butcher. A baker. Small general store. Tailor. Shepherd. Most of the buildings are situated around a town square, where he imagines traveling merchants setting up in the warmer months. The town elder–a stout, white-moustached man named Gelvin–greets him at the tavern.

“I’d like to thank you again for taking our request, lad,” Gelvin says. His moustache bounces with each consonant.

Despite the fire that roars in the tavern’s hearth, there’s still a chill in the air that settles in Chris’s bones. He keeps his cloak on, but shockingly enough, so does Gelvin.

When the bartender places two tankards of amber ale on the table, Gelvin slaps him on the back wordlessly. The bartender leaves, and the older man lifts the tankard to his lips. When he lowered the glass, there’s foam in his moustache.

“Got a bit of an owlbear problem,” Gelvin tells him. “But you know that already.”

“Define ‘problem’.”

“Lives in the woods. Nearly attacked my granddaughter when she and her friends were playing in the trees.”

Chris hums. Owlbears are aggressive, territorial. He’s never been face to face with one, but he can think of at least five stories where an interaction with an owlbear went south. They’re massive, and they’re insatiable, and yeah, he can see how a little town like this wouldn’t want–or wouldn’t be able–to handle the problem on their own.

“Where does it live?” Chris sips at his ale. It’s light, but it’s bitter, with a nutty flavor that sits on his tongue long after it’s hit his stomach. It’s not bad, but it’s not particularly good, either.

He takes another drink to be polite.

“There’s a path that goes into the woods on the north side o’ town. Goes through the trees as it climbs the hill. There’s a shack, ‘bout a quarter-mile up that’s near enough to its den.” Chris nods along as Gelvin speaks. The elder man talks with his hands, gesturing this way and that. “The owlbear hangs out ‘round there, but I’d steer clear of the shack if I was you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Woman that lives there’s cursed. She’ll curse you, too, if you ain’t careful.”

Chris hums.

Interesting.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Chris does his best to be stealthy. But with two feet of snow on the ground, it’s a little hard to move through the woods, especially without knowing where the path should be. So he crunches through the snow as quietly as possible, avoiding sticks and fallen tree limbs as much as he can, all while his arms are tucked close to his body in an attempt to keep the chainmail of his undershirt quiet.

It doesn’t work, but he does try.

He follows what he thinks is the path–there’s a clear pattern to how the trees stand and how the snow lays on the ground that makes him think that he’s at least going in the correct direction. It takes longer than expected because he’s moving so slowly, but eventually, he comes upon what must be the shack.

Except it isn’t a shack. It’s a house. A little weathered, a little unkempt, but it’s definitely a house. There are curtains in the windows, and a thin wisp of smoke swirling out of the chimney. It looks more than a little cozy, and the briefest question of who lives there considering the owlbear situation crosses his mind.

He doesn’t, however, have the Chrisce to ponder said question, because a screech to his right immediately draws his attention. He turns just in time to catch a claw to the shoulder, the beast’s talons scratching across his armor, leaving deep gashes in the woolen sweater he’s wearing under his cloak. Even though the mail undershirt prevents a bloody wound, he can feel the impact deep in his flesh. It’ll be a bruise tomorrow.

The owlbear is massive, larger than any bear he’s ever seen. From claw to shoulder, it probably comes up to just above Chris’s elbow, but standing on its hind legs, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was almost two of him. The thing must weigh over a thousand pounds, not just from sheer size, but the muscle that he’s sure is under its fur. The face of an owl, with round, avian eyes and a sharp beak, glares at him. The feathers on its head give way to the thick fur of a brown bear at its shoulders; its hackles are up, angry at the intrusion into its territory.

Quickly, Chris draws his weapon, a curved double-bladed scimitar he’s had since his days as an apprentice. The swirled pattern in the steel is less obvious in the low light of the winter twilight around him, but the blade gleams with the movement nonetheless. He lunges at the owlbear, aiming to return the hit with a slash to its own shoulder, but the monster rears back, and his scimitar barely scratches the fur and feathers on its chest.

The owlbear’s claws once again rake at him, and he manages to roll out of the way, though he can feel the ache in his shoulder from the beast’s surprise attack. Before it can attack again, he slashes at its leg. His sword emits a purple-pink glow as it makes contact, the radiant energy and the sharpness of his blade causing the owlbear to screech in pain. Through the fur and feathers that cover its shoulder, he can see blood. But now, the owlbear is really mad.

Well, shit.

The owlbear lunges, beak snapping at him once again, but it overshoots, and he manages to side-step. They go round and round like that for a while, trading glancing blows and near-misses until Chris’s out of breath. He’s battered and bruised–the owlbear manages to get in a bite and another slash when he’s still stuck in the snow after dodging–but he’s gotten just as many hits on the beast. It’s missing some feathers around the gash he’s left in its shoulder, and there’s a second stab wound in its belly from where he’d gotten it before it crushed him with its claws.

Now, he stands opposite the owlbear, slightly out of breath, his muscles aching, and raises his scimitar once again. He slashes, and the beast cries out, a wild, pained sound that actually has Chris feeling bad for the thing.

“What are you doing?”

A voice from behind startles him, so much that he nearly drops his scimitar. As he whips around to see what’s going on, the owlbear, too, looks up. It takes the opportunity to run away, turning tail and running as fast as it can with its injuries into the forest.

“What the hell?” The woman behind him looks furious.

“I-”

“You can’t just come in sword swinging like that. What the hell is your problem?”

“Gelvin said-”

She groans. “Of course Gelvin said.” Angrily, she stomps past him, deliberately hitting into his sore shoulder. He winces. “For future reference, maybe know what you’re dealing with before listening to old men who fear what they don’t understand.”

“I-”

The door of the house slams shut. He’s left out in the snow, a rock slowly forming in his stomach.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The snow is far too loud. You lead Chris through the forest, following the footpath but not directly on it, but even so, you can hear the voices. The light from their torches light up the forest behind you. Based on the intensity, it’s actually your house that’s burning, though whether purposeful or accidental, you aren’t sure.

You aren’t about to stop to ask.

Chris follows behind you, his steps close, a gentle hand on your back when the ground gets a little uneven or you have to climb over a fallen log.

“Don’t listen,” he says at some point, his voice quiet. As if you could possibly ignore the mob of your neighbors attempting to track you down. “We’ve put good distance between them and us.”

As if on cue, a shout on the path in front of you forces you to stop. You freeze. The lights start to appear ahead, and you realize it at the same time as Chris. They’ve pincered you.

“Shit,” he whispers lowly at the same time as you let out a soft-

“Fuck.”

You turn quickly, assessing your surroundings. You know these woods better than anyone in town. You should be able to lead Chris out of here. But the closer the torches get, the louder the shouting becomes, the more panicked you get. One direction leads to town. The other, to a cliffside. And while you know which direction is which, it’s a tough choice. One you don’t have time to make.

Beside you, you hear the whisper of metal on leather, and when you look, Chris has drawn his scimitar. The lights are close enough now. You can see the silhouettes of the torchbearers in the darkness.

“We fight,” Chris says. His voice is quiet, but there’s a gruffness to it that you haven’t heard before. He nods straight ahead. “Push through in that direction. Get to the other side and start running.”

“What if we get separated?”

“I’ll find you.” He shoves his free hand into his pocket, pulling out a small bronze disc. He presses it into your palm. “Keep this with you, and I’ll find you.”

“What-”

“There they are!” The shouting surrounds you now, the flames on all sides.

It’s like a nightmare. Even in the dark, you can see them. Your neighbors, people that had watched you grow, that had known your parents and been around for your entire childhood. They surround you now, and while you’ve long been accustomed to their ignorance, seeing their rage now is new. A pit settles in your stomach as you take in their scowls. So many of them carry makeshift weapons–clubs and pitchforks and axes and sickles.

Chris takes the smallest step backwards, his back almost touching your shoulder. He holds his scimitar between you and the mob, his free hand extending out, as if you shield you from them. “Let us through,” he tells him, tone commanding and voice steady.

“You? Sure.” The voice that answers is Gelvin’s. You had assumed he was behind this, but it stings all the same. “She stays, though.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Gelvin shrugs, as if there’s nothing he can do. To your right, the mob draws nearer. A few of them hold old swords, and you eye them wearily. You close your hand, and the shadows solidify in your grip. The darkness swirls and converges into something solid, a blade just longer than your forearm appearing there.

One of the guys to your right–you’re not sure who, you don’t dare look at his face–gasps and jumps in surprise, his arms flailing, torch slipping out of his hands. It flies through the air, catching your cloak as it falls. You cry out, patting your arm in an attempt to smother the small flames that lap at the cloth. Chris tenses beside you. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts. And all of a sudden, the mob is surging forward.

The next moments are a blur. Clanging metal and shouts fill the air, but they almost sound far-off. You can see Chris’ scimitar glinting in the moonlight as he swings it. But for some reason, none of it’s nearly as scary as it should be. One of the mob gets a little too close for comfort. You recognize him. Of course you do. You extend a hand in his direction, and he freezes, his skin going sallow. One sweep from Chris’ blade, and the man falls.

Another moves to take his place.

Chris bumps into you as he parries a pitchfork, but then he’s gone, stepping into the villager’s personal space. You identify him just as Chris’ elbow connects with his nose. It’s Velar, one of the farmers that live on the eastern side of town in the foothills. He grows the best tomatoes.

Suddenly, there’s a pressure at your back, and you grunt at the feeling. It’s uncomfortable, like something sharp has latched onto your clothes, and when you try to move away, it moves with you. It’s not painful, the sensation is just strange, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It feels like there’s something inside you, digging into your back like a squirrel burying a walnut.

You must make some type of noise, because Chris whips around. For the briefest of moments, he looks confused, and then his gaze falls on whatever has lodged itself onto your back, and his eyes go wide. Something dark crosses his face. He shouts. And his blade glistens as it slices through the air behind you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Chris stands outside of the house in the woods. The door is weather-worn and clearly old, but it’s solid, well-crafted. It’s clear that this was–is–someone’s beloved home. Once again, there’s spindles of smoke wafting out of the stone chimney.

After the incident with the owlbear, after he’d trudged his way back to the village, he’d told Gelvin what had happened. He’d sat there at the tavern, sipping an ale and nursing his wounds, as the old man had warned him again: steer clear of the shack and the woman who lived there.

He’d provided no other explanation, only that she’s cursed. And Chris has never really been one to listen blindly to authority. The curiosity–and the need to apologize–nagged at him, and now he’s here, though he’s not really sure how smart the decision is. He’s pretty sure the woman wants nothing to do with him.

He knocks anyway.

For a while, there’s only silence. No movement on the other side of the door, no motion in the window, nothing. Chris stands there, strangely nervous, his palms a little sweaty despite the temperature being just above freezing. But just as he raises his hand to once again rap his knuckles against the darkened wood, the door swings open.

The woman–you–stands on the other side of the threshold. You lean against the doorframe, holding the door open just far enough that Chris can see your face. Predictably, you don’t look happy to see him.

“Hi!” He offers, voice brighter and infinitely more positive than he feels.

You stare at him.

“I, uh, I wanted to come back and explain things. And, well, I guess apologize. I didn’t know the owlbear belonged to anyone.”

He knows that he’s rambling a bit, but at this point, he can’t really stop himself. He doesn’t know you, but you make him nervous. Maybe some of it’s what Gelvin said. He’s not really out to get himself cursed. But some of it is just that you seem… normal. Pretty. Annoyed. All of the above.

“He doesn’t belong to me. He’s an owlbear.” The ‘idiot’ is evident in your tone.

“Right. Well, I didn’t know. And I’m still sorry.”

You scoff, unimpressed.

“I was just… Four days ago, I saw a notice in a tavern near Triboar asking for help with a monster problem. I was just trying to help.” Chris sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Gelvin said that it has attacked some kids, and-”

“The kids had it coming.” Your tone is sharp, but really, you just sound exhausted. Chris gets the sense that this is not the first time this has happened. “You’d attack too if kids poked you with a sharp stick while you were trying to sleep.”

“He didn’t tell me that part.”

“Yeah, well, Gelvin likes to deal in half-truths.”

He hums. “I’m really, really sorry that I didn’t have the full story. I should have considered that maybe there was another side to things.”

It’s a little weird to be apologizing. How could he have known that the owlbear attack was justified? But he’d taken Gelvin at face-value, he hadn’t done his due diligence. That’s on him. It’s a fucking owlbear, but it still stings. Being wrong like this, it eats at him, feels like a rock in his chest.

You watch him in silence, brows furrowed as your gaze flits across his face. It’s subtle, but your expression softens the longer you look at him.

“I’m Chris,” he says finally, sticking his hand out.

Your gaze falls to his palm. You’re quiet, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe you won’t take it. But then, slowly, you do.

Your hands are a little rough, not in a bad way, but it’s clear that you’re accustomed to doing things for yourself. But that’s not what confuses him about your handshake. Your skin is cold, almost like it’s sucking the warmth out of his own hand. If he wasn’t standing here, looking at you alive and well and breathing, he’d think you were dead.

He can’t help but look down at your hand, and he’s not sure what expression you see on his face, but he hopes it’s something at least akin to concern. You try to pull away, but before you manage, he tightens his grip just slightly. He’s not sure what’s wrong, but he wants you to know he doesn’t mind.

You do tell him your name, though. And even though you pull your hand away, he considers it a win.

“So, uh…” Chris rubs the back of his neck. “How’d you get to own–er, befriend?” he’s not sure exactly what the word is “an owlbear, anyway?”

You laugh. It’s short, but it warms him all the same. The feeling is short-lived, though, as a frigid wind rushes through the forest, rustling the leaves and leaving him shivering.

An expression that he can’t quite read crosses your face, and you step aside. “Tell you over a cup of tea?”

“Oh! Uh, sure!”

The inside of the house is cozy. Like the outside, it’s timeworn but well-kept. The living room is the central space, with a large, open doorway off to the right that leads into the kitchen and a closed door directly across from him that Chris assumes leads to a bedroom. There’s a lumpy, plush chair in one corner of the room directly beside a window. A bookshelf nearby is absolutely stuffed with books and loose papers. A fire roars in the small stone hearth, casting a warm glow throughout the room.

There’s a table near the kitchen, barely standing on four spindly legs, and that’s where you direct him, to one of the two chairs. He shrugs off his woolen cloak, looking around for a place to put it. Silently, you take it from his hands before draping it over the arm of the chair by the fire, warming it for later.

“Oh. Thanks,” he says quietly. It’s such a small act of kindness, but it touches his heart all the same.

He watches as you patter around, first in the kitchen as you grab the kettle, then as you take it outside and scoop snow into the mouth of it. You come back inside with a gust of freezing wind. Strangely enough, though, your skin doesn’t seem to react to the cold.

Once the kettle is settled onto a grate in the fire, you turn to him. “I don’t think I have sugar. Or milk. Do have some honey, though, if you’d like.”

Chris hums. He’s never had tea before. His parents didn’t like it, and then the smiths he trained under preferred stronger stuff. But he’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth, so he nods eagerly. “Honey sounds nice.”

You bring two tea cups–they’re old, a little chipped, and whatever color they used to be, they’re the color of bone now–and a small jar of honey before settling into the wooden chair across from him at the table.

For a moment, you watch the fire lick at the bottom of the metal kettle. But then you sigh and lean back. “I’ve known Kham–the owlbear–since he was a cub.”

“Oh?”

“He stumbled into the clearing here. I still don’t know what attacked him, but he was in rough shape.” You swirl a wooden stick in the honey, and even though you aren’t looking up, Chris can sense that the memory has made you sad. Your voice is soft when you continue. “I guess whatever it was killed his mama. Tried to kill him too, but he was little, and he managed to get away.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me, eventually.”

A hum of surprise inadvertently escapes Chris’ throat, and he tries to mask it with a cough. He’s heard of people who can talk to animals. He’d met a druid a year or so ago that had an affinity for foxes that could do it, and he’s sure the wizards at the school back home in Waterdeep could probably do it easily. But he hadn’t really expected it from you.

You don’t look up from the honey, but almost instinctively, your fingers curl around the pendant that hangs around your neck. He can’t quite tell what it is, only that it’s silver and delicately engraved.

“My mother gave me this necklace? And, I dunno. It lets–or, well, let, I guess–me talk to him. All animals, really, not just him. But mostly him.” You look up, then, and there’s a sparkle in your eyes. Something tightens in his chest at the sight of it.

“So that’s how you make friends with an owlbear.”

“That and food, yeah.” You sigh. “It wasn’t his fault. He was just big, and they treated him like a monster.”

For a moment, things go quiet. The sound of the fire crackling in the hearth invades the silence. Chris has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Did… I kill him?”

“No.”

He doesn’t like how you say it.

“But he’s…”

“He won’t bother them anymore.”

The silence returns, hangs heavy in the air like a wet cloth. Your gaze is on your hands in your lap, the tip of your index finger tracing your cuticles.

Minutes pass, and the kettle starts to steam. Quietly, you stand to get it. Chris watches you curiously. You are… surprising. He’s not sure how many people he knows that wouldn’t have kicked him out by now. And yet, here you are. Willingly still making him tea after everything.

You reach for the kettle, and it’s like time slows down. Horror solidifies in his stomach like a rock. Your fingers wrap around the metal handle of the kettle and lift it out of the fire. He’s on his feet before he has time to think, and as you turn around, you’re a little startled to see him standing.

“Your hand?” he questions stupidly, balling up the sleeve of his shirt and reaching out to take the kettle from you.

For a moment, you look at him, brow furrowed and face scrunched in confusion. But as the kettle clanks onto the table, you seem to catch sight of your hand. The skin is an angry red, and he can see a slight indent across the inside of your fingers where the handle had sat.

You swear under your breath.

Chris springs into action, rushing outside and grabbing a handful of snow. He’s back in an instant, pressing it into your palm. He carefully cradles your hand in his own, pressing down on the snow so that the cold seeps into the burn. Your hand is already cold, but the snow doesn’t seem to make it any worse.

“What the heck?” It’s not the most elegant, but he can feel his heart pounding in his ribs.

You watch the snow melting through your fingers, the droplets hitting the wooden floor around your feet. “It didn’t hurt.” There’s a softness to your voice that makes his stomach sink even more than watching you burn yourself. It sounds a lot like fear.

He forces himself to take a breath, to soften the hardened edges that had started to form. The snow in your hand continues to melt, the heat from his own palm helping it along. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, listening to the constant drip drip drip of the melt falling between your fingers and the crackling of the fire.

You stand there in front of him and allow him to hold your hand between both of his own. Your focus shifts to the hearth, watching the flames flicker and dance.

When the snow is nearly gone, Chris presses his palm to your own. It’s icy cold, but quickly, it warms. His hands glow, a gentle purple-pink surrounding them, and briefly, whatever causes your skin to drain his own of heat ceases. It’s slight, but there’s some warmth in your hand while he heals you.

The light fades, yet your touch lingers. He happily continues to hold your hand, feeling the warmth from his magic fade from your skin.

“At the risk of sounding insensitive,” he begins softly, lifting his hands ever so slightly so that he can inspect what’s left of the burn. “Can I ask a question?” You hum, and he takes that as a sign to continue. “What… happened?”

You pull your hand from his grip, pulling it close to your chest. “What happened to you?” It’s not said with malice, but there’s a sharpness to your tone. You tap just below your left eye.

Chris nods. He supposes it’s only fair. He rubs at his own eye. It doesn’t pain him like it used to. But even now, he avoids his own reflection. He’s seen the injury enough for ten lifetimes. The scar may be gone, his vision mostly healed, but the damage remains all the same. His right eye, a rich, dark brown. His left, storm-grey.

“I used to do this apprenticeship thing. I was a really angry kid. And I dunno. I was there for seven years, and I had this big argument with the smith I was working with. He got mad. Like, really mad. And I just…”

He shrugs, not sure of how to continue, but not really sure he needs to. Judging by the look on your face, you’re able to put the pieces together just fine.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is soft, and when your eyes meet his own, there’s a softness in them.

He waves you off. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have-”

“I learned a long time ago to stop making excuses for the people who should know better.”

He freezes, eyes locked on yours. He has to remind himself to breathe. There’s something about the conviction with which you say it… With the way things had transpired, how he’d ended things, he’d never considered that maybe…

You seem to sense that something’s wrong, because gently, you guide him back to the wooden chair at your table. You grab a cloth and wrap it around the handle of the kettle. It seems to still be warm, because you pour the water into the two cups and the honey that sits in the bottom starts to dissolve.

“As a child, I was very sick.” Slowly, you settle into the chair across from him, stirring your tea. “My parents were skilled with magic, and they prayed to the Raven Queen often, begging her to heal me,”

“So the Raven Queen…?”

You shake your head. “When their prayers went unanswered, my father decided to turn to more… creative solutions. It was the deep of winter. He had bought a scroll with… instructions? I don’t know–from one of the merchants. He prayed to the Raven Queen as he did it, but I don’t know. I don’t claim to understand the whims of the gods. But when I woke up the next day, I was this.”

Chris hums. His teacup is warm in his hands, and he lifts it to his lips carefully. “This?”

“Cursed to exist somewhere in the shadows between the Prime and the Shadowfell. Somewhere between life and death.”

The pieces click into place. The pallor of your skin. The chill when he touches you. The fact that you didn’t feel the burn of the kettle. Why Gelvin is so scared of you. Why the town is so scared of you.

When he looks at you, he expects you to look upset. At the very least, to seem saddened by your situation. But there’s a fire in your eyes that draws him in. Something that gives him the sense that you’ve long since buried the sadness and the hurt.

Maybe, he thinks, the two of you aren’t so different.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Chris.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder. His shoulders heave up and down with every breath he takes. The cloak around his shoulders is damp, though whether it’s with blood or sweat, you aren’t quite sure. Crimson blood is spattered across his chest and face. You don’t know if it’s his, or if it’s from any of the ones that attacked him. Probably, it’s a mix of both.

The air is choked with the sickly sweet smell of rust. The clearing around you is littered with bodies. Some of them, you felled yourself. Those ones are pale and frost-bitten, your magic having drained them of lifeforce before ultimately freezing them in place. The others–the majority–wear slashes and blade marks across their torsos. Some are missing arms. At least a few have been slit from neck to navel.

Chris’ scimitar glints in the moonlight, the dried blood creating dark shadows on its surface. His grip on the hilt is firm–his knuckles, through the blood, are white from the effort. You can hear every shaky breath he takes, can feel the force of it through the hand that’s still on his shoulder. The tip of his blade is leveled at the last still-alive body in the clearing.

Anyone else still living had fled. Except for one. Gelvin crouches in the snow, looking as small and as frail as you’ve always known him to be. He’s barely dressed for the snow–boots but no thick coat–and if he’s brought something to fight with, it’s long gone. For the moment, though, you push him from your mind. You’re far more worried about whatever’s happening in Chris’ mind at the moment than you are about the old man.

“Chris,” you say again, more forceful this time.

His head whips in your direction. Wild eyes meet yours. In the dark, his pupils are large in an attempt to catch all the light possible. More than a few cuts and scratches are scattered across his face, and the cuts in his sweater show the chainmail he wears underneath. He’d gotten clumsier as the torches went out, his darkvision not nearly as reliable as yours.

You hold his gaze. There’s a rage in his eyes that smolders, even now. In the week you’ve known him, he’s never looked at you like this. But you don’t back down. Cautiously, your hand slides from his shoulder to cup his cheek. His skin, flushed with the cold and the rage, must be positively feverish, because he feels warm, even to you.

He softens almost immediately. “Breathe.” Your voice is quiet, but in the dead silence of the clearing, it doesn’t need to be very loud.

There’s still something dark in his eyes that you aren’t sure about, but after a moment, he listens, a measured inhale causing his shoulders to rise. All of a sudden, he looks exhausted. The arm that holds his scimitar aloft starts to lower.

A crunch in the snow draws your attention. Chris’ head whips to the right, his arm snapping back up to a threatening angle.

Gelvin stares back, eyes wide. A small part of you delights at the realization that you’ve never seen the old man like this. He’s practically shaking, the bush he’s moved to crouch behind barely covering his body.

“Please, I-” He almost chokes on the words, hands coming up in what you can tell he hopes is some sort of peaceful gesture.

Chris adjusts how he’s standing, the tip of his scimitar inches forward, and whatever plea was on Gelvin’s lips dies in the air.

Seeing him there, surrounded by the lifeless forms of your former neighbors–the people who, directly or indirectly, made your life hell for the last 20 years–there’s something poetic about it. You watch Chris’ grip tighten on the leather grip of his blade. And you want to let him do what he clearly wants. The gods know Gelvin deserves it.

When your father had disappeared, when it became clear that he’d done something deeply bleak in exchange for your health, Gelvin had harassed your mother for weeks for goods your father had promised.

When you were seven years old, you’d moulded the shadows for the first time. It was an accident. You’d had no idea that your father’s ritual had had such consequences. Gelvin had seen it, and it was ultimately his influence that pushed the other kids of the village away from you.

He wouldn’t stop bothering you after your mother’s death. He’d called you a witch. He’d spread rumors about the curse that afflicted you. He’d taught his grandchildren to stay far away, and influenced the rest of the village to do the same.

He’d hired a sweet, noble man to kill an owlbear just to spite you.

By all accounts, Gelvin was a sad, terrible man. He deserved whatever horrible fate befell him. And yet…

There’s something about it that doesn’t sit right. You’d thought that this would feel more satisfying. That finally getting revenge would be sweet. Instead, a hollow feeling settles in your chest. Maybe it’s pity for the old man. Maybe it’s a desire to spare Chris from having even more blood on his hands.

Regardless, you squeeze Chris’ shoulder, feeling the rigidity of the mail under his clothes. “Let him go.” You say it quietly, but you know he hears you because his head tilts toward you. “It’s fine. Just… let him go.”

He turns to you, and for the briefest of moments, dark eyes study you. You’re not quite sure what he’s searching for, but eventually, he nods. He keeps his arm raised, scimitar still at the ready. But when Gelvin starts to scramble away, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even turn to watch the old man go. Instead, his gaze remains on you.

Chris sighs. You can feel him sort of deflate beside you as the arm holding his weapon finally lowers. And then he stiffens, his face slowly contorting into a look of horror. He glances around, and it’s as if he’s seeing–really seeing–the carnage around you for the first time.

“What- I…” He frowns, takes a step away from you. “Shit- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

You grab his arm before he can get too far, partially because you can tell that he’s freaking out and partially because if he takes another step back, he’s going to trip on a dead body.

You try to reassure him, squeezing his hand and tugging him back toward you. You’re not sure how effective it is, though. Your hands are probably freezing against his bare skin. “Let’s go-” Where? You’d almost said home, but based on the smoke that still billows into the air, that doesn’t exist anymore. “Let’s just go.”

“Wait.” He stops you before you can take a step. “You’re…” He trails off, hand slipping around your back. He turns you slightly, his touch gentle yet firm, so that he can see better.

In your peripheral, you can see him crouch ever so slightly so that his face is level with your hip. For a moment, you’re confused. You can feel him touch a spot in your lower back. His fingers are sticky with blood, even though you know he’s wiped his hands on his clothes. You’re confused by the skin to skin contact, and then you remember. Just before he had gone berserk, you’d been hit with something. It must have torn your sweater.

“You don’t feel this at all?” There’s something in Chris’ voice that you don’t like. It’s worry, but soured by something else. It sounds a lot like panic.

“I can feel you poking me.” It’s not a lie. You can feel the gentle pressure as he prods at your back. But it doesn’t hurt. “Why, what’s-”

“They stabbed you. With a… with a pitchfork. I can see bone, and you can’t feel it at all. You’re not even bleeding.”

You stiffen at his words. It’s not the injury–that’ll heal, given enough time. It obviously hasn’t caused any real damage, just some discomfort and some stiffness that you notice now that you’re actually thinking about it. No, it’s how he says them. His tone leaves a sour taste in your mouth, like there’s something intensely wrong. Like you are intensely wrong.

And maybe it’s because it’s so late–early?–or maybe it’s because you’ve just lost your home in so many more ways than one. But it stings more than you thought it would. You’d prepared for this. You’re always ready for the funny looks and incredulous tones and wary expressions. It’s how everyone reacts, eventually. And really, you don’t blame them. Your father’s magic turned you into a bit of a sideshow, someone you’d expect to see more in the circus than at the butcher’s. But in the week you’d known Chris he’d been different. He’d not once flinched away from touching you and finding your skin cold to the touch. He’d reacted with kindness when you’d burnt yourself on the kettle. He’d rolled with everything.

You suppose that everyone has their limits.

The forest around you alights in a gentle, purple-pink glow. After a moment, some of the discomfort in your back goes away. There’s no more feeling like there’s something sticking to you, but it still feels strange. Chris has healed you, but you suppose the aftermath of the injury remains.

You’ve lived in this forest all your life. You know it like the back of your hand. You’ve seen maps of Faerun, ones that stretch from the Sword Coast all the way east to Thar. This forest isn’t so big compared to some of the others that dot the continent. And you’re not all that deep into it. Here, it’s still pretty safe. The trees are still thin, the canopy of leaves doesn’t yet blot out the sky completely. Further in, where the vegetation is thicker and the air darker, things get more dangerous. Monsters live deeper in the forest, more dangerous than Kham the owlbear.

It’s roughly three kilometers southwest to the main road, and you tell Chris as much. He reaches deep into his pocket and comes out empty handed. For a moment, he looks confused, but then some sort of recognition crosses his dark-light eyes.

“My compass,” he says, turning to you. “I gave it to you before the fight.”

You hum and pull the bronze disk out of your pocket. It’s old, its bronze surface worn by time and polishing. There’s something engraved on the back of it, but you can’t make out the thin writing before you hand it over.

Chris orients himself with the compass, turning it until he’s satisfied with the direction. He hums when he finds what he’s looking for, and you half expect him to start walking. You’ve given him the directions, he knows which way to go. He could just leave. Step over the bodies around him and go. But he doesn’t. He waits. Brown and grey eyes meet yours, and for a moment, he looks a bit like the dogs who roam the village, all expectant and excited.

So, with a soft “come on,” you walk.

Despite the crunch of the snow, it’s quiet. It’s still early–still hours to first light–and for the first time, you’re glad for the curse’s effect on your night vision. It takes hours to stumble through the forest, dodging roots and stones and making sure Chris doesn’t trip. And just because this part of the forest is less dangerous, doesn’t mean it’s free from monsters. You take a detour to skirt around a group of orcs, and you have to pause to let a bugbear pass.

By the time your boots finally hit the hardened dirt of the Long Road, the exhaustion has started to set in. But at least you’ve made it to the road.

“There’s an inn not far from here,” Chris says, stifling a yawn. He gestures south down the road. “I’ve got some gold. We could get two beds.”

You aren’t expecting the offer. If you’re honest, you were expecting him to bolt the second you made it out of the woods. But… he doesn’t.

Your face must give your apprehension away, because he tilts his head, confused. There’s an obvious tiredness in his eyes, but he studies you with a softness that almost makes you want to shrink away.

“I get it if you don’t want to,” he tells you. “I get that this is weird.”

“It’s… not.” It sounds like a lie, even to you.

He offers you a halfhearted smile. “Given the last few hours, I don’t blame you. I don’t know that I’d want to spend more time with me, either.”

“Chris…”

“Nah, it’s okay. I killed like… 20 guys. Even if they weren’t your friends, you knew them. That’s…” He trails off, kicking at the snow on the road. And for the first time since you met him, he looks almost small. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did. It can’t be easy.”

“I’ve lived in Toftrees my entire life,” you admit. “I don’t really know where to go from here.”

“I won’t pretend like I can fix things. But I’m happy to travel with you for as long as you’d like. Until you get where you want to go, anyway.”

There’s something so pure about the sincerity in his voice that makes you want to believe him. It’s strange. He sounds so unconvinced of his own worth, yet so sure that this is what he wants to do. That he wants to spend his time with you.

“How far’s the inn?”

Almost immediately, a grin blossoms across his lips. “Close. Just a few kilometers more.”

So far, trusting him has been a good decision. It’s kept you alive. It’s kept you sane. Maybe, even just for the moment, it’s given you a friend.

#icymi <3

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