The Baldur's Gate Tome of Imagines and Drabbles

Ever since the moment Gale met you after plummeting out of a rock and face-first into the dirt he knew there was something quite special about you. An air of grace so very few held that captured him in a way he least expected among such company. Though, you were quite a timid thing. It was a wonder you'd taken the reins of this group of… interesting individuals all on your own, collecting a new strange ally around every corner and taking them under your wing like a silent guardian. At the very least that's how Karlach had described you, a light in her eyes that told him he was far from the only one to admire your quiet ways. But while it was true the other held an unspoken respect for you he imagined it wasn't quite to the extent he did.

There was this gnawing need he had every time he caught your glance to speak to you endlessly. To fill the silence you left with unending pools of knowledge and watch the subtle ways your eyes told him you were listening. Because that's just it, he always knew you were listening . Even when you would turn away, even when others would try to capture the attention he perhaps selfishly hoped to keep for his own, you were always waiting on his every word. At first he thought you were merely humoring him, after all with such dire circumstances at hand he imagined he was at least a nice bit of white noise. A way to help drown out the deeper worries that could plague the mind in such a hopeless place. And he would happily oblige if just for the chance to know that his thoughts weren't solely his own, even if they became mere whispers on wind, left to the void of time.

But then you did this thing. This horrible, shocking, wondrous thing. You dared to ask a question. And that alone would have been enough for him, to know that you were even just paying half a mind to his sometimes endless rants. But the question you asked him was far more than that. It was thoughtful, deep. It required you to have been listening to him all along, it required you to actually care about the random babblings that left his tongue.

He had been so incredibly caught off guard when the soft words left your lips, surprised to hear you speak let alone engage with him on such a level. He was hardly proud of the messy string of incoherent sounds that showed his utter astonishment, but even less so at how quickly he jumped at the opportunity to answer your thought provoking question with a wild wonder that he was sure made him look utterly insane. All wide smile and obsessive eyes, though he only knew the extent of it when he calmed down enough to notice a few weirded out stares from the others, some even tossing you a bit of concern. His face began to burn with embarrassment when he realized and he could feel it spread all the way down to his neck as his words slowly trailed off. Too much, he told himself, I'm being too much.

But then he finally looked at you- truly looked at you. And it all seemed to so suddenly fade away. Because you looked back, staring at him with such intense curiosity that he couldn't explain it away as anything else. You acknowledge him in that moment not as a passing oddity or minor entertainment, but as someone you would listen to until the earth turned to ash and cinder and his voice could no longer carry him. And for the first time possibly ever he could find no words fitting what he wished so desperately to describe. A feeling that weighed heavy in his chest as he realized someone was finally hearing him, that someone was trying to truly and genuinely understand him. That you, the lent ear he was sure would forget him in a heartbeat, were instead the heart that was trying to beat in time with his, searching for the meaning in his words that would allow you to do so. And for what it's worth you didn't so much as have to try. He already sped his heart to your pace a long time ago, hoping that he could keep the illusion that you might care, entirely unknowing that the mismatch in tempo was purely his doing. That he searched for something you were already trying to give. That he was outrunning your open affection, unaware that the quiet was where you lay. He was so used to reciting poetic lines, used to professing an undying devotion and pleading until someone listened that he hardly thought to look.

But there is where he found you, eyes focused on his, goading him to continue. To him that was a deeper profession of love than any written poetry. You didn't need flowery words or recited lyrics, but instead only indulged in the sound of him, however mundane. It was something he hadn't known before, something that clung him to you tighter than you could have ever imagined, tying his soul with yours in the silent devotion he wasn't aware he so desperately craved.

Halsin

Halsin was a man of many words, but he was also one of contemplative silence if given the chance. A chance you often gave him. You were a moments reprieve from a downpour, an oasis in barren desert land, a beacon held for those lost in stormy seas. It was easy to get swept up in the winds of duty and purpose, of desperate needs and survival. But you stood firm against all that the world threw at you and somehow even managed the strength to hold others with you. A steadying hand outstretched to all who would take it. It seemed it was just what your particular band of boisterous souls needed. While their loud voices made their intentions and actions known across the chorus of others, it was a silently held belief that you were the one in control here. Even if you didn't speak much, few dared question you in the moments you did, and for good reason. You held a conviction few could parry, and a quiet understanding for others that often lowered their guard.

And he was no different, in fact he might even say he was particularly vulnerable to your strange charm. You lead with a kind heart, allowing your actions to speak for you. Even if you shied away from the evening campfire every now and again or lost your tongue in the occasional conversation you more than made up for it with an observant eye. The small things people didn't think of often didn't pass your scrutinizing gaze. You were always the first to notice a missing friend by the fire or when someone wasn't quite themselves. But instead of reassuring words or grand, inspiring spiels, he found that you showed your voice in other ways. Food left on a nearby table when a meal was missed, silent company offered when most needed. Your heart sang with your care in even the way you glanced, eyes held in a silent acknowledgement of all who stood before you.

At first he found your way of communication… difficult for him. Not because your lack of speech was hard to parse, no he actually much enjoyed seeking the meaning in your every movement. But more so that you didn't give him a way to escape you. When his mind drifted to deep regrets and deeper pains he often tried to face them alone, content in how the world seemed to ignore him in the face of his strong facade and dismissive hand. He was fine, he often said, just bone-weary. But you didn't allow him a way to shoo you off because you didn't ask anything of him. Not for words, not for help, not for anything. You would sit by his side when he least believed he deserved the company and he soon found that he almost couldn't do without.

It was a painful realization at first, just how quickly he'd fallen for someone who hardly even uttered a word to him. For a time he wondered if it was his mind seeking comfort where there was none, that he was ascribing more meaning to your lingering stares and quiet worry than you had meant him to. Yet even still he found that every move you made enchanted him; how you so effortlessly guided without the complication of noise and sounds and explanations. You just understood. Always knowing when to let be and when to stand strong beside.

He didn't tell you of his affections at first, hells he hardly had the vocabulary to tell you just how you'd captivated him. How your sweet face glowing under the firelight burned him, how your soft smile and deep gaze told a story before it even left your tongue. It was a perplexing thing for him. He was a man of open affections; of words and affirmations. The lovers he took were often intense, brazen; warriors of mind and body. Ones that would meet his intense passion and explore it tenfold, ones that had very little use for quiet moments. Ones that often had very little use for him, outside of the primal affections he gave. Only natural, of course. What he was good at, they told him.

It stirred something deep within a forgotten part of his soul when that wasn't what you searched for with him. Your hands never betrayed a need when they laid a gentle comfort on his shoulder, but instead sought to soothe. You would let him speak endlessly, often pointlessly, with a smile that told him you would gladly hear more. It-...It had been a very long time since someone had taken interest in the parts of him that didn't give, the selfish parts, the ones wounded with regret and shame. As a leader he had grown accustomed to solving the issues of others, as a friend he'd become a steady shoulder to lean on, and as a lover he believed in serving the one who had managed to capture his heart, in whatever way they might need him even if that included not wanting him . It was entirely unheard of for those strategies not to work, for those expectations to not be set. Yet as time went on and you helped him rid his greatest worry without so much as a need for thanks he felt himself quite out of his element, taken by a silent force that asked for nothing in return.

It was just before you went to defeat Ketheric, when he was almost sure that the shadows would finally be dispelled and this horrid chapter in his life would be behind him, that he felt a sudden heavy weight of dread in him. He was supposed to feel relieved, but a thought had captured him completely as the end neared. Of what he would do after, of the gnawing affections for you that plagued him in a way he'd never known. For the first time in longer than he can remember he found himself with no one left to save, nothing more to do. He was free. And freedom had never felt so utterly suffocating.

He tossed and turned that night, unable to find peace enough to meditate, let alone sleep. What would become of him, with no duty to fulfill? What would become of you, his unknowing heart? You had precious little time left if that tadpole took you, that he knew. Could he bear to watch you go? Should he follow? Is that what you wanted? That last part in particular scorched through him. It was the one thing he never quite knew. What did you want from him? Did you want him at all?

When morning came he was beyond exhausted, beyond spent. Decades upon decades of planning and hoping and praying and hardly living had gone into this one moment, only to be blanketed by a love he would never have expected to find. When the mumble of waking life began to return to the camp and he finally grew tired of tossing and turning in his endless thoughts, he decided it best to distract himself with the fight ahead. To do anything to rid him of the exhausting endless wonder of what your mind kept locked away.

And when he did, moving about his routine with a groggy eye, grabbing herbs and boiling water to make his morning tea, a little something caught his eye. On his table sat a small trinket he was sure he hadn't seen before. Picking it up he has to look closely for a moment before realizing the shape of a duck carved roughly into wood, hardly a pebble in his hands, a small note attached to the bottom. Confusion knit his brow as he blinked his groggy eyes to read.

I am no expert with a whittling knife and I have little experience with your favorite fowl, but making this helped me sleep a little better and I figured you would enjoy even the poor attempt. Your smile has eluded me the past few days. I hope this might help it return.

With loving regards,

Tav

His heart could have exploded in his chest in that moment, his thumb brushing the letter with an obvious fondness. It was the most he'd ever heard of your thoughts and after growing so used to trying to deduce your meaning in the movement of your hand or the shape of your brow it was something he found himself utterly elated by. And more so that you would do so for him . That you had noticed his recent behavior was no surprise, but that you had sought to remedy it with a gift so thoughtful nearly destroyed him, tearing apart his being in the sweetest way. Your words were rare, but he knew now that it only made them more meaningful.

He swore then that there was no one he'd rather follow to the ends of the earth and beyond, that there was nothing more he wished to dedicate his life to. Because even in these dark times, filled with a strife that tore through weaker men and burdened the living with their memories, you had sought to bring him even this small peace. You had thought of him in his darkest moment, once more holding out your willing hand to pull him from the depths of shadow. You had stolen his heart before he'd ever realized and had cherished it with a kindness that made him wonder how he ever survived before you.

Astarion

Astarion was sure that he had you completely figured out after about the first week, which was already an impressive record for any of his targets- or erm, potential allies . But your quiet nature was hardly an uncommon display, especially around someone as absolutely breathtaking as he was. He was so sure that he had you exactly where he wanted you, that he knew just the right strings to pull. You were a bit of a shy one, or at least not so openly affectionate. You took his cooing words and suave attempts at your love (or at least what you would believe was love) with a warm face, a curt nod, and then a scurrying to somewhere where you thought you were free from his gaze. Adorable, really, and all too easy. He knew you shy types well and he was sure it would hardly be a moment more before you would fall helplessly for him and he could use you and your quickly growing pack of weirdos to his bidding.

Or that was the plan, at least. But then you had to go and ruin it, what with your silent grace and annoyingly sweet presence. Gods, it was almost sickening the way you wormed into his heart. For a while he believed that you possessed some stranger version of the tadpole that already squirmed in his brain and you were using it to pull at emotions he was sure weren't there. Because he most certainly didn't lay at night thinking about the soft way your eyes fell on him, no he would never. And he definitely wasn't replaying images of the small laugh he had managed to get out of you earlier. A brief sound, as soft and quiet as you were, a strange contrast to the harsh nights he'd come to dread.

No, no he…oh hells who was he kidding, you practically enraptured him. He had thought you this weak, vulnerable, pathetic thing begging to be played with, but had found that there was a depth to you he had unknowingly plunged himself into. Your quiet wasn't like the blushing of a timid lover attempting their first kiss, nor was it the awkward prolonged silence of someone too full of themselves to learn to relax a little. No, yours was an all-encompassing understanding, a calm steady force reaching out in an unending storm, reaching for him. Because despite his very open and rather obvious attempts to so thoroughly seduce you it was never his more audacious attempts that ever drew a smile. Instead it was those moments of stretching quiet that seemed to draw out a part of you rarely ever seen, not for lack of it being there but because no one dared look. But he saw that in you, in the empty air you seemed so keen to inhabit. He saw a wanting in you, subtle as a shadow firelight cast into the night. You waited in the darkness not for peace, but for reprieve from being the steadying force he'd recently come to know. He learned, more so from observing than anything you'd tell him, that you had been like this a long time. You reveled in the isolation like a wandering soul without a home, finding some strange comfort in that at least here there was no one left to break your perfect silence, no one left to pick and prod at your quiet nature and ask from you more than you were willing to give.

The thought softened him to you along with the strange ways in which you spoke without so much as parting your lips; in the recognition of your glance, in the small kindness you bestowed when you believed no one was looking. There was a vast knowing you held in those calm moments you deigned him worthy enough to share that was almost addictive. He had become so used to smooth words, quick hands, flurries of promises he knew he'd never keep, that your complete silence in the face of it all left him perplexed, curious, wanting. Where he once tried to find any way to draw a rise out of you, a word, a sound, anything, he instead found that words only served to disrupt the sanctuary you were building, that you were trying to invite him into, that he was sullying.

He felt guilt begin to creep through his chest when you had stopped leaning away from him, instead enveloping him in your small moments like it were where he always belonged. When he began to join you in your nightly rest by the river, away from the others. It had become somewhat routine for the both of you, a ritual he was annoyed with at first. After all, the place was covered in sand and he always ended up with a bug crawling on him. He only did it at first because it was the perfect place to strike, to twist your mind exhausted by the days events into what he wanted. But it had become something more, something he didn't even wish to admit to himself.

Then one night after a particularly exhausting day he didn't show up, too annoyed and tired to make that walk to the river with you. It was only one night, after all, he was sure you'd survive. You probably rather liked him gone, to be honest. He was sure he only ruined your peaceful evenings. But then most unexpectedly he heard feet approach his tent before a light knock on the wooden chair outside asked for entry. He groaned in annoyance, hoping to be left alone for the evening. But he opened his poor excuse for a door all the same.

He hadn't expected to see you, eyes as tired as his, with the most expectant stare you'd ever given. He was almost sure you looked panicked for a moment, like you had expected a much more grim sight. Yet still you said nothing, though you didn't have to. He knew what you were waiting for, he just couldn't bring himself to believe it. Instead he made some sideways comment, something akin to “if you just came to stare then you can do that in the morning”, or some other smarmy response to your unspoken request. A defense against the truth, a wall he built as if it would save him from the sickening warmth that built at the thought that you would look for him, that you had missed his presence.

He watches you hesitate, pulling away, closing him off from the comforting void he hadn't realized he was pulled toward. You look at him then with an uncertainty you'd never shown, a hand held up almost as if you were reaching out from a receding tide, hoping to find his hand doing the same. But, ever the man so keen on destroying what little good he had before anyone else could beat him to the punch, he let you fall away, carried adrift. You only give a nod to him, too quick to be sincere, before leaving without a single word. He retreated back to his tent, though even less at peace than before. A dread gnawed at him, a nauseating feeling building at the back of his throat. His mind rewound the strange look on your face over and over, searching for something that told him you were being insufferable, annoying, not worth his time. But instead he found that those words only came back around to him, biting with a quickness. For a time he tried to ignore it, the petty feelings were beneath him.

But gods how that look in your eye made his undead heart sink to his stomach. There was an expectation there, a promise written in the silence that he had broken. You weren't just hurt by his lack of company, but betrayed. Like he had told you a million insults between a harsh glance and unassuming words. Eventually he couldn't bear it, guilt already warm in his chest and now spreading thickly on his tongue. As bad of an idea as he knew it was he finally leaves his tent, taking the walk down to the river where he knew he'd find you.

And there you sat, tucked into yourself with those harrowing eyes he was still trying so desperately to understand. Your gaze along the water was emptier than he'd ever seen, mind anywhere but the current moment. You don't turn to him as he approaches, perhaps for the best. He imagined so much as a glance might actually kill him, given that your very presence exuded an infinitely empty void searching for something that would fill it. He imagined your eyes just might take what you sought after, and that he wasn't going to have the will left to escape. That he wouldn't want to.

He hesitates before he sits, his body moving with a careful step, afraid to ruin the quiet you had woven. But all the same he finds a spot next to you. For a moment he feels unwelcome, unwanted, like the first night he had taken this spot beside you. A familiar emptiness that would have once been a hurdle to jump over now a wave of regret and self-loathing. He found that words seemed to die before they ever left his throat, nearly choking him. The quiet without you was daunting, familiar in a way he never wished to recapture. The memory of cold endless nights, of complete and utter isolation and dead silence.

But then he feels a soft weight, one that sends a crashing wave of comfortable warmth through him, that dispels the crawling memories like a balm against his lost soul. And when he turns, eyes gazing at the sight, he finds your head lying gently against his shoulder. He does not feel a craving to your presence, a desperation for closeness or a trick to lull his defenses. He instead feels as if a careful trust rests gently against him, no further request given, no way to turn this any further in his favor. Just a comfortable, careful touch, one that suddenly weighs heavier when he notices your tired eyes shutting lightly and hears the agonizingly slow sigh that leaves you. You lay against him like he was the only relief you'd ever known. And slowly, surely, the thought whispers in his mind that the feeling is all but one-sided, all but yours alone to carry. He fails the fight against himself when he finds his head lying gently on yours, tense at first. But you don't pull away, instead only melting against him further as if to mimic his feelings back at him, to show him trust when you couldn't bring yourself to speak the words.

And he, against every bit of his growing anxieties, crumbles under the pressure of your silent promises, your unspoken care, your perfect peace. And despite knowing that he has just made things so much more complicated, he can't bring himself to regret this moment of weakness. Not when the void of your unspoken words seems to steal his thoughts into your own in a way that tells him you never plan to leave.

Chapter 2: Halsin, Gale and Karlach Finding Out That Tav Was Kidnapped By Orin

Notes:

Canon typical violence, mentions of blood, kidnapping, lots and lots of angst and very little/no comfort
Word Count: 7.8k

Chapter Text

Halsin

He knew something was off the moment you went missing. Call it instinct, paranoia, or his deep attunement with your very being, but the lack of you sat dead in his lungs, your scent gone in the morning dew. So before he thought of anything else he set out searching for you, trying to convince himself that it was just paranoia. That he was allowing the past to bleed into the now, that he was allowing his fear of losing yet another to overtake his rational senses.

And then he found you sitting at the morning flames, conversing with Jaheria and Karlach. Yet still the dread didn't fade away. Instead he felt ice crawl up his spine in a way he couldn't quite describe. He stopped in his tracks, saliva heavy on his tongue as he realized that the smell still hadn't changed, that the absence of you still hung heavy. He watched as you talked, your mannerisms the same yet unfamiliar, your voice familiar but lacking something indescribable. Despite all rational thoughts pointing to nothing being wrong, it was as if something primal in his being told him that this wasn't right. That this wasn't you.

Karlach turned to him first, or at least he thinks so. His eyes hadn't dared look away, unable to turn from the terrible sound of your voice ringing in all the wrong ways. It was you, so undeniably you, but then very much not. Your hands were too still- no you sat too straight! Or maybe it was neither, maybe he was losing it.

“You alright there? Looks like you've seen a ghost!” Karlach's voice is alive, real, her. It makes it hard to believe this is some weird dream when at least she seems so real.

“Trouble sleeping?” Jaheria asks next. And it was then you finally turned to him. If he thought he was sick before, now he was nothing but a puddle of nausea. Your eyes, gods your eyes, it was like staring into the den of a creature no nature ever birthed, a twisted form mimicking something closely, almost there, but then just so slightly wrong. Too wide, too empty. Your face feigns empathy but is twisted like you hardly knew what that was supposed to look like. Your kindness stopped at a smile too sharp to be yours.

“Halsin! You look nearly wrecked, my love, what happened?” his breath caught as his name fell from your lips in a way he'd never heard before. Wrong, twisted, like a curse. You stand to meet him and in a motion so unfamiliar to him he takes a step back from you, his heart thumping like a predator had come charging for his throat. And then for just a moment he finally does smell you. Faint, hidden under something distinctly metallic. His nose upturns at it, your eyes sharpening, intense, death written in the corners. He knows then, against every bit of logic, that whatever stands in front of him isn't you. Because never even in your most intense moments had you ever held such a pointed stare at him.

“What are you?” The words slip past his lips in a murmur, his body answering your uncanny look before he would allow his mind to fully accept it. It is then that the feigning of kindness drops from your features, instead replaced by complete and unfiltered glee with the shine of gums in a smile too unnaturally wide.

“ Oooo, so the bear isn't as stupid as he looks!” You giggle- no, it giggles. Insanely so, amused beyond reason. It's contrasted by its dramatic eye roll, tsking with a sigh.

“I had hoped to have a little more fun first,” it mocks. As his mind finally catches up disgust builds and is only barely outmatched by rage. He growls, standing suddenly taller, teeth bared, eyes gleaming at the creature that dared mimic you. The other two by the fire sit thoroughly confused, wondering whether it was you or Halsin that had lost your senses. Though all the same they reach for their weapons, the tense situation unclear.

This fake version of you laughs in the face of his glowing rage, enjoying the sight with such joy it only serves to push him over the edge. In an instant his hands reach forward to grab you, stopped only by Jaheria's quick pull on you and Karlach's brave act of standing in front of the man who was one final tick away from losing the last bits of himself to a furious bear.

“Woah woah big man! Cool it down! What just happened?!” Karlach tries to calm him but it's to no effect. If anything he is only further infuriated knowing that the danger was now out of his grasp.

“That isn't Tav!” He yells sternly, leaving no room for question. It's not a second later that Jaheria's strangled yell meets their ears, a dagger stuck plainly in her shoulder as the creature moves a safe distance away, cackling wildly now.

“Oh blood! Lovely, lovely blood!” They twist your voice again a final time before the visage dissipates, revealing a sight almost as revolting as when she wore your skin – Orin.

Halsin doesn't leave room for hesitation, charging the shapeshifter as his skin turned to fur and his nails to claws. She dodges away just in time, unfazed and blood-frenzied.

“Yes! Yes! So similar to your lover. They tried- oh they tried. But they were no match. Even standing over all their bloodied bodies there were just too many to maim on their own,” there is no thought to the way his paws slash at the intruder, nothing but primal, deathly wrath in each swing. She struggles at the flurry even as her voice taunts him, rolling her eyes with a huff when the final swing just barely grazes her. He stands tall on his back feet then, ready to rain down the punishment for her cruel game when a sudden burst of energy knocks everything back. He is sent harshly against a tree, cracking bits of bark as all air falls out of his lungs. He goes limp at the lack of it, failing to pull any oxygen back quick enough. In an instant she gains a tight grip on his snout, nails digging into the sides as she moves him to look at her.

“You want the precious little toy back? Bring me Gortash's head and the netherstone he holds!” violence seeps from her every word as another horrific smile forms.

“For each day you make me wait I will make sure to cut them just as pretty as you tried to gut me,” she muses like she's speaking fine poetry, tongue tasting her lips like the idea makes her hungry. Then, with a slight twist of her wrist and just before he can muster up the strength for another swing, she disappears.

He shifts out of his bear form with a pained grunt, hand holding his side where a wide bruise is sure to form. But the pain is only a brief thought that buries itself under his heavy breath and gritted teeth. He stares at the ground like the grass might speak to him and guide the overwhelming feelings that threaten to take him again, his hands grasping at the dirt, pulling plants from the root into his unyielding grasp. But when the adrenaline is left to simmer it soon falls away to something else – something much, much worse .

His mind floods with images of you, mutilated, fighting with the wild abandon of a trapped animal. One, two , three bodies dropped at your feet. Then five , then ten, then just how many? He imagined the fear, the desperation. It wraps around his mind and buries so deep that when the guilt finally bloomed it consumed nearly his whole person.

He had failed.

A thought he knew well, a sentiment he's held too often for him to ever forget the feeling. He tried, gods did he try. He always did, with his whole being, with everything he had to offer , just to keep people safe. He'd done everything right, had made sure. But yet here he was again, thrown to the side as another person held under his wing was left to the whims of cruel fate. And worst of all, worse than anything else, it was you. The one he was supposed to hold the closest, to keep the safest. A love he'd never known so deeply, the one that had torn him from a lifetime's worth of pain and brought him a peace he never thought possible. His heart made real, his home. His home.

And he failed.

Something in him, something fundamental and deep and hidden so far he almost doesn't recognize it, snaps. A string held too taut, an unnoticeable crack finally shattering the glass. He looks up where the women marked in flesh once stood. and his eyes no longer hold the light they once had. There is a noticeable hole that forms in the place where he breaks, a void he can no longer fill with anything other than the thought of getting you back. He recognizes the feeling like a bitter old friend, one he'd only just begun to leave behind; one he never seems to outrun. That single-track mind. He had to fix this, he had to save you, he had to, he had to, he had to. He wouldn't know anything else, do anything else, be anything else, until he once again mended the mistakes that seemed to plague him like never ending onslaughts – like cruel tests from a god that had long abandoned him and only wished to see how long it would take before he realized he was destined only to bury all he loved before him.

He was a fool to have ever hoped for peace.

Gale

Gale doesn't notice at first. He starts his morning like any other, a book in hand and an intense fatigue to his eyes from having stayed up late the night before reading the same book. The motions of the morning are lost on him as he tries to enjoy the peace before all of you inevitably set out for the day's adventure. He hears your voice amongst the crowd and smiles, happy to hear your presence in the air.

Things start to go wrong when he doesn't get his morning kiss. He waits patiently, of course, he's sure you've just gotten caught up in some other conversation. But then early morning passes and everyone begins to armor up and grab their weapons. And you two still haven't had your morning rendezvous. So just before setting out he goes in search of you. He finds you quickly, seeing that you just ended a conversation with Shadowheart and Astarion. Ah, surely that's what has had you caught up all morning! Those two could be quite the chatterboxes if left to bicker. He approaches, your favorite morning snack in hand picked perfectly to your tastes just in case he might have unknowingly miffed you in some way.

“Morning, sweet love of mine,” he announces his presence, stopping you in your tracks. With a smile he bows slightly, holding the food out to his beloved with a slight flourish.

“I've brought something for you,” he displays the food with the reverence of an item most valuable, hoping it might mend whatever tension might have unknowingly formed. Yet still you hesitate before you take it, something he catches on to quickly, his eyes always attentive to the subtle ways you shift. He stands straight then, worry finally getting the best of him as he clears his throat with a cough.

“I seemed to have missed you this morning,” the softness falters from his tone, his voice a little louder than he'd meant it but still relatively calm. A slight prod, nothing too invasive. Just enough to seek a familiar reaction – widened eyes in guilty recognition or an apologetic smile at having somewhat abandoned him this morning. Neither of which you give him, eyes sharper than he remembers them.

“Is that what the food is for? I'm perfectly fine feeding myself, you know,” there is a sarcastic lilt that's almost familiar, but the animosity behind it surely is not. In fact he recoils at the strangeness of the sound.

“Oh…” his mouth forms the sound before he even realizes he's speaking, his body fully shifting away from the softness he had approached with.

“My apologies, then. Perhaps it would be best if we just started the day,” he answers your animosity with his own, his voice tense with the hurt of your suddenly cold attitude towards him. Yet you only hum a tune of agreement.

“Couldn't have said it better myself’ you answer all too simply, taking a few steps forward before tossing the treat he had so lovingly stashed away for you to Karlach as you passed. Like it meant nothing.

The rest of the day he was on edge around you; bitter and annoyed. He almost couldn't stand to be in your presence with the way you completely ignored him. Like he wasn't brewing just beneath his skin every time he looked at you, like he wasn't staring daggers at the back of your head. And through it all he couldn't help but almost feel like he'd done something wrong. Had he said something the night before? Nothing came to mind but his usual poetic waxing. Had he done something maybe? Hurt you? Stung your pride somehow? You didn't treat him like you were all that angry – a fact which almost made all of this worse. Instead you treated him like an inconvenience, a burden, a weight to carry around. And oh how that infuriated him, burned him, hurt him. He felt himself wanting to apologize for something he wasn't even sure he'd done. You had him second-guessing every small detail of his own behavior in ways he hadn't done since Her, and it brought back a crawling shame up his spine that made him sick.

By the end of the day his fuse had run short. Forget his morning kiss, you had failed at any affections towards him today. No professions of love, no sweet stare, no indication that you even cared to look in his general direction. It was truly maddening. By now you all sat eating dinner by the fire – your favorite meal despite the fact that you didn't deserve it – and yet your plate sat beside you, only getting colder as you conversed with anyone but him. His anger wasn't as prevalent now, instead manifesting in a tired, quiet stare at the fire as he ate, his mind replaying each interaction with you over and over trying to find where it had all gone so wrong.

“-and what about you, Gale?” The speaking of his name snaps him out of his intense staring into flames, his eyes reluctantly looking up to see…you? No, that can't be right, you haven't used his name in a moment of calm since he'd first laid with you. It rang almost cruelly around him, mocking him with just how unfazed you looked to speak it. A dead silence crept in as the faces of everyone else slowly recognized the tension that was brewing. Gale set his half-eaten plate down with a noticeable roughness, his eyes now pinpoint glares in your direction.

“I wasn't listening,” he answers with a burning tongue, his stare only growing in intensity. Yet you continue to smile – too proudly might he add – even as everyone else notices that something isn't right.

“We were talking about our bloodiest battles! Which would you say was yours?” Your tone is bubbly but doesn't hold its common warmth. He realizes quickly that it's the first time today he's gotten a good look at your face, an oddity in itself. But it allows a quiet, slow, icy feeling to seep in that he'd never once felt upon gazing on you before. And suddenly he was noticing things about your features that he was sure hadn't been there before.

That was quite the strange look you had in your eye. And had you always leaned so far forward? Had your teeth always been so sharp? Had your eyes always been so intense?

The small observations remind him of an old story he'd read of a little girl in red and a hungry wolf dressed as someone far safer. He recalls how the cracks slipped when the girl moved closer, unknowingly leaning into the maw of the beast. And he imagines she must have felt the same confused dread that spreads in his chest as he looks at you now; your eyes staring like he was the meal you had been waiting so long to devour. Or rather, that the wolf that wore your skin couldn't wait to sink its teeth into. His senses betray him as they try to find reason in the sinking feeling, to make sense of how he sees nothing where his mind knows something's missing, to understand how he could look into your eyes and feel hunted.

The day's events come into view, replaying like he was seeing them for the first time. And like the pieces of a twisted broken puzzle your strange behaviour seems to slowly click into place. The thought seeps in like dread in his veins, mind slowly forming around the idea that the only possible explanation for the feeling was that it. Wasn't. You.

“Are you alright Gale? You look ill,” someone speaks, Halsin he thinks, but the voice echoes somewhere distant, somewhere far from where his mind was spiraling. Gale's gaze never turns away from you, and yours never faltered from that sharp-toothed grin.

“Should we leave?” Shadowheart asks cautiously, clearly uncomfortable. But Gale only continues to stare, your smile finally faltering and his unwavering glare seems to get his point across. He knows.

It's then that Gale finally sees you crack, eyes turning a wild shade that was distinctly not yours, hands reaching for your saddled knife and raising it to the poor cleric. You – or rather whatever wore your skin – didn't get so far when a shock of electricity left Gale's hands, knocking the knife away just as swiftly as it had been drawn. The creatures form shifts, dropping the visage of you for what they had truly been all along – Orin . In a split second the entire camp stepped away from the sudden threat, reaching for whatever weapon was closest and taking defensive positions.

“Hey! You ruined a perfectly good stabbing!” She yelled like a tantruming toddler. Despite the clear danger Gale pushes his way to the front of the formed crowd. He crackles with energy, the orb in his chest throbbing.

“What did you do!” He roars, the sound booming across the camp like a shockwave, knocking over cups and loose tools along with creating a slight shake in the earth. Orin braces and stays where she is, soon turning to look back at him with the same smile that had given her away. How could he have missed it before? It was a twisted warped thing, so clearly wrong. How had he not noticed?

She laughs, delighting in his anguish.

“They aren't dead… yet, ” her tone is a playful sadism, teasing him with the utmost glee.

“They were quite the feisty one though, made a beautiful bloody mess,” Gale is only stopped from encasing her in a fiery inferno when Karlach manages to hold his hand back, having more sense than him in that moment.

“So worried about your little pet. I promise you they are oh so safe in my hands. I've only sliced them a little bit. Consider it a favor. One I expect to be repaid, " her face twists quickly into a rage that meets every inch of her face, though only barely hides sick glee.

“Bring me Gortash’s pretty head along with that wretched netherstone and I promise you'll get them back. Fail and you get them back in pieces . Make your decision quickly, your lover will be watching, ” her anger turns to a disturbingly personal pleasure before she twists her wrist and disappears. Gale reaches out just before she does but is only met with empty air. He stays there for a long time, the bursting of troubled voices among the camp a murmur in the back of his mind. He only stares, mind reeling with what just happened.

You…You were gone. From right under his nose. And this whole time he'd allowed a stranger to dance in your skin, to bitter him to your presence. He feels guilt fall into the flurry of emotions that swirl within him and take hold so thoroughly that it becomes its own storm. How could he let this happen?! After all you'd done for him, all you'd selflessly given of yourself. And now you lay at the mercy of a being known for her insatiable lust for blood and violence, at the whims of the sadistic wolf. And all the while he'd been too caught up in petty bitterness the mockery of you instilled.

How long did you fight? How long did you call for help knowing no one was coming? He almost hears your voice, a shattered sound against the air, yelling for him like an abandoned god. He felt almost as if he betrayed you at the unknown memory, that he had turned his back even when he'd never been given the chance to save you. Gone, right in front of him. Do you wait for him now, wondering where he was when you needed him most? Do you hate him, knowing that he has failed you in the worst way? You have to, because he can only find hate for himself at the thought.

A pressure lands on his shoulder and he flinches back, body still sparking with unused energy. His gaze snaps to find Karlach with her hand pulled just barely away, concern openly wrapping her features. At that Gale softens, the reality seeping in enough for panic to strike through the cloud of self-loathing. Now wasn't the time to reminisce on his wrongdoings. Now was the time to act.

“I'll bury her,” Gale finally speaks, sounding far less confident than he hoped. Instead his voice is quiet, resigned and so deeply worried that it bleeds into his every syllable. Yet there is still a bite there, a threat at the tip of his tongue. Karlach gives a strong nod.

“I’ll bring the shovel,” she assures him with the understanding of someone who knows the turmoil swimming in his veins. Despite the dire circumstances her confidence radiates to him. He stands straighter, lips turning in a ready snarl. He couldn't be weak, not now. For once it seems that you needed him and he wouldn't allow himself to let you down a second time. He didn't care what he had to do; he'd get you back. Even if it meant leveling the entirety of Baldur's Gate to do so. He'd raise the city to rumble, he'd turn the wretched place to ash if that was what it took. He would leave nothing left to conquer.

Karlach

She doesn't realize for even a moment, too busy convincing herself that your strange behaviour is because of something else. She meets you in the morning with a bounce in her step and a wide smile, her tail wrapping around your leg and tripping you into her arms like she always did when she was able to sneak up on you. It was a cute little way to get you into her embrace every now and again.

“Heya sweetheart! Falling for me again?” she muses teasingly. But her body tenses when you struggle out of her grip and she lets go quickly after, letting you stand yourself up with a bit of bewilderment.

“The hells was that for?!” You yell out, shocking her body still. Her tail whips behind her, hands held up in quick surrender.

“Sorry! Scared you a bit bad that time then yeah?” her voice still allows amusement to slip through, still not entirely understanding your reaction. Did she catch you that off guard? Maybe you thought she was someone else at first, or maybe she held too tight. For all she knew it had just been a rough morning. In fact that is the view she settles on when you brush yourself off with quick irritation, not even bothering to look at her.

“Keep your tail to yourself from now on,” you snap with a snarl, walking off without a word more. She's a bit hurt by the gesture, guilt sinking in as she wonders if it's upset you that much before. How has she not noticed? She would never have continued doing it if you didn't like it! Why didn't you say anything before? Gods the guilt eats her from the inside.

She keeps to herself the rest of the day as she starts to second-guess much more than just that small moment. What else were you uncomfortable with that she hadn't noticed? What else did she do that you secretly hated? Was she overthinking this? Probably. Surely. She should just ask you about it, clear the air so she can stop worrying.

And so she seeks you out when you all finally return to camp. You're busy looking through the supplies when she taps you on your shoulder, trying to get your attention. You pull away so quickly that her hands recoil, panic building in her chest as the thought passes: was she burning up again? She didn't feel like she was, but she was also so used to it that maybe she didn't notice. Had she hurt you?!

Her eyes are wide with worry, shams spreading when she realizes the look of complete and utter disgust that reaches your features. You pull away less like you were trying to flee a burning flame and more like you were trying to flee from her. Her throat tightens at the thought.

“Did you want something?” Your voice bites and she coils in on herself at the sound. She'd done it again, hadn't she? Touched when she shouldn't have, pressed too far when she should have cooled down. The embarrassment buries her almost as much as the guilt does.

“I'm sorry soldier, I uh- I didn't mean to upset you-”

“You didn't,” you snap again, harsh tone betraying your words. It confuses her for a while before the worry starts to set in deeper. You were lying to her, blatantly so, painfully so. And suddenly there is a horrid thought that rises.

Did you not trust her?

“Hey, you're allowed to be upset, you know? Even at me? Just- I just don't wanna make you uncomfortable. You can tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable. You can tell me anything,” her words leave in a messy panic, trying her best to navigate the confusing mixed messages she was getting. But it does little to change the look on your face.

“I know. I’m fine. Now did you need something?" you answer, though the honesty of the words is lost when you still take another step out of her reach. Her voice catches on her tongue, her previous intentions to talk it through with you now stopped at the wall you were building. How was she supposed to get a straight answer if you were so willing to lie about even your very clear discomfort?

“I uh, no actually um- just wanted to know what was for dinner is all!” She brushes off the conversation as best she can, trying to get rid of the mix of negative emotions that just weren't letting up. Not while you were still looking at her like she'd violated every ounce of trust you'd given her.

“Ask Gale then,” you state flatly, turning only partially to the food again. She notices the way you keep your attention on her behind you, how you seem almost weary of her presence. Like your guard is up, like she scared you. That thought hit her hard, choking her up enough for her dread to jump to her throat and threaten tears.

“Oh uh yeah um…right. I'll do that,” she speaks through a terribly broken sound, turning tail not a moment later to quickly separate the two of you.

She avoids you the next day, afraid that her presence alone was what was setting you off. Had she been too demanding? Too affectionate? Too much? You stared at her like her entire being offended you, like she'd sullied your sanctuary with her devilish presence. She was beside herself, too confused to try talking to you again. And so she sought Shadowheart out, hoping a third party might clear the air. The two grabbed a bottle of wine and sit in Shadow's tent. It only took about one glass before Karlach was spilling her heart out.

“I just don't understand . I thought they liked it when I touched them! I thought we were on the same page! Then yesterday they looked at me like it was the worst thing I'd ever done. Maybe I pushed too far? Maybe I just was taking what I wanted and I wasn't actually paying attention, I don't know,” her heart bleeds into her words and Shadow nods along thoughtfully, taking her words seriously.

“Have you tried talking to them about it?” She asks and Karlach lets out a pained groan, like the mere mention of it tears her open again.

“I tried. But they just kept brushing me off and pretending like nothing was wrong! I even told them they could tell me if I was fucking up and they just kept pulling away. I felt like every time I talked they just hated me more ,” her frustration bleeds, only outmatched by her worry. Her face scrunches as if rejecting the feelings.

“I really don't want to mess this up, they're the best thing I've had in years . I don't know what I did, I don't know how to not do it! They talk to me fine when we're out but it's like whenever I get close they look like they'd rather be dead,” tears meet her eyes, panic making her gestures more erratic. She spills her drink, the purple color melting into the fabric of the blankets laid on the ground. Shadowheart gracefully takes the almost empty cup out of Karlach's hands, filling it a generous amount before handing it back.

“I can't say I haven't noticed. But if it's of any comfort they've been a bit distant with everyone lately. They might just be stressed, try giving them some time. I'm sure they'll come around…eventually,” Shadowheart tries to comfort, her words filled with reasoning that Karlach could understand but not one she wished to accept. You knew you could come to her if you were stressed out, that she would do whatever she could to help you relax! Yet you avoided her like she was the thing upsetting you. Like she was the problem. She couldn't get the idea out of her head, as much as she wished to.

“You're right,” she responds anyway even if she doesn't believe the words. There was something more than stress in how you stared, something more that you weren't saying. But it wasn't like she could force the words out of you. She'd have to do what she most despised. She'd have to give you space.

And so she does. A day, then two, then three. Nothing changes, in fact it only gets worse . You don't seek her out, you don't speak unless spoken to, and you avoid her touch like she were still made of molten flame. It was agonizing, physically painful . It was only recently she'd finally gotten back the ability to hug without burning someone alive and here she was, deprived of it again. Yet now it was a million times worse because this time she could if she wanted to, if you wanted to. But you didn't .

By the third night she couldn't stand it anymore. The sudden distance between the two of you wasn't something she could just suck up; she needed to know why . Or at the very least if this was you giving up on her. She needed answers . And so she seeks you out a final time, finding you standing just outside your tent on the edge of camp. She calls out to you but it's almost like you don't hear her. She calls your name louder and still you don't respond. It's only when she gets close enough to stop you that you finally acknowledge her presence, taking a painful step away when her hand reaches out. She can't fight the selfish anger that swells when you do; she can't stand how your body seems so disgusted with her.

“We need to talk,” she demands, leaving no room to worm away and ignore her again. You blink at her a few times and look almost strangely amused for a moment. But then you cross your arms, a hand gesturing for her to continue.

“About what?” You ask like it's the most casual thing in the world. Again her anger flares brighter. Why aren't you taking this seriously?

“About you. About us. About why you seem to suddenly hate me,” her words aim to cut, a far contrast to how she thought this would go. She had practiced apologies for whatever she'd done to hurt you, had hoped that she'd instead be comforting against something beyond her control. But she hadn't expected you to be so cold, so callous . She had never known you as either of those things. Yet still your lip upturns, betraying your next words.

“I don't hate you-”

“Not this shit again,” she groans, her hand seeking your own out of instinct before she can stop herself. You don't pull away this time, a feat she hadn't managed to accomplish at all in the past few days. But it isn't comforting, it almost feels like a placating gesture, like you were trying to give her what she wanted so she'd leave you alone. She didn't want that. She would almost rather you pull away again.

“You can't keep pretending like nothing's wrong. Something's up with you. I don't know if it's because of me or if you're going through something, but you can't keep treating me like I'm some stranger you're barely willing to deal with. I don't deserve that,” her bitterness seeps into the way she speaks, days worth of rejection biting at her senses. But that familiar guilt rises again when the words leave and she forces herself to take a deep breath after, looking in your eyes and letting go of your hand.

“You don't deserve that,” she finished, her agitation giving way to something much more vulnerable. She feels herself choke up, the veil of anger lifting and revealing what truly lies at the heart of it all. Her arms cross, fingers twitching with their need to touch even as she restrains herself. She looks away from you, less out of embarrassment and more out of shame.

“If you want to end things off then you only have to say the word” her voice is steady as she speaks, but that is hardly for lack of care. In fact in this moment she felt so overwhelmed by her care that she's drowning in it. But she's trying not to make this more painful than it already is.

“I…can't say it doesn't hurt, but it's better than whatever this is. Neither of us deserve to hurt each other like this. So if you are going to continue to pull away and lie to me, then just rip the bandage off now,” her words sound cold but they are anything but, a deep horrible plea hidden in each syllable that somehow makes it pass her lips. She tries to hold strong and leave it there, to allow you to decide. But the silence is so painful that she ends up looking back at you and spilling her guts again.

“Or tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm making this up, that I'm seeing things that aren't there. That you still love me, that I didn't ruin this. Tell me anything- hells, just talk to me!” She begs, tears pooling in the fire of her eyes. And finally, finally, you soften. Your eyes don't stare like they hate her, your lips don't upturn in a snarl. She finally feels like you hear her.

“Oh, my love,” you speak so softly that it immediately melts her, her crossed arms loosening and slowly falling to her sides. When your hand reaches out to hold her face she leans in like you are her personal gravity, undeniable, a grounding force. Her body relaxes against you with the sigh of a breath she's held since that first time you'd pulled away. Her eyes close, her hands wrapping around your arm as if to be sure it's real.

“How easy you've made this for me,” the sound of your whisper is a comfort at first, but then she catches on something sickening held within it, something wrong , like it's spoken from someone else entirely. She notices too late when a cold blade is pressed to her throat, her eyes widening in sudden panic as her heavy breath catches.

“I can't see why they thought you'd come to their rescue. You seem so pathetic here, a weak little babe barely able to contain your want long enough to realize what's standing right in front of you,” your voice is clawing, laced with a sound she'd never heard from you. She doesn't hear your words in the daze of the all too familiar situation she's found herself in. The dagger presses harder against her throat, the pressure commanding her to her knees. Betrayal isn't the word for what she feels then, but something so deep that it threatens to destroy her entire being.

No no no no no no no. Not you too please gods not you . You were supposed to be her safety, her peace, her escape from a fate she never wished upon herself. Her mind almost couldn't comprehend the idea of you being the one to hold a dagger to her throat, the one threatening her again, the one making her kneel. No, you were supposed to be different; you were supposed to be real. She'd already made the mistake of trusting someone that ended up trading her in like a worthless pawn in a game she never wanted to play. She'd learned her lesson – she'd paid the price. She'd paid it thousand times over, please, please not you.

“Tav- Tav come on this isn't you! This isn't… please tell me this isn't,” she speaks through a quiet sob, too caught in the panic of it all to even think to call for help. In this moment she was alone again, pinned in a tight grasp that threatened to steal her away to another cruel fate. What use was there to scream? No one ever heard her.

“Truly pathetic ,” you laughed the words, thoroughly amused by her state of dismay. The knife moves ever so slightly and nicks her throat but she only feels it when the warm blood starts to trickle down her skin. Your eyes widen to a crazed stare, lips curled in a way she hadn't ever seen. Not you , she tried to convince herself, this wasn't you. It can't be, it can't.

“Tav, honey, please ,” she begs, trying to appeal to the version of you she had known.

“You still don't understand?” You bark at her with frustration obvious on your tongue. Then the facade finally falls, leaving a horribly familiar face – Orin.

Karlach blinks, confused and distraught, before slowly realizing what has happened. She finally finds the will to breathe then, a wave of relief so profound that she would have probably collapsed to the ground were it not for the blade still held to her throat. Perhaps the idea of finding such intense relief while still having your life threatened would have been strange to anyone else. But all she can think about is that she knew you wouldn't do something like this, that she was right . That you would never, that she didn't misplace her faith. With her senses returned Karlach places the final missing piece of confusion in her mind. Only one question left.

Where were you?

“Get it now? Your little lover is gone, firmly under my sharp blade, ripe for the cutting. Not too different from you,” Orin answers like she'd read her mind, flipping the once devastated tiefling into a quick and sudden rage. Her skin burns, watery eyes turning to deathly daggers.

“What did you-!” Her voice cuts short when the blade presses dangerously deeper, locking her knees firmly to the dirt.

“Move and I'll gut you before you even get the chance to call out their name again,” she speaks quickly, though she seems so delighted at the idea that it feels more like a promise than a threat. So Karlach stills, panic now finally allowing itself to enter her veins.

“Now, I believe we have a common interest, you and I. Bring me Gortashes netherstone and I promise not to slice your little lover up into pretty ribbons and decorate your camp with their innards. Bring me his head and I'll even allow you to have them back with only a few beautiful cuts. I'm sure you'll have no problems doing so, you want the bastard torn apart too, don't you? You want to paint the walls in his glorious guts. To see him pay. Bring me his viscera and I'm sure we can bathe in his blood where Father most wills it. And then I can have the delight of killing you and your little friends together for the netherstone you will bring me. How does that sound?” Orin offers with disturbingly honeyed worlds tailored to pull at the rage she'd instilled. Karlach only burns brighter, mind flooding with the violence of tearing both of them apart. The man she once trusted and the freak that dared take the closest thing she's had to normal since that day she was cast into hell. It was as if it all cascaded down on her at once, layer upon layer of burning fury melting her from the inside.

“Karlach!” A voice calls, someone finally noticing the little scene now that her flames grew bright enough. Orin pulls away quickly, both due to the growing heat of her knife and having been caught. She gives one final deadly glare, followed by a twisted smile.

“Don't make me tear your sweet love apart. Their screams would be too sweet to keep from you~” she muses before twisting her wrist and disappearing into nothingness. Karlach collapses in on herself when she does, breath growing shallow and sharp, hands curling into fists so tight that she draws blood from her palms. She hears the camp scramble behind her, voices calling her name into the quiet. Yet they know not to get too close, her body only growing hotter.

Then, finally, she snaps.

“AAAAUUGH” She screams out, the licking flickers on her skin forming into full flames. She stands quickly after, finally turning to the confused crowd with pure, unadulterated wrath.

“I'LL KILL HER. I'LL KILL HIM. I'LL KILL THEM ALL,” she roars, bloodlust blinding reason, hatred flowing through her veins unfettered. The others try to speak to her but their words are muffled distractions in this state. She needs to break something, destroy it, reduce it to cinder and ash . Her eyes fall to her axe that she'd left beside her tent. Without thought she barrels past all that stood in her way, picking up the heavy weapon like it weighed nothing before turning to a nearby crate of supplies. With a broken scream she swings it down again and again and again and again . She imagines the blade slicing through skull and bone, the smell of brimstone in the air. She imagines Zariel under her boot, she imagines Gortash begging for his life, she imagines Orin's sickened face crushed, again and again and again and again . The red splatter of tomato looks like viscera, almost sating the bloodlust that coats her tongue. Again and again and again and… again and…and…

She imagines you, her axe stopping high in the air as she does. She imagines the fear in your eyes as you call out her name. She imagines the emptiness you felt when you realized no one was coming, the fear when one dead body turned to too many to count, when you realized you had lost . When you knew that this was it, and there was nothing you could do about it. Hopeless, weak against the odds. Alone – abandoned .

The axe drops suddenly from her hands, clanking heavily against the ground. Her flames dissolve against her skin, her body beginning to shake. Her breath is ragged, sharp, uneven. She no longer roars, voice lost in the choked sounds. She stands above the destruction she's caused and feels no better than before she started. Only emptier , a piece of her ripped from her chest before she'd even noticed it was missing.

“Karlach?” A voice calls softly behind her, almost afraid. Slowly she is able to rip her eyes away and turn over her shoulder to the voice. She is met with Wyll, his face a careful expression but one that's inviting all the same. And in that moment she's a child again, kicking and screaming against the unfair pains being pushed upon her, begging for any hand that would promise safety from it all. When he offers it to her she can only crumble.

She falls against him like the weight of the world drags her in, sobs wracking her throat as she clings to even just the hope of comfort. He is surprised at first but doesn't hesitate to hold her just as fiercely, even in confusion.

“She took them!” she wails, falling into further pieces. In any other circumstance she might have even been impressed by his ability to keep her standing, but for now it isn't even the hundredth thought on her mind.

“Who? What happened?” He asks even as he tries to comfort her.

“Tav! She's using them to get that fucking netherstone. I- I didn't- I- ” she chokes again and he squeezes tighter, trying to hold together the mess that she is.

“Orin?” He asks and she confirms with a nod. That was enough for him, it seemed. He pulls away to grip her shoulders, determination set like stone on his face.

“We'll get them back, okay? Doesn't matter what we have to do, we'll get them back. You have my promise,” he assures and somehow his conviction is able to calm her wrecked system. She takes a deep breath.

“You're right,” she agreed, though this time she believed the words with every part of her left to give.

“We're getting my soldier back .”

Chapter 3: Gale, Wyll and Halsin Helping Tav Through a Nightmare

Notes:

Hurt/Comfort again Babyyyyy | no graphic angst, just something short and sweet
Word Count: 2.5k

Chapter Text

Gale

Sleep? Yeah, Gale hardly knows what that is. He spends most of his nights pouring over old tomes until either the sun rises or exhaustion makes the book his pillow for the night. Nag him all you wish, but it’s been this way his whole life so your chances of doing anything more than tempting him somewhere comfortable enough that sleep is more likely to take him are slim to none.

He may indulge in burning the midnight oil but at the very least his preferred activity is quiet. You can lay against his chest peacefully in the land of dreams as he fills his mind with pages. In fact it’s probably his favorite time of the day, the late-night reading enhanced by your warmth against him and the ambiance of your gentle breaths. Or at least it is most nights when peace is the only thing that finds your shared tent. But not tonight.

It had started with a slight twitch of your lip, hands gripping just that bit tighter. He hadn’t noticed it at first, it wasn’t too out of the ordinary, really. But then your breath becomes a quickened and uneven rhythm, the quietest whine finally drawing his attention. He suddenly stills, realizing now that something wasn’t quite right. He sets down his book, curious as to what you were up to.

“Awake, are we?” he whispers into the night, your only reply sudden restlessness. Your body moved as if to shake yourself awake, though you remained still very much asleep. He panics when the strange whine starts to catch on a cry, his hand quickly moving to shake you awake.

You shoot up in an instant, sharp breath cutting through the air, eyes wide and pupils dilated. Your hands hold a death grip onto the cloth of his shirt, something he would have jokingly complained about if you didn’t look entirely not yourself next to him. Your head swiveled, searching for something before your gaze dropped to where he was still situated, observing you with palpable concern.

“Are…are you alright?” he dares to ask into the silence. You stare at him for a long moment, almost unsure if he was even real. When he doesn’t move you elect to believe he is, caught breath releasing as your eyes quickly wipe away forming tears.

“Y-Yeah, um-” you stop, clearing your throat of the shake in your voice.

“Just a bad dream,” you try to answer calmly. But there is little you can do now to dissuade his unease, his eyes staring up at you as if you'd recited a tale so tragic he couldn't help but worry. His hands find yours, taking them away from where they gripped his shirt and instead into his. Brings them to his lips, kissing the knuckles softly, hoping to soothe the shake of them. It only helps a little.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Your face twists at the memory of your dream, shaking your head lightly.

“Not really,” you answer and he hums in acknowledgement. A moment of silence passes and he feels you cling tighter to him, seeking comfort. He’s careful as he pulls you back down, laying your head against his chest once more. Another hand moves to the small of your back, rubbing gentle soothing circles. You allow him, tense muscles relaxing slowly into him, a familiar embrace. You tuck into the crook of his neck and he finally allows himself to relax once you do.

“Could you…” you hesitate, the smallest shake still hidden in your voice.

“Could you read to me?” You make the small request, and he lays a soft kiss on your temple at the words.

“Of course,” he mutters before adjusting the both of you, returning you to the position you once held as he grabs his book again, trying to find the page he had stopped at and continuing from there. The sound of his voice is always a comfort, but in that moment it was truly the only thing that could have calmed you.

Gale is much more attentive to your sleeping form now that he knows of your nightmares. He tries to catch when they begin and after some experimenting has found that his voice soothes you even in your sleep, staving off the terrors before they can form into more than flitting dreams. You have unknowingly given him an even better excuse not to sleep though. Reading to his terrified love in their sleep is going to be much harder to convince him not to stay awake doing than simply reading on his own.

Wyll

Wyll is the first to bed and the second to wake in the morning, a routine that he is very strict on keeping. Outside of an emergency he doesn’t let anything disrupt that little bit of control he still has over his life and can get very irritable if it’s disturbed for no good reason.

However, he would consider you crying in his arms to be a very good reason.

It doesn’t take much to wake him, even less so when the sound isn’t a pleasant one. His eyes open quickly when he recognizes what the sound is, the sight of you in tears knocking him quickly into consciousness.

“Love? What’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you hurt?” He’s an absolute mess of worried words, sitting up and beckoning you, only to realize that your eyes aren’t even open.

“...love?” He questions again, still receiving no answer in return. He slowly realizes what’s happening, his heart sinking and stomach twisting, knowing he can do little to save you from something in your own head. So instead he lays back down, pulling you gently back to his chest and humming an old lullaby he vaguely remembers the tune of, his hands attempting to soothe you further as they comb gently through your hair. It works, somewhat. Your breath slows, your crying fading into only a few caught breaths. Hells, he nearly lulls himself back to sleep. That is until you speak.

“Wyll?” You call out, slightly confused but still clinging to him. His humming stops, a deep breath releasing as he holds you just as tight.

“It’s alright. I have you,” he speaks the comforting words, peace only beginning to find him again when you take a deep breath and he feels you relax against him. Silence stays for a time, the air settling into something much less panicked.

“A nightmare, I take it?” He breaks the sanctity of the quiet, though with how comforting his presence is it feels more like the breeze itself asks you. You nod, burying yourself further into his embrace.

“I’ll stay here however long you need, okay? The whole night if you need me to,” he mumbles the words as he lays his head against the top of yours, placing a gentle kiss there. You hum in acknowledgement, releasing a breath that feels like relief. Another moment passes before you finally speak again.

“Were you humming?” You inquire into the quiet of the moment, a short chuckle leaving him when you do.

“Maybe…did it help?” A bit of embarrassment tinges the edges of his tone, but he doesn’t shy away.

“It did,” you answer, a smile creeping into his face when you do.

“Did you want me to continue?” He asks, maybe just a bit too proudly. The small laugh it earns from you is enough for him to justify it though.

“Yes, I would like that,” you speak through an audible smile and he is more than happy to oblige.

Very little changes about his sleep patterns after this, however he becomes very insistent that you take on this schedule with him. He’s more likely to drag you to bed and less guilty about waking you come morning. He just wants to know that if something goes wrong he’s there to help, and he can’t do that if you’re sleeping in or staying up late. His kicked-puppy look whenever you deny him is enough to make resistance futile and inevitably you will spend the entirety of each and every night encased in his arms. A ‘preventative measure’, as he called it.

Halsin

Halsin is a heavy, heavy sleeper. When he closes his eyes and allows true sleep, you can rest assured that he isn’t waking for damn near any reason. He tries to trance every so often, but he very much prefers a deeper rest. It’s much more pleasant for him to just fully be able to shut down for a while, not to mention how restless his bear gets after a few days away from slumber. It wasn’t usually too much of an issue. Tonight it was .

He never so much as stirred when nightmares had sent you into a panicked cold sweat. Heavy in deep dreams, he didn’t feel the quick jolt of your body even as you laid in his protective grasp, nor the quiet choked sobs or your shaking form. No, he remained blissfully ignorant.

It wasn’t until you had tried to leave him that his body had even recognized something was wrong, clinging tighter to his love like a child with a favored toy, a groan of disapproval and an intense glare in his brow. It’s only when you continue to struggle away that he finally starts to even slightly wake, drawn unwillingly back to the land of the living and still not entirely aware of what is happening. When he realizes the strange strangled sound beside him is you, grogginess disappears. His heart sinks, and he quickly sits up, blinking heavy sleep from his eyes as he immediately pulls you closer, searching for any danger nearby. When he finds none he turns back to you and looks for wounds instead only to find you turned from him, shaking body trying to pull away. He quickly let go, though only because he believed he might be making unknown wounds worse.

“Are you hurt?” He manages to mumble, taking a brief moment to wipe away the lingering sleep from his eyes. You shake your head, though quick breaths and running tears don’t give him any confidence in the matter. He tries to put together what might be happening, what could have possibly riled you into this state. Then slowly the realization dawns.

“A bad dream?” He asks, and though you hesitate on the answer you nod, still incapable of speech at the moment. With the dissipation of panic and the emergence of concern, he releases a held breath and sits upright.

“Sit with me,” he beckons, and though it takes every bit of your strength to even listen through the fog of panic you manage, his voice always a gentle lull even in darker moments. He outstretches his hand for you to hold, a silent offer that you take. He wraps them in his, each movement deliberately slow.

“Look at me,” he requests, and you do, seeking any refuge from the whirlwind that has taken you. He meets your gaze with a practiced calm, holding you there and pulling you back to him with each passing second.

“Breathe with me,” he speaks through a released breath, a noticeable rhythm in the slow pace. You fail at first, breath an unsteady thing, too slow and then too quick, cut through with the sobs that still fall. But his pace never changes, his eyes never waiver. They wait for you, setting the example so you might remember that calm was even possible. It takes longer than you wish, though even just a second more spent in the dreadful sobs was a second too many. Eventually you quiet to the feel of his hands and the sound of his breath. Your cries whimper into nothing, your breath returning to a somewhat normal place.

“ S-Sorry, ” is the first word you speak out of the haze you’d been in. The look that takes his face then can only be described as broken.

“Do not apologize,” he answers just as quickly as you speak. His thumbs run gentle circles against the back of your hands. He moves one to cup the side of your face, wiping away a few of the stray tears left falling. You shake your head as you finally look away, shame all but hidden.

“I didn’t mean to wake you I- I don’t usually get them when I sleep with you-”

“Calm,” he soothes just as a new sob threatens to choke you. Another deep breath rids it, along with the anchoring feeling of his presence. Though it seems your words only serve to upset him more, broken features deepening into something saddened.

“These happen often?” He asks, and even as shame burns brighter you nod. The sigh that leaves him is more worried than anything. He opens his arms and you don’t hesitate to fall into them. Wrapping you in a protective embrace that feels as if he's trying to keep you safe from even the dreams that plague you. Some part of you believes he just might be.

“It’s alright, my heart. We can rest whenever you feel at peace again” He speaks the words in a mutter that is only meant for you. Panic rises again for a moment as you slightly push away from his chest.

“No. No, I shouldn’t keep you from your sleep, I’ll be fine-”

“You do not need to be strong for me” he catches your attention quickly, your eyes finding his gaze and again being met with just the most harrowed expression.

“Whatever it is that plagues your mind is just as much my worry as it is yours. I would not see you carry such a weight on your own. Let me be here for you,” he gently explains, melting your defenses like butter and leaving you more vulnerable than you had been even when you were a sobbing mess in front of him – though his tenderness threatens to send you back to that crying mess. So you relent, falling back into his embrace and allowing him to calm you for however long it takes.

The next few nights you can expect him to sleep much lighter, if at all. He’ll prefer trancing whenever possible and will be keeping a keen ear out for the slightest rustle in your sleep. You can assure that your fine, that his worry is misplaced, but there is an unknown guilt that he keeps hidden from you, his chest twisting when he realizes just how many times you might have spent quiet nights alone in such a dark state, or worse yet if it had happened another time when he had slept too deeply to wake. He can’t bring himself to indulge in sleep if the sacrifice is that you are alone with those nightmares, even if the bear becomes restless. It will take quite some convincing before he allows such sleep again, and it’s only with the promise that you’ll find a way to wake him at even the smallest nightmare.

Chapter 4: Karlach, Shadowheart and Astarion Helping Tav Through a Nightmare

Notes:

Finished this one forever ago and forgot to post it oops.

Chapter Text

Karlach

The lightest sleeper you’ve ever met. A pin could drop and she’d wake to it. Spending ten years at war amongst back-stabbing devils will do that to you. Though she’s found sleeping with a partner had helped, a luxury she only allowed when she was sure she wouldn’t burn you alive at night. Still, sleep is a rather fleeting gift you give, and even if you calm her enough not to wake at a mildly aggressive crackle from the distant camp fire, it doesn’t stop her being immediately torn from sleep when it sounds like you might be in trouble.

Her body shoots awake at your first caught breath, eyes blinking at the strange emptiness of you not safely tucked into her arms. She sits up quickly, finding you a few inches away. Shivering from the cold, she initially thinks. But the whimper of something distinctly worse seizes her infernal heart for a long moment. She leans over, studying you, hoping that she wouldn’t find a horror scene on the other side. Her mind flits to old memories – bloody memories. She is thankful to find you still in one piece, though your distress doesn’t make it seem so. Your face contorts into something wrong, choked breathing the sign of silent cries. Yet your eyes stay screwed shut, mind somewhere else entirely.

She knows the signs well and needs no more evidence to know what’s happening. Her heart practically shatters in her chest, dread spreading through her in an instant. She leans closer, her hand hesitating mostly out of habit before falling on your upper arm, gently shaking you.

“Hey,” she whispers, trying to be as careful as she can with waking you from the dark place you were clearly in.

“Hey,” she calls just that bit harsher. She knows she succeeded when you jolt, entirely too tense and panicked.

“It’s just me, love,” she murmured, letting you frantically check your surroundings before your eyes found her. You catch there for a while, tears still rolling and the pain in your eyes hardly fading. She knows then it must have been a bad one.

“It was just a dream. You’re safe,” she tries to soothe, the words once something she wished someone would have said to her in a similar moment. She's thankful when you finally start to breathe again.

“Karlach?” You ask as if you don’t believe you see her right now. Her stomach twists at the unfamiliar sound. She pulls you close to her before speaking again.

“It’s me. I’m right here. You’re gonna be okay-” you fall into her chest with a mess of sobs. She tenses, taken aback by the suddenness. But it isn’t even a moment later that she’s wrapped entirely around you, legs and tail gripping you as close as her arms do. Her own tears follow quickly after, the pain of your sobs evoking her own.

The two of you remain like this until the tears slowly calm into sniffles and clinging hands loosen. She takes a deep breath before slightly pulling away and holding your face in her hands. Just to make sure you were still here.

“Nightmares get you too?” She tries to be a bit lighthearted, but her voice is still shaky and the smile she attempts is strained. You stared at her, mouth agape, as if she had just revealed the most shocking truth.

“You too?” you answer and she looks a bit uneasy about the admission, but nods anyway.

“Not a lot’a good things to dream about,” she mutters before shaking her head, eyes focusing back on you.

“But this isn't about me. You okay?” Her worry is palpable – undeniably there. You place your hands against hers, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath before you answer.

“Just a bit shaky. I’ll be fine,” you try to assure her, but the look on her face tells you she isn’t satisfied with the answer.

“Maybe we should get you some fresh air. Go for a walk or something,” she proposes the idea. You consider it for a moment before agreeing.

“I think I could use the breather-” in an instant you’re off the ground and she’s shuffling the both of you out of the tent.

“Wait- wait! You don’t have to carry me-!”

“Oh sweetheart, that’s real funny,” she cuts off your attempt at protest, assuring you quickly that she was going to be carrying you for this entire little midnight adventure. You figured it better not to argue further. You did enjoy staying warm in her arms, after all.

Her lightest sleep returns after that night, now on high alert for the slightest disturbance. Late night walks become a regular between the two of you. It's during them that you try to dissuade her worry but that only helps so much. She holds you even closer than before as she sleeps, not so much as letting you get an inch out of reach no matter how hot the night is.

You had tried once, and she literally growled at you.

Shadowheart

Shadowheart hasn’t learned what a sleep schedule is. All she knows is that sometimes she’s tired, and so she rests. It doesn’t matter what time of day, for how long or sometimes even where she sleeps. If she gets comfortable and she’s tired she will just pass out.

This can make sleeping with her a bit difficult at times, and so she insists that you rest in her tent whenever you need to and she’ll join you when she’s ready. Tonight goes just the same as it has been, her staying up late by the fire while you had long since gone to sleep. But eventually she does grow weary and so she returns to lay with you.

She makes it just outside the tent when she hears your strange strained breath, her nerves already set on edge. For a heart-stopping moment she feared the worst. However, opening the flap of the tent only revealed a sorry sight. Your back straightened as you turned to her like a caught doe, wide eyes shining with fallen tears and hands gripping tightly onto an otherwise almost entirely abandoned blanket.

“Ah um uh- fuck, I’m sorry,” the words spill from your lips in an embarrassing mess of strung together half sentences. She might have thought it cute were it not for the circumstances.

“What happened?” She asks softer than you would have expected. You avoid her gaze, wiping away tears that refused to stop falling and trying to steady your voice. She slips into the tent and you are none the wiser.

“Just uh- just had a bad dream…didn’t mean to-” sound dies in your throat when you feel her presence behind you, her arms wrapping around your shoulders and her weight leaning against your back. The embrace is quiet and soothing, a contrast to your hammering heart and uneven breaths.

“A nightmare?” She questions as she pulls you closer, leaning back against a set of pillows. You follow her embrace, nearly helpless to the pull. She lays a kiss against your cheek just before setting your head in her lap, sighing as she looks down at you, a tired expression in her eyes when you don't respond.

“Hm,” she hums as if remembering something, a gentleness found in her searching hands. They trail where your tears fall, wiping them away before falling to your neck, your shoulders, and then returning to caress your face. Soothing motions, practiced ones. The moment stretches, embarrassment melting away with just how caring her caresses are. Only after you are calm enough to breathe deeply do you speak.

“You move like you’ve done this before,” you comment. The tightness of her brow shows something just behind her eyes.

“I…think I had a friend once, or a lover- I’m not quite sure,” a partial memory manifests in her words. You look up at her, listening intently.

“Whoever they were had nightmares often. I used to hold them like this. And we would talk about something pointless,” she explains, her eyes looking into yours as if to search for something. You turn your head to kiss her palm before burying your face in her leg, a deep contented breath leaving you.

“Like what,” you mutter as you shut your eyes, trying to find peace in her. A soft laugh leaves her, amused by your display. But her hands continue all the same, aimlessly roaming.

“I don’t know. The foods we enjoyed, the types of music we listened to. Stupid things,” she reiterates. You hum, letting a second pass before you speak again.

“Like your favorite flower?” You ask, your eyes turning to find fondness had taken her face at your words. The night continues on in this idle conversation, discussion mostly filled with meaningless words that will soon be forgotten. But they calm you all the same and eventually you fall asleep there, resting against her lap.

Her lack of routine doesn’t change much over the following days, but she makes it a point to check in on you more often. And when she does find that you are once more riddled with nightmares she has no qualms taking her spot amongst the pillows and your head into her lap to once more talk endlessly about nothing. It’s almost as comforting for her as it is for you, as if each of those moments is a returned memory.

Though she hopes the nightmares calm soon, she’s quickly running out of things to talk about.

Astarion

Astarion only ever trances. He simply cannot get comfortable enough to allow sleep and he never really liked it much anyway. His trances are also fairly easy to disturb, which is partially why he only ever does them when everyone else is asleep and he can be left entirely alone. Which is also why he stressed keeping your own tents even when you two began to get closer. He wanted his own space and preferred to spend his nights alone. After all that was a luxury he didn't often get under Cazador. He wanted to enjoy it. And he was…

Until you had to go and ruin it.

He had been trying to rest for hours but hadn’t had any luck. He’d resorted to reading, hoping that it might bore him enough to try again when he heard something just outside his tent. His hand found a blade just before he heard your voice.

“Astarion? Are you still awake?” You whispered so quietly that had he not been alert he likely wouldn’t have heard you. But perhaps that was the goal. Not a moment later does he open the flap to his tent.

The sight that meets his eyes flares something strange in him. You twitch, miss his gaze, shift on your feet like it hurts to even stand there. Your eyes are distant, brows tense with something unsaid. And he swears that for just a moment the moon lights a poorly wiped shine just below your eyes. His original annoyed greeting died in his throat, irritation and bewilderment quickly replaced with something terrifyingly concerned, a fact he tried not to make apparent. Silence stretched on before you clear your throat to speak.

“I um- I…” words fade on your tongue, strength entirely gone.

“Can I stay with you?” The question finally manages to fall, slightly pleading and incredibly embarrassed. He almost laughs, because of course you would ask such a thing of him, of course you would seek another night. Expected, honestly. Predictable.

But then your demeanor muddles the thought, stopping him with its strangeness, leaving him to wonder what exactly you might be asking of him.

“Just for tonight. I don’t want to do anything, I just can’t sleep,” the words tumble out like excuses, trying to justify themselves. You bumble on a little longer before he stops you.

“My dear, are you truly so worried to even ask to stay with me?” He questions, a bit baffled that you would be so cautious in asking for something so many others had already taken from him. One simple night among thousands, hardly the most precious thing he could sacrifice if it meant keeping allies around, he had already spent a few with you. Frankly he was just surprised you hadn't asked sooner, even after he had asked to keep his space.

You pause, nervous ticks alighting across you. There is something you aren’t telling him, though that much is obvious.

“I didn’t want to intrude. This is rather childish of me, to be honest,” you demean yourself before he can, folding your arms as if to shield from his next words.

He considers you for a moment, trying to find the meaning you’re hiding. He wonders if you know he can tell you have been crying, he wonders if this is just some ploy to get something more from him. But more than that he wonders if something might have happened, and if this really was you trying to find some form of rest in this godsforsaken wilderness. If you needed him.

“Well one night of fulfilling your childish whims won’t kill me, darling,” he assures with the distance condescension allows, though the sudden light in your eyes almost makes him second guess the decision, the worry that there was something more to this still eating at him.

“Really? Are you sure?” You ask as if you hadn’t expected the answer. He would have felt hurt if…well actually that did kind of hurt. Yet still he rolls his eyes, inviting you in.

“We can’t have our fearless leader facing the day exhausted, can we?” His tone is mocking but somehow still warm. You don’t dare push his generosity and instead quickly slip into his tent.

It isn’t the most pleasant sight, the sting of something metallic meeting your nose and the sight of a hardly used bedroll laid down as if entirely forgotten. But it is distinctly him, in a way, his perfume mixing in with the smells and glimpses of more personal belongings giving the space a sense of something sacred. Yet still you make it a point to continue avoiding his gaze, especially in the candlelight. He rolls his eyes at how obvious it is, at how you think he hadn’t already noticed how disheveled you are. And then it hurts again.

“The bedroll is yours to steal. I won’t be needing it” he waves his hand as if it’s nothing and returns to the spot where he was reading, now avoiding your gaze as much as you were avoiding his.

You do as told, trying to get comfortable in the shared space. Eventually you settle and the world is quiet again outside the turning of pages and the hum of night. He thinks he can finally return to peace before he notices that sleep still doesn’t catch you. You toss and turn, noticeably quiet, still trying to hide. He tries to ignore it, to let it be your problem. He’s already done more than he needed to.

But something in him can’t. Something too curious, too preoccupied with you to even focus on the words in front of him. Every shift grabs his attention in the most infuriating way. It doesn’t take long before he breaks.

“Any particular reason you’re having such a hard time sleeping?” He inquires aimlessly, not taking his eyes off the page. You don’t answer for a while and for a moment he thinks you might have drifted to sleep. But then you finally speak.

“I had a nightmare,” you admit. The first thoughts that came to his mind are cruel. Really? A dream drove you to him? Gods above, this truly was a childish request! He should laugh!

But then he remembers the shine of tears, the pointed way you avoided him, the shifting way in which you stood. And suddenly it wasn’t all that funny. Suddenly he’s reminded of nights from so long ago, when nightmares were something to be noted rather than a nightly occurrence, when he was still afforded the option to sleep. A single glance at you is like staring into a harrowed old memory. He hates the way it twists his chests, despises the way it silences him.

Quiet stretches on and you can’t help but feel mortified. You can just imagine the look on his face, baffled beyond belief, perhaps even amused by your suffering. So you don’t dare open your eyes. You only cling tighter to his blanket, turning to your side and hoping that sleep eventually claims you. You hear him shuffle, book set aside, and the sound of him moving. Your stomach drops, wondering if it had been such a stupid admission that it drove him out of his own tent.

But then you feel his presence behind you, your eyes finally cracking open to see the way his hand hesitates, holding just above your waist before finally falling. He lays beside you, a careful tug pulling you closer to his chest. You’re tense for a long while, entirely unsure of this moment of careful comfort. But eventually you calm, melting into the silent embrace. It is only then that you can finally rest, not daring to question him as you do.

He almost can’t believe himself, every part of him crying out in violent rejection of the gentle embrace. But he somehow doesn’t care, at least not in this moment. Not when he feels you calm, a deep breath finally bringing you rest. And certainly not when his own eyes grow weary, the warmth of your body held to his, not a single request made in the embrace, is a comfort he hadn’t known in centuries. His own body betrays him with just how deeply he falls into it, how natural it feels. Before he even realizes what’s happening he too falls to a long resisted sleep.

Astarion is horrified come morning. He had let himself sleep. For the first time in only the gods know how long. And worse than that, so much worse than that, it was because of you – because you needed him. He truly can’t believe himself.

He avoids you in the coming days, conflicted, mind muddied with feelings he wasn’t supposed to catch, with care he wasn’t supposed to feel. But as the days stretch on he finds that rest alludes him even more than normal, and worse yet he catches your growing exhaustion with each passing day. This continues until he simply can’t take it anymore, breaking his own rule when he’s the one to seek you out late one night, needing a type of rest you had brought so effortlessly to him. And who are you to deny him when he had done just the same for you? Complications be damned, the both of you just wanted to sleep. It wasn’t either of your faults that it only found you in each other’s arms.

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