Chapter Text
Rolan’s siblings are laughing, but you genuinely smile and clap. Magic is not your strength - yours is in the sinews of your sword-bearing arms and the thick muscle of your sturdy thighs, the raw power and trained movements that carried you through the onslaught of the goblin camp. Any amount of skill with the Weave is impressive to you. Still, you know Rolan’s magic light show is no earth-shattering feat in the grand scheme of things… but a slight partiality flickers beneath the surface of your thoughts and animates your cheers.
He looks surprised, but pleased. ‘At least someone appreciates me.’
‘Come on Rolan, we’re only teasing,’ Cal says. ‘It’s impressive.’
‘Not as impressive as defeating a goblin invasion!’ Lia does not give up her teasing as easily. She raises her mug of beer in your direction. ‘Cheers.’
You smile at her, but your eyes slide back to Rolan. The partiality is bubbling to the surface now, buoyed by the half-smile on his lips and the Frostkiss ale you have drunk. Maybe you’re imagining it but - is he looking with the same interest at you?
‘I hope you’re enjoying the wine. I try to only steal the nice stuff, but it’s hard to tell sometimes.’
‘It’s no Elturel red. But you have good taste.’
His lips part in a real smile, over sharply pointed teeth. The first real smile you’ve seen from him. It makes you overconfident.
‘So you’re glad I asked you to stay?’, you tease.
The response is immediate, and sour. ‘Yes. Congratulations, you made me make the right decision.’ You wince. Rolan catches the look on your face, frowns, and picks up his drink, making eye contact with it instead of you. His voice softens. ‘Anyway. It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving for Baldur’s Gate tomorrow, however much of a hangover Cal and Lia have. And I suppose you’ll be going… somewhere.’
There’s a pause as you decide whether you really want to get counterspelled quite so hard again. There are certainly warmer, easier people to flirt with at this party. But just as you’re about to take your leave, Rolan’s glowing eyes flick up to yours, meeting for just long enough that you think: one more try.
‘Well, if I ever fix this tadpole, I’ll be heading to Baldur’s Gate too. Maybe I can buy you a drink.’
He frowns again, his tail curling around his calf. ‘I’ll be very busy. Every day on the road is a day I have to-’
‘Never mind then,’ you interrupt, tone deliberately light. Whatever you thought you saw in his eyes, you either imagined it, or it simply cannot compare to the thrills of an apprenticeship with Lorroakan. ‘I hope you all sleep well. I probably won’t be awake before you set off, so good luck on the road.’
Rolan turns as you walk away, sounding hesitant. ‘I wasn’t trying to say- I might have time-‘
A wave of tiredness hits you. The aches and pains of the preceding days are beginning to swim up from underneath the beer, and you make it a personal rule not to expose yourself to humiliation three times in a row. ‘Don’t worry about it. Good night!’
You are pretty sure you hear Lia groaning ‘Rolan!’ as you head for your bedroll. If he didn’t realise you were flirting, she is certainly about to tell him. Probably best you go straight to bed, and forget all about it. You’ve got bigger tadpoles to fry, after all. But as you settle down in your bedroll, your mind has other ideas. Rolan, leaning over you… Rolan’s weight pressing into you… Rolan’s arrogant lips and artful hands burning up every inch of you…
It is less than a tenday before you encounter Rolan again. You’d just about managed to put your liking for him aside, sure you wouldn’t see him again for a long time - if ever. After all, you are headed for Moonrise, not Baldur’s Gate, and who knows what will happen after that. The tieflings will be long gone. So you hacked your way out from an unfriendly gith crèche and through the Shadowlands relatively unburdened, apart from the sense of impending doom. It seemed more and more like the tadpoles would not imminently be your destruction, but at the same time, every encounter with Absolute cultists filled you with the gnawing sense that something much worse is coming. Realm-ruiningly worse, according to Elminster, and Gale assures you that you should take him at his word.
Now you had caught up with them - or some of them. Hope seems to shrivel on the vine, seeing the same people you waved off happily just days ago crushed afresh, tricked by fate again. And nobody seems more crushed than Rolan.
He is vacant, sneering, and drunk. You wish you could snatch the tankard from his hand and shake him sober, but there is nothing you can do except listen to him alternately blame himself and you for Cal and Lia’s kidnapping. If only they hadn’t listened, if only they’d left earlier, if you hadn’t convinced him, if he was better, stronger, not useless and slow and cowardly. His recriminations are indiscriminately-aimed lashes and they cut you as well as him. You stay longer than you should, trying to reassure him that you and your camp will do their best to rescue Cal and Lia - and Dannis and Zevlor and the others - and bring them back safely. But it only makes him shout louder.
‘I should be the one rescuing them! I should have protected them. Damn these shadows and everyone in them.’
You notice that his eyes are wet, and in the same moment he scowls and covers them.
‘Go away! You have your friends. Leave me to my drink.’
An ache spreads from your chest. For as rude and as drunk as he is, you wish you could reach out and hold him, and the feeling frustrates you. Instead, you step away, biting back the urge to tell him it’s not his fault one more time.
Astarion rolls his eyes when you come back to your group. ‘I suppose we are rescuing some prisoners tomorrow then. Honestly, couldn’t you find someone more fun to flirt with?’
‘Come on, Astarion. The heart wants what it wants,’ Gale says. ‘Though I can’t say I understand.’
No, you think, Astarion is right. Of all the people to have feelings for at the end of the world, you chose badly. Across the room, Rolan slumps against the bar, his gaze distant and unseeing. He is a mess. You hope that someone will keep an eye on him tonight, because he seems just about desperate enough to drink himself to death. It can’t be you, though. Moonrise Towers, and the Absolute, awaits.
If there is such a thing as morning in the shadow-cursed lands, then it brings bad news. Rolan’s illusion flickers before you, saying words you do not want to hear.
‘Gods damn it!’
Your voice carries further than you meant it to; Gale looks up from his chat with Jaheira. Seizing your pack, you hasten over to interrupt. ‘I think Rolan’s gone out into the shadows.’
‘And?’ Astarion shrugs, irked.
‘You don’t have to come with me, but I’m going to find him. Gale, Lae’zel?’
‘Of course. No skin off my back. Let me just check I’ve got my scrolls.’
Lae’zel tchks disparagingly. ‘I do nothing but rescue useless teethlings.’
She still picks up her sword, though.
‘For the gods’ sake. Fine,’ Astarion scowls. ‘You had better be very grateful for this. I’m not getting into the habit of saving everyone you have a passing fancy for.’
Gritting your teeth, you ignore his needling. It is embarrassing that everyone can see your feelings about Rolan as clear as day, but it’s not like you can do anything about it - and those same feelings tug at you sharply right now, reminding you that he is still out there, maybe dead or worse. ‘No more time wasting. Let’s go.’
You make your way in the direction of Moonrise Towers, calling Rolan’s name. The ground underfoot is uneven, riven with shadow vines and broken stones that you trip over several times in your haste, though you catch yourself before you fall.
‘Rolan?’
Surely he cannot have got all the way to Moonrise Towers. You hope not. There is no way he will not be murdered on sight by the guards, if not already consumed by the strength of the shadow curse.
‘ROLAN!’
Lae’zel stiffens suddenly. ‘Over there!’
A shout of pain and the howl of gathering shadows call you towards the river. Breaking into a sprint, you rush over the tangled ground to slam your sword into the closest shadow, lurching erratically as the blade slides through the ethereal body without resistance. Hot on your heels, you hear the boots of your team behind you and arrows whistling past your ears to finish the kill. Rolan groans as he takes another hit from the shadows, doing his best to keep his torch in hand as he casts spells at the ravens harassing him. You duck out from the grip of the remaining shadow, and unceremoniously douse him with a healing potion. He sputters and coughs.
With a shouted spell and the clatter of metal on stone, the fighting is all over in a few seconds.
‘That’s the last of them!’ Gale calls triumphantly.
You can see Rolan’s jaw set, his brows furrow like he’s in pain… or…
‘Are you alright?’
‘Gods damn it!’ he yells, straight in your face. ‘I can’t do anything right! And of all the people to be rescued by, it’s you! Of course it’s you!’
Reeling, you stand in shocked silence as the torrent of anger rushes past.
‘I came to find Cal and Lia and I can’t. I can’t even keep myself alive. Useless! And now you’re here, to save the day!’
The rage of being yelled at not once, but twice, by this stubborn, self-hating prick makes you boil over.
‘You’re a fucking idiot!’ The words fall out in a shout.
Rolan slumps. ‘So you agree. Fine. I’ll just go back to Last Light now then.’
‘No!’ You snatch the torch out of his hand as he tries to gracelessly barge past. ‘You’re a fucking idiot because you won’t just ask for help! Look, there are fucking four of us and one of you! All I want is to help but you won't trust us for one gods-damned minute!’
Rolan’s eyes meet yours and your vision blurs. Hot, angry tears. Cursing yourself internally, you turn away, thrusting the torch back to him. ‘Take it.’
There is a lingering moment of silence, before his footsteps, where you think he might say something else. But you resolutely do not look back at him until he sounds far enough away that he won’t be able to see your wet face. When he’s properly out of range, you let out a shout of irritation and slam your foot into a glowing pustule of Shadowlands blight. It explodes, covering you in turquoise slime. The cold touch of the curse reminds you that you are also being really stupid right now. Nobody but Rolan, it seems, can get under your skin like that.
Politely, the rest of your party pretend not to notice. It must look bad if even Astarion is biting his tongue.
‘I’m sorry.’ The words are mortifying, but you must say them anyway. ‘I’m letting this get the better of me.’ You wipe the repulsive stuff from your face with as much dignity as you can muster.
‘We don’t have time for this. Control yourself or stand aside,’ Lae’zel snaps.
‘Consider it forgotten. Let’s heal here and head for Moonrise. As we were.’
Obviously, the argument is not forgotten. But you are a fighter, and you can box your feelings up. Beat them into submission. You need to. Moonrise gives you plenty to think about - the spectacle of Ketheric, toying with death. The disgusting scent of raw meat in the air, and the sound of squelching flesh assailing your ears. The goblin howls are the worst. You might be a trained soldier, but this feels disgusting. Cheating. The way your tadpole wriggles in ecstasy as you give the killing orders, vile and polluting. Detach. Detach, or you will vomit.
Rather than heading straight for the prison, you trace as much of the tower as you can, noting anything that might be of use in the coming battle. Rolan intrudes on the fringes of your thoughts, but you push him away. Focus. Most of the cultists seem complacent. Too smug about their coming victory to doubt that the group of strangers are anything but the allies they claim to be. You think of the moments just outside the goblin camp, when the Absolute seized your mind and wrung you out of it, displacing you from your own soul; of course they think the Absolute is inevitable. In those moments, you felt it too.
Z’Rell, though, is more careful - or perhaps she simply enjoys her new powers too much. She pushes inside your brain to drink in the goblin massacre, savouring the very screams you would like to block out. When the presence fades, she is more approving, but her approval might actually be worse. She is greedy for the Absolute, to bask in Her power and the worship of her cultists. You see her consider for a moment and then feel her slithering, insisting presence inside your head again, pushing in against your will.
If you resist, she will know you’re not one of them. You must let her in - but think of something else - Rolan - the only other thing you can think of. The pain you feel, the anger in his eyes and the way you wanted to kiss him even more as you shouted at each other, wanted him to crush your mouths together until your tongue bleeds against his sharp teeth. You want to pull his hair and rip his clothes and gasp and moan as he does the same to you—
Z’Rell’s hungry eyes widen as she interrupts. ‘Where is this feral lover of yours?’
She’s seen too much, and you feel awful. Recoiling, you shut your mind as hard as possible, but she snatches one last thought from you.
‘He does not belong to the Absolute?’
For a brief, horrifying instant it seems your cover is blown, but Z’Rell just smiles knowingly. ‘Well, if our patrols ever bring him in, I think we can change his mind for you.’
You smile tightly. She will never, ever touch him . ‘Thank you commander. We are all one under the Absolute.’
Z’Rell smirks. ‘Glory to the Absolute!’
If you could split your skull and wash your brain clean, you would. She is every worst thing about the cultists; the Absolute in its purest form, poking and prodding and defiling until you can no longer call your body or thoughts your own. When you finally get down to the prison, you are relieved to find Cal and Lia safe. It is a short fight to break them, and the rest of the prisoners, out to safety. Surprising really; Moonrise Towers looks the epitome of an imposing fortress from the outside. But a pattern is beginning to take shape. You cannot wait to show Ketheric just how mortal he truly is.