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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.

Chapter Text

You arrive back at the Last Light around the same time the prisoners do, hanging back towards the door. Trying not to intrude, you allow yourself only the briefest look at Rolan. He sits despondent, unnoticing still, hanging over the counter and his tankard. You look away as his siblings approach. Let them enjoy their reunion without making your own feelings part of it. You can’t shut your ears, however.

‘Cal? …Lia?... You thought you’d have a nice holiday, did you?’ Rolan’s sarcasm rings through the room.

Astarion raises his eyebrows at you. ‘The avatar of gratefulness speaks,’ he whispers. 

You kick him in the shin.

Rolan’s voice grows more wounded. Louder.  ‘You left me! I thought you were dead, you ass!’ 

‘I’m sorry, we got captured by murderous lunatics!’

‘Gale,’ you say, fishing around limply for some conversation, trying to stop yourself from eavesdropping. ‘Did you-’ You can hear Cal trying to mediate in the background. ‘Did you-’

‘Did I…?’ Gale prompts.

‘Er…’ You really are doing your best not to listen, but Rolan’s voice pulls at you like a hook through the heart - all the more now you hear it softening.

‘No,’ you hear him say, haltingly. ‘You’re right. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I’m sorry.’

Breathing a sigh of relief for Rolan’s sake, you admit to Gale you’ve got no idea what you were going to say.

Gale nods. ‘I don’t have to be a Beholder to see that. The look on your face says it all.’ 

Suddenly, you realise that the siblings’ conversation has turned to you: Cal is describing the rescue to Rolan, in exaggerated detail. You invest everything you’ve got into looking very hard at the floor and pretending not to hear.

‘Speaking of, where are they?’ Lia’s voice raises. ‘Over here! Hello!’

Astarion nudges you. ‘You’ve been summoned. I certainly don’t want to talk to him.’ 

As you walk over, your chest pulses with nerves. You look to Cal and Lia first, trying to delay the inevitable. It just makes the pulsing worse. 

Cal says ‘I owe you my life. And so do these two idiots. Thank you for saving us.’ 

‘We do. Thank you,’ says Lia.

Rolan’s eyes are on you. His lips part, and your muscles tense. The harsh words you exchanged ring clear in your head. Of all the people to be rescued by.  

‘I should apologise to you,’ he says.

You exhale a heavier breath than you remember drawing. Rolan continues. 

‘I lashed out at you, drunkenly and otherwise. Even after you saved my life. You didn’t deserve that.’ Regret colours his tone, but he holds your gaze. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you.’ 

‘I should apologise too. I’m sorry I yelled at you.’ 

‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he says firmly. ‘I was being a damned fool.’

‘Maybe a little,’ you concede. ‘But under the circumstances…’ He looks pained, so you stop. Cal and Lia don’t need to hear the circumstances. ‘I’m glad you’re all safe.’

‘We are,’ he says with a smile. ‘Thanks to you. You went out of your way to help us. I should give you something in return.’ He goes for his pocket, and you reach out without thinking, though instead of touching him you stop short and wave his hand away.

‘Please don’t. You don’t owe me anything.’

‘Ah, I forgot you were on a singular moral crusade. I suppose taking money for good deeds would spoil it.’ He smiles again. ‘But you should take it anyway.’

‘You still have to make it to Baldur’s Gate. And who knows, I might turn into a Mindflayer tomorrow. Then I’ll have no need of gold.’

As dark jokes go, it’s lighthearted, but he flinches. ‘I hope not.’

‘You’re right. I hope not too,’ you say quietly. Even in celebration, pain lingers. You can only escape your situation for so long.

Rolan looks off into the distance, speaking to the wall rather than you. ‘We can’t leave for Baldur’s Gate yet anyway. Not with these wretched cultists everywhere.’ 

‘Cal and I are in no hurry to get captured again, either,’ Lia adds, catching you by surprise. You had felt alone with Rolan for a moment. Wishful thinking. 

Rolan rubs his forehead. ‘I need to sleep. And think.’ 

It's clear that your task in the Shadow-Cursed Lands has only just begun. You know from Moonrise that the secret to Ketheric’s power is somewhere under his mausoleum in the ruins of Reithwin town, and as Halsin stumbles out of a portal, you discover that the other half of the Spirit of the Land is out there somewhere, in need of help. 

It is very pleasant, then, to come back from a long day of fighting shadows to see Rolan look up from his book and wave you over. More than pleasant; your heart skips inside your weary body. 

‘What are you reading?’ you ask, clanking down onto the chair next to him in your armour. 

He turns over a volume titled Evocation: A Thorough Introduction. ‘I have read it many times before, but good books on magic are few and far between out here.’ It looks very neat still, for a tome that must have been carried gods know how far on the road from Elturel. 

You wilt in your seat, uncomfortably hot beside the stoked fire. Rolan frowns.

 ‘Are you unwell?’ 

‘No, I’m alright. Just exhausted.’ Pulling your gloves off, you start to clumsily unpick the leather straps of your forearm guards with tired fingers.

Rolan wavers. You feel the weight of his gaze, and are suddenly very glad of the fire. At least the flush he gives you will be indistinguishable from that of the heat. 

‘Let me help you.’

You wish you could tell if he was blushing against his red skin. You offer up one arm, then the other, on the table, watching him carefully loosen the straps. The temptation to look into his face, so close to yours now, is very strong. Instead you watch his deft hands with their claw-like nails, wondering how he’d touch you if you ever kissed. Softly, with just the pads of his fingers, or carelessly, with his claws digging into your skin. Maybe one and then the other, as your bodies press harder together.

Rolan silently moves on to your upper arms, eyes trained on the armour rather than you. He’s close, so close you could lean in just a few inches, and maybe he wants you to. His breathing sounds a little unsteady. You could just look up now and that would be it - you would know if he wanted you or not from the look in his eyes. But you don’t do it. You don’t want to spoil this moment by finding out that this is all in your head. 

So you just let him peel off your arm guards in charged silence. At your shoulders, he stops. 

‘I’ll let you-’, he trails off.

‘I can get the rest. Thank you.’

‘You must have trained a long time to be able to fight in all that.’ There is a note of admiration in his voice. 

‘Yes. It’s exactly as heavy as it looks,’ you say with a laugh, unbuckling the remaining ties and pulling off your chest plate, until you’re down to just your white undershirt and the leather strapping over it. You long to take off the strapping too - the leather holds you tightly when you are in battle, but it’s not the most comfortable out of it. But you don’t want to make Rolan feel awkward. It feels a little too much like undressing, in front of him. He sees your hesitation and turns aside, looking politely down at his book.

‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’ 

You turn the other way to extricate yourself, discarding your bindings onto the floor. At last you can relax. Settling back into your chair, you sit quietly for a few breaths, just looking at each other. 

 ‘That amulet is magical,’ Rolan observes, gesturing to the newly-revealed chain around your neck. ‘But not the source of your glow. Where did you get that from?’

‘Sorry, I forgot to declare my enchantments at the door,’ you tease. ‘I promise I’m not trying to smuggle any past you.’

The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. ‘You’d find it difficult. I’m starved for interesting magic to study.’

‘The amulet makes healing stronger. As for the glow - it was a gift from a pixie. Alongside a pixie bell, in case the blessing runs out.’

‘Fae magic. Fascinating. Can I see the bell?’ 

You have no idea what he’s getting from the object as he turns it over in his fingers. It seems like magic users perceive something about it that you don’t - some kind of quality, like a texture or flavour. Only the strongest magic, like the seeping horror of the Shadow Curse, transmits any kind of feeling to you. But his study does afford you a moment to look at him, unnoticed. Your eyes travel down the sharp lines of his cheeks and jaw, settling on his beautiful lips, where you feel a burst of longing so bright it must surely radiate from your body. 

Rolan gives you back the bell. ‘I cannot wait to see what wonders Lorroakan has collected. His library is said to be incredible.’ A faraway expression comes into his face. Perhaps thinking of the future that is continually being delayed.

 ‘Did you want to look at this too?’ You pull the amulet towards him with your fingertips, keen to share even the slightest flicker of magic with him.

You at least assumed he’d be interested. He did point it out, after all. Instead, he laughs dismissively. Condescendingly. ‘No, it’s nothing special.’

‘Oh,’ you say, wrongfooted.

Rolan hastily changes tack. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t know that.’ 

‘No, of course not. I’m an idiot who knows nothing about magic.’ You resent your own bitterness, but you can't hide it.

‘I didn’t mean that.’  Rolan looks frustated, flexes the hand that just instinctively waved you away. As if it's his hand's fault that he's such a damned arrogant bastard. A moment passes in silence. 

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ Gale says, beside you all of a sudden. ‘Dinner is prepared. And Lae’zel wants to go over our plans for tomorrow. We’d better not disappoint her.’ 

Somewhat relieved, you gather your cast-off armour and stand up. Rolan looks up into your eyes for a moment, then away, addressing his remark to the table whilst his fingers worry the pages of his book.

‘Maybe I was too hasty. Show me later.’ 

Still smarting from his rejection, all you can manage in reply is a tart ‘Maybe,’ before you follow Gale outside.

As you eat dinner beside the campfire, Astarion is trying to take your mind off things, sort of. ‘I wouldn’t be too offended, darling. Wizards are just like that.’

‘I would never-,’ Gale protests.

‘Arrogantly assume you know better than someone else? A goddess, perhaps?’

‘Leave it,’ you say firmly, to both of them. ‘Lae’zel, I agree that we should search for Oliver first thing in the morning and then return to the mausoleum.’ Last time, you didn’t get very far; already exhausted, you stumbled on a Cloaker, and after that it seemed best to return another day. Another time. It’s hard not to speak of tomorrow, of morning, even though there is only night and you no longer feel sure of time passing. Even though that time is of the essence. You must stop the Absolute at Moonrise before they amass any more power. 

It is not the Absolute that keeps you up tonight though. As the moonlight shimmers overhead and your companions doze, agitated thoughts drive you from your bedroll in search of relief.

Chapter Text

Halsin is delighted to see you pierce the shroud of moonlight into Last Light with Oliver at your side.

‘At last! I cannot believe how long I have waited for this moment. And now it has arrived. Thaniel is inside.’ 

‘We’ll leave you to it,’ you say firmly. ‘There’s too much still left to do.’

 ‘And miss out on this lovely reunion? I think not,’ Astarion says. ‘It’s not often you see a land spirit, magically split in two and held captive for a hundred years, reuniting with their other half.’ 

He can see right through you. You can see right through him too, causing trouble for fun, when you’re trying to keep your mind off Rolan and on your team. 

Halsin leads the way. You spy Rolan on your way in, and you know he saw you too. But he looks down quickly, poring over his book - the same book as yesterday. Difficult to believe he’s that engrossed.

Inside the infirmary, and under Halsin’s watchful eye, Oliver and Thaniel greet each other warily at first. But he encourages them, and soon they are promising to play together again, like it’s been minutes instead of years. 

‘Thank you,’ Halsin says. ‘I know we still have to kill Ketheric Thorm but…this means so much to me. Once he is dead, this land will be restored.’ 

Halsin is so certain about it. It’s enough to give you hope. And Counselor Florrick too, congratulating you on a job well done, trusting that you will do the next just as well.

But, like you said, you still have a lot to do, so you motion to your party that it’s time to go. On your way out, Astarion starts loudly telling Lae’zel that you got up in the middle of the night and who knows where you went? 

‘When I am agitated,’ Lae’zel replies, ‘I prefer to train rather than sleep.’

You were not, in fact, training. Instead, you had gone to take an excruciatingly cold bath in the river, trying to quench an internal fire, but you’re not going to explain that. 

Rolan’s tail flicks beneath his chair, obviously interested, but he still won’t look at you. Gods damn it. There was a reason you didn’t want to come into the Inn. 

Your voice is low. ‘I slept fine. Let’s stop wasting time and concentrate on finding this relic.’

Inside the Mausoleum, the air is thickly musty. You quickly make your way through the Cloaker’s cave and into the Temple of Shar proper, where the mustiness thins and grows colder. Shar’s embrace, welcoming her worshippers. 

Astarion becomes a lot quieter than you’re used to. Somewhere down here is the orthon he needs to complete Raphael’s deal. If you had a choice, you would not make a deal with a devil, but it wasn’t your choice to make. As long as it doesn’t go as badly as it did with Wyll, the warlock who briefly joined your party. That pains you. It was a failure of your leadership not to talk him out of it - and to let him leave when the guilt was too much for him. Hopefully Astarion’s deal does not have a sting in the tail. Devils’ bargains have to work out sometimes, surely; otherwise, even the  most desperate wouldn’t take the risk.

The first person you encounter, Balthazar, is not the enemy you were looking for, but you take great pleasure in cutting down him and his ghouls anyway. This disgusting patchwork of unhallowed, stolen flesh, who would certainly take yours and refashion it beyond recognition if he were ever given the chance - there will be no more chances, for a man like this.

It is a hard fight though, especially after fending off the Dark Justiciars in the hallway. If the whole temple is like this, it might take you days to find the relic. You slump down on a granite bench with Gale and Astarion to catch your breath, as Lae’zel paces. 

‘What has everyone around here got against cushions?’ Gale muses.

Lae’zel scoffs. ‘I suppose your tower is full of such cheap comforts. Even amongst the Githyanki, I have observed magic users to be soft. Unattuned to the values of hardship and denial.’

‘Well, I for one think your tower sounds lovely. Invite me up some time, why don’t you?’ Astarion makes eye contact with Gale for an outrageously long time. Are they…? , you wonder. 

There’s only so much time to rest, however much you enjoy the warm, spiky company of your party. You press on, deeper into the temple, through Shar’s trials, until you’re neck deep in Justiciars again inside the Sharran library. 

Lae’zel sheaths her sword, standing amidst a pile of corpses. ‘I cannot fight any more today. I need to rest.’

You nod. But before you leave, you check the bookshelves for interesting scrolls. Just in case you find someone who might like them.

Back at Last Light, you were going to just avoid Rolan, since he seems completely happy to avoid you. Even though you have several scrolls in your bag that you have no use for, intended for him. But as soon as you arrive, Lia and Cal beckon you over to where they all stand, propping up the bar. Reluctantly, you sling your pack on the floor and set about getting some wine to get you through this conversation. Rolan sinks a large mouthful of his own as soon as you start talking. 

‘How are you passing your time here?,’ you ask, pointedly looking only at his siblings. 

‘Training with the Harpers, sticking a few arrows into a training dummy,’ Lia replies. ‘Cal is sleeping a lot.’ She leans towards you in a mock-secretive way. ‘I think he prefers it being night all the time.’

‘Hey!’ Cal protests. ‘I’ve been doing things.’ 

‘Mhmm. We’re just waiting for the signal,’ Lia says. ‘Jaheira wants us to leave for Baldur’s Gate when the assault on Moonrise begins. Says we need to strike whilst the iron is distracted.’ 

Rolan is still silently intent on his wine, but swilling it around his cup rather than drinking it. You start to speak to him, then think better of it. 

‘What?’ he asks you. 

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything,’ you mutter. 

Cal and Lia look at each other. It’s very obvious to you that they think there’s something going on, but you’re not about to comment on it. Rolan puts his cup down suddenly. ‘Can I see your amulet?’ 

You know you should just gracefully take this olive branch. 

‘I thought it was nothing special.’ The olive branch is crushed, irritably. 

‘I might have been wrong,’ he snaps back, with even more irritation. ‘I thought you wanted me to see the damn thing.’ 

‘Not out of pity!’

‘I’m not doing it out of pity!’ Rolan is really fighting to keep his annoyance in check, and losing. His siblings melt away from you without a word, and that makes you more annoyed. Other people are here, just watching you both lose your stupid tempers. Well, fine. 

‘Fine!’ You slam your wine down. ‘You can see it, and you can tell me it’s boring. Deal?’ 

‘Why are you being so difficult ?’

‘What?!’ The sheer audacity has you stunned for a second, but then you thrust out your arm. ‘I’m not having this stupid argument in armour. If you want to see this amulet so badly, you can help me take it off.’ 

Wordlessly, Rolan yanks your arm towards him, carrying you with it, and the tip of your foot catches the tip of his tail. He doesn’t even acknowledge it, beyond wincing, though his tail lashes angrily around his feet. He works fast, carelessly throwing aside one piece, then another, until there is a pile on the floor beside you. Dimly, you remember that this is an embarrassing way to behave in public, but you are beyond caring. You reach around him to yank off your gloves and he doesn’t stop. He gets closer. Begins unbuckling the straps around your ribs, his face and body an inch away from yours. You look at his downcast eyelashes, the scowling furrow in his brow, and feel yourself scorched by desire. He is so, unbearably beautiful. 

Your arms drop, brushing against his waist. 

‘Rolan?’ 

He looks into your eyes. At your lips. His breathing is so loud. It’s all you can hear. And then he kisses you and you can’t hear anything at all, until your chestplate crashes to the floor and then you are alive to every sensation. You seize him tightly and thrust your hand into his hair, slipping your tongue between his lips. He staggers backwards until he is pressed against the bar, wrapping his tail around your legs. 

Rolan’s hands scrabble for purchase on your back, claws raking across your shirt. Your lips clash messily, tongues pressing hard down each others’ throats, your face wet with his spit. He’s kissing you so hard it feels like your lips should bruise. Fuck, you really have to stop, even though you want throw him onto the the counter and ride him into the ground. You need to let go, for decency’s sake, but you don’t want to- just a few more seconds- 

You feel Rolan turning you, pushing you back against the bar yourself, and you surrender to it, eager to feel him possess you-

Instead, he’s pulling away. Walking away. 

‘Rolan?’ 

You wipe your face and follow him outside, confused and hurt, doing your best to blank out the inquisitive stares that follow. 

Rolan stands hunched and withdrawn, arms crossed tightly over his chest, a pensive shadow beneath Isobel’s glowing canopy. 

‘Are you alright?,’ you ask softly. You are terrified that you have hurt him somehow, though you don’t know how. 

There is a long pause. His face flickers with feeling, too many feelings for you to work out. It looks like he’s fighting with himself, with whatever it is he wants to say.

Eventually, he chokes the words out.

‘You’re going to die!’ 

Your stomach lurches. ‘No! ’ 

‘I’ve read about ceremorphosis. You are dying. You should be dead already!’ 

‘How are you so certain? We have the Prism! We’ve spent weeks searching-' You stop. Searching for a solution that you still can’t find. And you’ve never told Rolan about the Prism, or about your worryingly fragile dream visitor. Or about the cures - Volo’s, Lae’zel’s, Omeluum’s - you already tried and failed. ‘Gale thinks we can be cured,’ you end, limply. 

‘Gale has a tadpole in his head! Because otherwise he’d know that it’s almost impossible to cure. It’s eaten some of your brain, for the gods’ sakes!’ Rolan scowls, the moonlight liquid in his eyes. Liquid in tracks down his cheeks. 

You grit your teeth. ‘If we lose, then the Absolute has their way, and everyone is going to die!’

‘No! Baldur’s Gate has defences. Lorroakan will-'

‘You don’t understand how powerful the Absolute is!’ 

‘And you can fight them? You think you have a chance?’ He chokes on his words again. ‘I can’t do this.’

‘Because I’m going to turn into a mindflayer and kill you?’ You are fighting the tears hard. 

‘No! That’s not it, damn it all!’

‘Fine. Wait here.’ You stalk inside, grab the scrolls you found today, and shove them in his direction. ‘You should take these. I saved them for you.’ 

He catches your arm. ‘Wait.’ 

‘So you can tell me I’m going to die again? No!’ 

Rolan lets out a sharp, frustrated growl, but he doesn’t argue. You leave him to the moonlight and throw yourself into drink.

Chapter Text

The next morning brings the kind of headache you can focus on. Something to block out the real pain. You should just drink a healing potion, but you won’t. That can wait a while.

‘You should not be sad,’ Lae’zel tells you at breakfast. ‘He is indecisive. Weak. You will find another more equal to your valour.’

You would ask when this became everyone else’s business, but after yesterday, you know you don’t have a leg to stand on. Besides, Lae’zel’s advice is surprisingly kindly given. Gale gives you a shoulder squeeze.

Astarion clicks his teeth in boredom as you fork down your mortal food. ‘Can’t you eat any faster? I have a date with an Orthon to get to.’

‘Funny kind of date, when you’re going to kill them afterwards,’ Gale says, thoughtlessly.

Astarion flinches. ‘At least this one will be the last.’

You stop in the temple library before attempting to find Raphael’s target. It seemed like there was something hidden here when you left it last, and indeed there is. A spear. If you had enough time to read all of these Sharran tomes, you might discover why it feels so malignant to the touch, but you do not have time, and more importantly you have already had enough of these horrors - the thick tar of evil that pervades everything in this land.

Something about the armour of the Dark Justiciars catches your eye in a way it didn’t on your first trip down here. It reminds you of a barely-examined memory - a dead woman on the beach, from whose body the Astral Prism flew. Amidst the wreckage, she seemed like just another corpse you couldn’t stop to think about too much. But now you are thinking about it, her armour shared some of these same designs. Perhaps you had a lucky escape from one of these Sharran torturers.

‘Well, that wasn’t very exciting,’ Astarion says, looking with disappointment at the spear. ‘I was hoping for treasure. Onwards to the Orthon, I suppose.’

The Orthon is named Yurgir, you soon find out. He seems a little tragic, stuck down here mumbling about some song. Astarion is not going to stop for a chat though. He slams his dagger right into Yurgir’s back whilst he is distracted, and before you know it the chaos of the Hells is raining down upon you from his unleashed Merregons. The rest of you react as quickly as you can. You shout to Gale to deal with the fiends whilst you dispatch the Displacer Beast at Yurgir’s side. Blood spurts from the Orthon as Lae’zel and Astarion tear into him; you’re a well-greased team, slipping seamlessly into the gaps between each others’ attacks. Cogs in an artificer’s machine. 

An explosion rattles through your ribcage, but you had already braced for impact. As the blast of heat fades, you drop your defensive stance and see that Yurgir is dead.

‘You’d better not pull that stunt again, Astarion. We’re a team.’

Astarion is flippant.  ‘He’s a devil. Why bother talking?’ 

‘A surprise attack is no use if it surprises the rest of us as well. Don’t do it again.’

‘Yes, Ma’am, ’ Astarion snarks at you. His ill-temper only lasts for a moment though. ‘Anyway, he’s dead, and Raphael is going to give me what I want. One step closer to defeating Cazador.’

‘One step closer to defeating Ketheric,’ Gale adds, holding an Umbral Gem. ‘This is the last one.’ 

‘The last one?’ You take it from him, rolling it in your hands. 

‘I borrowed a Sharran book for some bedtime reading yesterday. And it was very clear: four gems, to reach the Nightsong. It wasn’t at all clear on what that was, though.’

Gale’s words wash over your ears. You thought you’d have longer in these Shadow-Cursed Lands. You shouldn’t want to stay longer - you know how awful this place is much too intimately already. But you’re not ready. When you find this Nightsong, there might be no going back.

‘Before we do this - I need to go back to Last Light.’ You need to see Rolan before he leaves.

‘Need, or want, darling? There’s a difference.’ Astarion is harsh, but fair. 

‘You’re right. I want to go back. But if you decide we have to press on... then I'll be with you. It’s your call.’ Your jaw sets with unhappy determination.

Astarion softens, then laughs. ‘I wouldn’t get between you and Rolan in a thousand years. Mostly because I might get crushed.’ 

On the way back to the Inn, you rehearse the things you might want to say to him. Maybe he won’t want to talk to you. But the way things ended last night… you’re hopeful. Why ask you to wait, if he never wanted to see you again? 

It’s all a waste though, because only Cal and Lia are at the bar. Normally, the memories of last night’s embarrassment would make you hang back, but you have no time to waste on such niceties.

‘Do you know where Rolan is?’ 

Cal points in the direction of the upstairs rooms, where the refugees have been sleeping in shifts, but Lia steps in front of him.

‘I don’t think he wants to talk to you.’ Her tone isn’t hostile, just guarded. ‘I don’t know what happened, but he seems upset.’ 

You’re not his keeper, you want to say. The gloom you’d only just dispelled resettles around your heart; why should today be any different from yesterday? There’s still a tadpole in your head. But you try again.

‘I thought there was something more he wanted to say.’

Lia remains evasive.

‘He’s asleep, anyway. Came in late and woke us all up. Typical.’

Cal butts in. ‘I think he was practising spells. There’s a big pile of burnt crates outside.’

That was one of the scrolls you gave him yesterday. ‘Scorching Ray’. You want to believe it was that, anyway. Sickness spreads from your heart to your throat. This can’t be it. Last night cannot be the way you leave him. 

‘If I can't see him, then-’ 

You scrabble around, loosening your armour enough to awkwardly fish your amulet out from under it. Not the most fitting gift, when you keep fighting over it, but it’s the best you can think of. Maybe if Rolan can look past that, he’ll see in the amulet what you really want to say: two slender hands, clasping a red gem heart. Or maybe he’ll just see an unremarkable trinket.

‘Can you give this to Rolan for me? And tell him-’ You fumble for words. Nothing seems right. Nothing you’d want to say to Cal and Lia, before you have the chance to say it to him yourself. ‘Tell him I am not going to die. I -’  You scrunch your eyes shut in frustration as they water. ‘-We have to leave.’

Lia nods. She takes the amulet. ‘Good luck.’

‘The same to you. I hope you all find what you want, in Baldur’s Gate.’

Crossing back over the threshold of Last Light and out into the darkness is like walking over knives. Your feet do not want to do this - they want to carry you back inside, to Rolan. But you have no choice. You have to go on. Soon, you are falling through the portal into the Shadowfell, into its bleak colourless grasp, until all four of you thud softly onto a rocky platform. The sight of a Dark Justiciar makes you scramble to your feet, but it’s only a projection. It speaks the same words, on repeat:

‘For Lady Shar.’

You look over the edge and see more Dark Justiciars projected in the haze. Their overlapping whispers become distinct as you approach each one in turn, leaping with ease down the path they mark.

‘The Dark Lady-’

‘The spear-’

‘The Nightsong-’

‘Kill her-’

‘Kill her-’

Kill her? Kill her ? Is the Nightsong-

A person. You thump down onto the lowest platform and come face to face with her. 

‘So you have come to kill me, Sharran,’ she says. Her face is filthy, but she looks you straight in the eye. Walks towards you, taunting, until silvery hands wrestle her back. ‘You have found the Nightsong. Do what you came to do. Do as hundreds of others have done.’

The Shadowfell dulls your senses, but your stomach still twists in horror. Ketheric’s relic is a person. How much more cruelty is possible? 

‘Dear Gods,’ Gale murmurs behind you.

‘No,’ you say. ‘We are not Sharrans. We’ve come to help.’

‘Then lay a hand on me in friendship, and I will be free.’

You are stunned by the burst of radiance that follows. Glorious, overwhelming moonlight, flowing through the Nightsong’s veins and re-making her, casing her in shimmering armour and flowing outwards into celestial wings.

‘I am Dame Aylin, Daughter of Selûne, Nightsong no longer! I am resplendent!’

She rests for a moment in her triumph before floating back down to face you.

‘You can be no friend of Ketheric Thorm, if you would set me free. The Moonmaiden’s sword stands at your side. Are you ready?’

‘Ready for what?’ you ask, though you already know the answer. It time, at last, to kill Ketheric Thorm.

Chapter Text

As you lie there, dazed with pain and coughing blood, you see Dame Aylin’s boot through closing eyes, smashing down on Ketheric’s head over and over again. Good. You cough again. That’s good. It’s over…

You wake up some time later, memories swimming in and out on an ocean of exhaustion. Pulsing membranes and the stench of necromancy. Z’Rell’s angry words, as she realised your betrayal. I will kill you now, and then I will find your tiefling lover and flay him alive. Shuddering with disgust, you feel pain ripping through your unhealed wounds. Moving hurts. Is Rolan safe? You remember killing Z’Rell yourself, goaded into insensibility, hacking into her long after she was already gone. The rage returns for a brief moment, but it is quickly subsumed by fatigue. And more pressing feelings - hope and fear, crowding together. Through your haze, you can faintly see other people moving around you. Did everyone survive? You wrack your brains for more memories. Arrows piercing the bodies of Harpers, Halsin’s wounded roar. Jaheira screaming on the roof as Ketheric slices through her armour like it’s butter. But someone is taking care of you now. You won.

‘Gale?- Lae’zel? -Astarion?’ Your mouth is thick and dry, your tongue heavy. When you hear your own misshapen words, they sound like they’re coming from another person. They don’t really sound like words at all.

‘You’re awake!’ Isobel’s soothing voice greets your own. ‘By the Moonmaiden’s grace.’ 

With some effort, you focus on her face. She looks tired, but she is smiling. A hand rubs her shoulder lovingly. Dame Aylin’s hand? 

‘You’re the last to wake up, of the ones we could save. You’re lucky - I don’t think your skeleton friend will let you die.’

Withers saved you? In that case, you must actually have died. But whatever happened, you felt and saw nothing at all. And it seems he can only tip the scale so much, because the tadpole still wriggles in your head.

Isobel helps you drink a green, slimy potion. You feel your muscles start to regain control, and painfully prop yourself up so you can look around. You’re in the dormitory at Moonrise, repurposed now as a ward. Jaheira smiles at you from the bed over.

‘When you get to my age, you don’t shake off these injuries so easily.’

‘Did we lose anyone?’

‘Too many.’ She shakes her head. ‘But your friends are safe. Halsin survived too.’

‘The refugees?’ you ask hastily.

‘No, they left for Baldur’s Gate when we marched on Moonrise. Might even be there by now. It took us long enough to defeat Ketheric.’ 

More memories flood back. You dragged yourself onwards, exhausted, up the height of the tower and then on down through the Mindflayer colony. Without the strange Illithid restorer you found, you would have been a dead woman walking by the time you found Ketheric. You were a dead woman, briefly. 

Still, it can’t have taken you more than a day. So you have been knocked out for how long - two days? Three? Suddenly, another memory strikes. Gortash, Orin, the Elder Brain - the Absolute’s army is marching on Baldur’s Gate! Stricken with urgency, you surge out of bed, groan in pain, and collapse onto the floor. 

‘Patience, cub,’ Jaheira says. ‘Let Isobel tend to your wounds, before you cross over for good.’ 

When you wake again, you feel truly recovered. Whatever necrotic energy was still present in you has cleared, allowing Isobel to heal you properly. Lae’zel, Gale and Astarion greet you with wine and relief.

Gale raises his glass. ‘Cheers to our continued cheating of death, and notable lack of tentacles. Long may it last.’

You set off for Baldur’s Gate shortly after, accompanied by Jaheira, Dame Aylin, and Isobel; Halsin stays behind to steward the land’s recovery from the Shadow Curse. It seemed like your way should be relatively clear, but the borrowed trouble you carry in the Astral Prism finally catches up to you, and more than that - you discover that the Dream Guardian, who you trusted to keep you safe all this time, is actually a Mind Flayer. Thank the Gods you never agreed when he told you to use the other tadpoles.

Somewhere during this chaos, you notice that Astarion and Gale have started disappearing together, when the sun sets. And of course, Isobel and Dame Aylin make no secret of their love. Their happiness makes you happy, but it makes Rolan harder to forget, as the expected three days on the road turns into four, then five. At least you haven’t found any tiefling corpses on the way.

At last, you arrive in Rivington, and are amazed to find no sign of the Absolute’s Army. What is going on? 

‘The Fist said that the Steel Watch destroyed all of them. But that’s not true. Some of the others tried to leave yesterday and had to come back.’ Lia is bitter. ‘But the Fist want us to go out there and get killed, so we’ll stop trying to come into the city.’

Bex looks over from the campfire she’s stoking with Dannis. ‘I saw the army with my own eyes. They’re out there, marauding and pillaging wherever they go. We were lucky to get away safely.’ 

You cut to the chase, with the question you really want to ask.

‘Where’s Rolan?’ 

‘They let him into Baldur’s Gate. Lorroakan’s name got him in,’ Cal answers. 

‘No luck for the rest of us.’ Lia sighs. ‘It’s been days. I thought he’d be able to get us in.’

‘You haven’t heard anything?’ 

‘No.’ Lia shakes off a fleeting, uneasy expression, but you saw it. ‘Not much is coming in or out of the city at the moment.’

‘I’ll search for him,’ you promise her.

‘Don’t pretend that’s for my sake.’ Her words are sharp, but she smiles a little. ‘I gave him your amulet.’

‘And?’ 

‘I don’t know. Do you think he talks to us about these things?’

No, that would be entirely out of character for Rolan. But at least he knows you came back for him.

‘I suppose we’ll  have to explore and find our own way in. I can’t imagine they’ll roll out the red carpet.’ 

They don’t. In fact, the first Steel Watcher you meet seems actively hostile, and you have to run from a fight that you’re not sure you can win - not with more of them roaming nearby. It takes you a couple more days of observation before you work out the best way to slip past them and enter Wyrm’s Rock. More time just slipping away. And when you finally get across, you are immediately apprehended and forced to watch Gortash’s coronation ceremony, a ludicrously ostentatious event that stretches two days in itself. Whilst the Steel Watch loom behind your banquet chairs, Gortash plies you all with food and wine, insisting that you stay to hear him out. You may as well be locked in prison for all you can leave. Eventually, you hide your disgust enough to give Gortash the quarter-assurance that you will think about his deal. With contempt. That’s enough to satisfy him though, and finally you are free to roam the streets of the Lower City.

‘So,’ Astarion says, ‘straight to Lorroakan’s tower then?’

‘Ramazith’s Tower,’ Gale corrects him automatically. ‘Lorroakan is just its latest tenant.’

Your heart races. ‘I thought you were in a rush to kill Cazador.’ That’s a lie, you coward. Now you actually can see Rolan again, you’re losing your nerve.

‘Oh, we’re doing this are we?’ Astarion rolls his eyes. ‘Pretending not to care is Rolan’s strong suit, my dear. It doesn’t suit you at all.’

‘Just… give me time. There are plenty of other things we need to do.’ 

You spend the rest of the day split in two, unable to concentrate on your search for Orin and yet unwilling to follow your feelings as they pull you towards the Tower. In the evening, you practise your  manoeuvres over and over again, scolding yourself for every slip in your footwork, until your relentless pacing earns you the ire of everyone else trying to relax.

‘May I suggest,’ Gale offers tentatively, ‘reading a good book. I find it soothes the soul.’ He gestures to the Elfsong’s generously stocked shelves.

Sitting still has never soothed your soul. There is nothing for it; you will have to go to Lorroakan’s Tower tomorrow and talk to Rolan, however much you would rather stick your hand in boiling oil. For now, you settle for a scaldingly hot bath. And whilst you sit, luxuriating, in the bath, you let yourself dream of the way tomorrow might go. 

Fantasy Rolan is sitting at an opulent, intricately carved desk, studying a densely-bound book that looks at least five hundred years old. 

‘You’re wearing the amulet,’ your fantasy self says, leaning in suavely to take it in your fingers. ‘I knew you were interested.’ 

Fantasy Rolan nods, puts his hand over yours. He says he misses you, that there’s nothing he wants more than you, and before you know it you are astride him, grinding against him, fucking him like there’s no tomorrow.

If only this bath was more than just curtained off from the rest of the room. As it is, your party definitely don’t want to hear you working your feelings out, so you reluctantly dry yourself off and go to bed. But you feel a little better than before.

Your new-found hope carries over to the next day. At the very least, you’ll get to see Rolan in his element, finally a true student of the Weave. He deserves more than what life has given him so far. Despite your hopes, you linger outside the glinting tiles of Sorcerous Sundries, the bottom floor of the Tower, deliberating on whether you want to go in or not. The decision is made for you as Lae’zel strides in ahead. 

‘Wait!’ 

If someone’s going to talk to him, it’s not going to be the rudest person you know. You sprint to catch up with her, drawing even just as you approach the front desk. Gods , it’s him. You didn’t expect he’d be right there.

‘Rolan!’

He greets you with a weak smile.

‘Oh. It’s you. Welcome to Sorcerous Sundries.’

Something is terribly wrong. A huge split on his lip - the bruises across his face - what happened? They form a thick tapestry around his eyes and cheekbones and nose, weaving together old brown and fresh purple. Not just one day’s damage, but many. 

‘Who did that to you?,’ you ask in stunned horror. 

‘It’s nothing for you to worry about.’ Rolan flinches from the question, his voice forcibly nonchalant. You notice yet another fading bruise along his jaw. 

‘I don’t understand,’ you say, weakly. ‘I hope you’re alright.’ 

‘What do you care?’ he replies, meeting your eyes with an empty gaze. 

‘I came back for you! But Lia said-‘ 

‘It doesn’t matter now, anyway.’ 

The resignation in his voice rips your heart open, spilling pain into your ribs and stomach, soaking you up to the eyes. You pinch yourself to hold the feelings in. It’s not like you’re the one bruised and hurt.

‘I left the amulet for you,’ you say, reaching out for a last shred of hope. Your eyes search his neck before he responds - but his robe lies too flat against his chest to have anything underneath it. You recoil, stung, and say as flatly as possible, ‘You probably didn’t want it.’ Gods, your voice gives everything away.

Rolan makes no reply. He opens a coin drawer and shuffles the money around. After a moment, the forced cheerfulness returns to his voice. ‘Anyway. What can I do for you today?.’ 

You scan the papers laid out on the desk, looking for something to buy that will let you talk to him one minute longer. Anything to keep him talking. Your eyes alight on yet more bad news. 

‘Lorroakan is after the Nightsong?’

‘If you know something about it, you should talk to Lorroakan. But be careful. He has a beastly temper.’ Rolan tidies the pile of leaflets back up without looking at you. You stand, uncertain, still making sense of it all, until Gale gently pulls at your arm.

You walk up the stairs in crushed silence, not caring to share the thoughts in your head. Maybe Lorroakan doesn’t know what the Nightsong is? But you think he knows. He has to be the one hurting Rolan. Hurting Aylin doesn’t seem like much of a stretch.

Your interview with Lorroakan is short. Bitter. He is unrepentant about his disgusting plan to capture Dame Aylin and take her immortality for his own. 

‘There are a lot of money-hungry fools in Baldur’s Gate ready to deliver her for me, if you won’t,’ he says, before abruptly changing the subject. ‘Whether you decide to help me or not, I have one more request. Stop wasting my worthless apprentice’s time. He has work to do.’ Hells. He must have been watching you. 

‘He won’t be your apprentice much longer when he finds out about the Nightsong,’ you snarl.

Lorroakan laughs with total assuredness. ‘He’ll do exactly as I say.’ The urge to knock the teeth out of his smug mouth sings within your curled fist. ‘That boy will do anything to be a wizard. Pity he’ll never be a good one.’ 

You are showing all your cards, letting your rage write itself on your face. With a deep breath, you restrain yourself. Never pick a fight before you’re prepared to win it. Even as you hold yourself back, fire still spits from your parting words.

‘I’ll tell Aylin about your offer. And you will regret it.’

Lorroakan merely grins. ‘Please do invite her here. We’ll see who comes out the victor.’

On your way out, you determinedly try to catch Rolan’s eye, but he is avoiding you. You walk closer to his desk… and hear fingers snapping behind you. Lorroakan.

‘Back to work,’ he tells Rolan, watching your discomfort with a gleeful look. There’s nothing you can say that won’t get Rolan in trouble. You don’t even want to risk another glance. Once again, all you can do is leave. All you’re ever doing is leaving, you think bitterly to yourself, even as you rush onwards to the Elfsong to find Dame Aylin and bring divine retribution down on Lorroakan’s head. 

Chapter Text

There’s a shout, and a smashing sound. You break into a sprint, running up the stairs and throwing open the doors to your rooms to see Aylin burying her blade into the chest of a vaguely familiar man. Aradin. Not like you met him for long, but he left an impression - a bad one.

‘What treachery is this?!’ Aylin’s eyes are aflame with holy radiance, locked on Aradin’s now unseeing eyes. Fortunately, you have the answers where he no longer does. 

‘The wizard, Lorroakan. In the Tower.’ You catch your breath. ‘He has a reward out on you.’

‘Fools! Villains!’ Aylin’s rage streams from her, lighting the dark room with furious glory. ‘The arrogance of mortals, to see my divinity as fruit to be plucked. I am no crop to be harvested.’ She seizes Aradin’s lifeless body by the hair, her voice crackling with wrath. ‘You will know no eternal life but darkness!’ 

You start gearing up for battle as fast as you can, knowing she will not wait. She’s already climbing through the window, still clutching Aradin’s corpse, as you thrust your feet into your boots.

‘To the tower!’ she cries, her wings beating the air.

You surge through the doorway of Sorcerous Sundries shortly after, conspicuously dressed to fight. Milling customers hurry out of your way.

‘What are you doing?,’ Rolan calls, with barely-restrained panic.

You don’t stop, because Dame Aylin is probably crashing through Lorroakan’s window right now. But you shout back at him over your shoulder. 

‘The Nightsong is here!’ 

‘What do you mean, it’s here? Does Lorroakan know?’ He drops the scrolls he’s counting on the floor and sprints after you. ‘You can’t-‘

You leap through the portal, followed in quick succession by Gale, Astarion and Lae’zel. 

 ‘You cannot be here!’ Rolan’s voice rings behind you, as he too emerges through the portal into Lorroakan’s office. He stops dead at the sight of Dame Aylin. 

She and Lorroakan are already in argument, Aradin’s body thrown at his feet. 

‘You dare try to purchase me? Instead of fighting me yourself, you buy others to do it for you? You are nothing but a whelp, without honour, without pride, with nothing but a tower full of trinkets!’’

‘Hmmm, I thought you’d see reason,’ Lorroakan says, unbothered. ‘You, or your friends here. It’s a shame you have chosen the hard way.’

Rolan finally speaks, and he sounds horrified. Disbelieving. ‘The Nightsong is a person?’

‘Ah, you’re here boy. At the ready. When I have defeated the Aasimar, she must go straight into the caging runes.’ 

‘No, Master Lorroakan,’ Rolan says, the doubt gone from his voice. ‘I would never have assisted you if I knew you planned such horrors. You lied to get the Nightsong here. Made us all believe she was nothing but a relic.’ He takes a breath. ‘I have seen what true leadership can accomplish, but never under your tutelage.’ He’s still speaking to Lorroakan, but suddenly his eyes are on you. Does he mean-?

There is no time to think about it. Lorrokoan raises his hand, incensed. ‘Watch your tongue, you child. I could make it so that no wizard in the realm will ever touch you again.’

‘If they’re all like you, then I think that sounds like an excellent bargain.’

‘Enough!’ Lorroakan shouts. ‘Myrmidons! Imperatum!’

Jamming your helmet on, you draw your sword, eyes sweeping across Lorroakan’s assembled forces. You alight on the construct. Get this weak one out of the way first. 

‘Focus the myrmidons,’ you shout to Gale and Lae’zel, as your sword clangs against the construct’s weak metal plate. It buckles. With another hit, he falls to pieces. Astarion misty steps up to one of the mezzanine floors and beings hailing crossbow bolts down on to the enemies beneath.

Rolan takes a moment to get his bearings, but then you see him unleash a huge thunderwave that slams Lorroakan, clearly surprised, into the railings behind him, giving Aylin a clean swing with her blade that cuts deep into his arm. You see the Earth myrmidon rushing towards them and sprint to put yourself in between, feeling a blast of heat behind you as Lorroakan fights back with fire. 

Your blows reverberate down your arm as they smash against the stone body, but it’s working because chunks of it are coming off, crumbling into the earth from which it came. It blasts you squarely in the stomach with a barrage of mud and rocks, but you hit right back, staying in your rhythm, slashing and parrying as best you can, whittling it down as it thumps you over and over again. It must be close to death now - surely - one more blow - 

‘Aaaaaagh!’

The air is thrust from your lungs as a massive, elemental roar of thunder throws you backwards and crushes you against the ground. Bones snap. You try to breathe, but pain screams from your lungs when you do. The world is blurring, the myrmidon is coming, it’s going to finish you. 

‘No!’ someone shouts.

Boots- boots from another direction - Gale? No. Rolan. He rushes forward, lunges one foot over your prone body and blasts the Myrmidon. Still standing over you, he screams to someone - Lae’zel?- 

‘HEAL HER, GODS-DAMMIT’

Something smashes next to your ear, splashing through the gaps in your helmet onto your lips. Healing. Magic. You feel the space inside your chest open back up, your bones shifting themselves back to where they should be. Conscious thought returning from the edge of oblivion. 

Rolan’s arms are around you, pulling you up urgently. The battle is still raging around you, so you can only shout your thanks and fight on beside him, until the final myrmidons collapse in piles of unremarkable ash. 

Dame Aylin lifts Lorroakan aloft. He’s barely breathing, but a wail of pain escapes. She speaks more to him, and to the shadows of so many tormentors past, than to you. Incandescent with righteous rage, she lists his sins for all to hear.

‘Know this. Dame Aylin is watching. She is indomitable. And when her face lights the shadows of her wrongdoing, you are broken by her beauty.’ 

She slams Lorroakan down across her knee. You all stand spellbound by the sickening crack of his spine, and the unfettered, terrifying rage in Dame Aylin’s face. Silently, you remove your helmet and gloves. It’s over. 

Rolan speaks first. ‘He’s dead. The bastard’s dead.’

A light seems to go out inside Aylin. Her wings fold, and Lorroakan’s broken body rolls from her knee. ‘The flame-haired fool is dead. But- why do I feel sad?’

‘Don’t feel sad.’ Rolan interjects. ‘Lorroakan was a cruel and vicious man. He-’ He breaks off and looks at the floor, then directly at you. ‘He beat me. There is no point hiding it. I could have killed him with my own two hands but - I thought it was a test. It had to be. I thought it was the price I had to pay to become a true wizard. I realise now he was a sick man.’

You stand dumbly across from him, aching to pull him close. How dare Lorroakan try to break him. 

‘I only wish I could kill him again,’ you say, and you mean it. 

Rolan nods. ‘As do I.’ He looks at you again, holding your gaze more steadily than he’s ever done. Desire courses through you, and guilt right after it. What a time to want him. But you do, undeniably, want him, bloodied and battered as you both are. His robes are burnt in places, and crusted mud clings to your armour.

Aylin frowns. ‘I must go. Isobel will be back soon and I must seek her counsel. She will know what ails me.’ She lays her hand on each of your shoulders in turn. ‘You fought excellently. I am proud to fight at your side. You too, tiefling. Moonmaiden be with you all.’ 

You watch her stretch her noble wings, always clean no matter the filth of battle, and take off through the open window. 

Astarion cricks his neck. ‘Well, I think we should be going too. I need a drink, and those Myrmidons are not my preferred flavour.’

‘You fought well, teethling,’ Lae’zel says, with genuine respect, before turning to leave herself. Gale nods to Rolan. They’re deliberately turning their backs on you, giving you a chance. For a moment, there’s just silence, and then Rolan speaks, to you and only you. 

‘Can you stay a little longer?’

‘Yes.’ You feel suspended, wrapped in nerves. ‘Is there something…’

‘Something I want to say? Yes. A lot of things.’ You notice his chest rising and falling with sharp, obvious breaths. Your own breathing quickens in response. His eyes flicker away in embarrassment, but in an instant they’re back on your own. ‘Thank you. And, I’m sorry.’ 

‘Sorry for what?’ His pause is too long. Dread chokes you. Sorry that he’ll never feel the same way or-?

‘I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth. At the front desk. I was ashamed.’

‘Rolan.’ You step towards him, reaching out for him instinctively, but you only brush his arm before pulling your hand away, uncertain. ‘Don’t be sorry.’ 

‘The amulet-’ he starts, making you wince. Not this hells-cursed amulet, again. You look away, arms crossing defensively against your chest, ashamed of your obvious feelings in giving it to him. 

‘It’s fine. Keep it, wherever it is,’ you say softly.

‘You don’t understand.’ Frustration shines in Rolan’s eyes. At last, an expression you recognise on him. ‘I wore it all the way from Last Light. I was hurt, that you left without saying goodbye. Even though I’d just told you you were going to die, and had no right to expect anything of you.’ He manages a slight, rueful laugh at himself. ‘Tact has never been a speciality of mine.’

‘True,’ you say, returning his wistful smile.

He continues. ‘When I got here, I discovered very quickly that Lorroakan did not like any magic that didn’t belong to him. Or anything of mine, that mattered to me. So I hid the amulet, and when he asked me, I pretended I had lost it.’ 

‘It mattered to you.’ Hope flutters beneath your skin, then sadness. Lorroakan was truly horrible.

‘You still shouldn’t have left it for me!’ he says, suddenly exasperated. ‘You nearly died during that fight!’

‘Well, then let me take it back from you.’

‘No!’

‘So you do want it.’ You can’t help but smile. 

He frowns at you, but only for an instant, because you look deeply into his black and gold eyes, and suddenly he’s drawing closer to you, his breaths so close and heavy you can feel them on your face. You want those beautiful, bloodied lips on your own, so much that just the thought sends lightning skittering across the surface of your skin. It’s the jolt you need to cross the last inch between your faces, to break the spell of uncertainty and embarrassment and old history between you and kiss him. Softly and carefully, avoiding the cut Lorroakan left, feeling him shake a little as he brushes your face with the pads of his fingers. At first, he kisses you back softly too, and then breaks away. Not far though. Your arms are still wrapped around his shoulders.

‘Do you really want me?’ He sounds confused.  ‘I’ve been nothing but-’ 

You break in, impatient. ‘Obviously! ’  

‘Oh.’ He still looks like he doesn’t believe it, until you kiss him again. ‘Oh!’ He pulls you tight, as tight as you can get when there are still metal plates between you. Your kiss deepens, becomes hungrier. Rolan makes a slight noise of pain and you taste blood - his lip - but he won’t let you pull away. He just kisses you harder. Your hands wander over his back, along his upper arms, down the curve of his spine until you no longer feel his clothes but the bare skin at the base of his tail. Rolan gasps, grasps the back of your head with his hand, presses his tongue further into your mouth as your fingers roam his ridged skin. Heat pulses across your body. Your skin burns where he should be touching you, if your damned armour wasn’t in the way. 

‘Help me get this off!’ 

He nods, but doesn’t let you go. Instead, he works at the buckles with his arms still wrapped around you, his tail still curled around your calf, only moving them when he absolutely has to and then just to somewhere else on your body. You keep kissing him, his neck, his ears, his jaw, letting him undress you until you’re too impatient to wait any longer and start scrabbling with the remaining straps yourself. At last, you kick off your boots and leg splints and thrust yourself against him, pressing your bodies together so hard that your fresh bruises from the fight throb in protest, a pain that just makes you more wild for him. 

‘Gods!’ he moans, as you grab his ass and grind yourself against his hips. You can feel his cock through his robe, thick and hard and straining against you. He yanks your shirt free from your trousers, and shoves his hand up to grab your breast, making you moan even louder than he did. You push him backwards, hands tearing at his half-ruined robes, until the sound of his back slamming against a metal-caged bookshelf makes you break off. 

‘Are you alright?’ you say, guiltily. You’re being too rough. And the bookshelf reminds you where you are - in Lorroakan’s study, with his dead body just yards away. 

Rolan put his hand on your cheek, fingers softly curling into your hair. ‘I have never been better.’

You flush, overwhelmed with feelings and uncertain how to say them. Your gaze trails from his eyes to his mouth, where the memory of an old fantasy makes you smile.

‘You know, your teeth aren’t as sharp as I thought they’d be,’ you tease.

‘Oh, they are quite sharp, I assure you.’ A little wickedness steals into his expression. Inspiring wickedness. You pull your shirt aside, exposing the base of your neck. 

‘Show me.’

Chapter Text

Rolan kisses the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, opening his lips just enough to tease you with the points of his teeth. Your skin fizzes at the touch, but he stops.

‘Are you sure about this?,’ he murmurs into your neck. ‘They are very sharp.’

You tangle your fingers in his hair. ‘Yes! As long as you want to- Fuck! ’

You scream as Rolan bites down hard, piercing your skin with his sharp teeth. Bolts of exquisite, shimmering pain race through your body; whimpers and shivers of pleasure engulf you. You cling onto him harder, eyes watering, afraid that if you let go your sanity will be swept away on this tidal wave of pain and desire. He sucks at your throbbing skin, and the pain changes; blunter, hotter, deeper, burning you up from the inside out. Your cunt aches for him, pulsing with a need that you try to fill by straddling his thigh and rubbing against him like some feral animal. 

‘Rolan - Gods, Rolan - fuck me!’

He spits out a mouthful of blood and snatches your face close, kissing you feverishly.

‘Gods, I have wanted to hear you say that.’ 

His voice is so deep and earnest, you could drown in it. You need more of him. His robe is already torn open, so you set to ripping his shirt off too, running your hands over the rucks and valleys of his Hells-touched skin. Rolan is trying to undo your trousers, frantically searching the laces and buttons until he finds the way in, and then he slips his long fingers down to play with your clit. He’s so careful, so expertly dexterous with his claws that he doesn’t catch you once, not even when he slides one finger and then another inside you. 

‘You are soaked ,’ he says reverently, and then looks pleased with himself. You want to tease him, tell him not to get too arrogant, but as the heel of his hand grinds against your clit and his fingers press against the walls of your cunt, all you can do is moan and writhe into his hand. Recovering your senses just enough, you reach for the tip of his twitching cock and feel that it is wet too, dripping with readiness and need. You are not the only desperate one. With that thought, and your hand around his cock, you wring a series of gasps and groans from him, until his lips lose their self-satisfied smirk and his tail quivers between your legs. Wrenching your own trousers off, you hastily start on Rolan’s too, but as soon as his cock is free he wrests your hands away and turns so your back is against the wall. You stare at him hungrily. His bun is falling out, his clothes half-destroyed against his bare chest, his face and hair and horns flecked with the mud and blood of battle. Resplendent.

In one swift movement, you feel his hands hiking up your shirt and grabbing your ass, and you jump up to wrap your legs around him, pinned between the bookcase and his body. You fumble slightly, trying to get the right angle, perched precariously on a shelf edge so that he doesn’t have to take your full weight - but then you feel his cock pressing against the entrance to your cunt and forget everything else. You push your hands beneath his ripped clothes and feel the heat burning from his skin, anchoring yourself before you thrust down onto him.

Rolan gasps, arches, moans - you shout with pleasure as he pushes into you, fills you, his cock pressing overwhelmingly thick and hard inside you, making space where there used to be none. You squeeze your legs tighter around his waist, eager to feel his full length inside you, driving yourself onto him until at last you feel his body against the lips of your cunt. Rolan holds you tight as you rock gently against him, the ridged skin above his cock rubbing against your clit. 

‘Gods, you are incredible. Better than anything I imagined.’ 

‘Mmmm,’ you groan, squirming in his grasp. ‘Then fucking take me!’

Without warning, Rolan does as you ask, slamming you backwards into the bookcase, thrusting inside you. Metal rattles against your back as he pounds you, almost drowning out the sound of his cock ramming into your wet cunt. His fingers pinch hard into the skin of your ass, painfully hard, and you dig your nails into his back in reply.

He groans. ‘Harder!’ 

You channel your frantic, pulsing hunger for him into scratching as hard as you can, hearing him groan and whimper and wanting more, more, please, more- more of him shouting and begging, more of his heaving, sweating body against you, his cock filling you, just the tiniest bit more pressure on your swollen, sensitive-

‘ Ahhhhhh!’ The orgasm rips through you, shaking every thought from your mind until there’s only blinding light, so bright it might be the Weave itself. Pure euphoria, cresting through your body and throbbing though your cunt, making Rolan suddenly twitch and spasm.

‘I’m- I’m going to come!’

‘Come inside me, please!’ He doesn’t hesitate. He crushes you tight, burying his face against you, and then comes so hard that you feel his hot seed spurting inside you as he shouts and whines into your shoulder, the tip of his horn catching your cheek. You fall down the final wave of pleasure, whimpering, desperate to be as close as possible to him. Gradually, his ragged breaths die away, and you feel the briefest flicker of disappointment as he slides his cock out of you and lets you drop from his trembling grip. Not that you want to come again, you’re much too satiated and sore for that - but god he feels so good inside you that you don’t want to let him go.

He smiles at you in a sweetly vacant way, still shaking, and sweeps you into a cuddle that makes you want to cry. You breathe in deeply, enjoying the scent of his sweat and the rise and fall of his chest against yours. 

Too exhausted to stand, you settle down onto the floor, your muscles drained and flimsy. Rolan follows you down, sitting propped against the wall and close against your side. You reach out and take his hand, admiring his slender, pretty fingers and claws. 

‘You’ve never been with a tiefling before.’ he observes. You laugh. He makes even the smallest observation sound so serious. 

‘Well, aside from a dashing man I met in Last Light. He was a good kisser.’ The itch to tease him is too strong sometimes.

Rolan laughs. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry it ended so abruptly.’

‘You’re right though, I’ve never been with a tiefling before you. Have you ever been with a human?’

He shakes his head. ‘Even before Elturel fell, most people distrusted the horns and tail. Better to keep ourselves to ourselves.’

‘Thanks for giving me a chance,’ you say, stroking the skin at the base of his horns. Rolan leans in to kiss you, his tongue flickering over your parting lips, and as you tenderly kiss him back he takes your lower lip very gently between his sharp teeth, careful not to pull too hard. You run your fingers along his cheekbone and down around the nape of his neck, letting yourself melt into the feeling of being cared for. Of caring for him.

‘What are you going to do now?,’ you murmur sleepily, when you finally stop kissing.

‘Stay here, and master the Weave on my own.’ He sounds tired too, his voice slower than usual. ‘It was never Lorroakan’s tower anyway. I have just as much claim to it now.’

You smile, looking hazily into his eyes. ‘All hail Rolan, master of Ramazith’s tower.’

He smiles back. ‘I like the sound of that. Cal and Lia will love the tower. Lorroakan wouldn’t let them stay here.’

‘I saw them, outside the city. They’re alright. Wondering what happened to you.’

‘What about you?’ Rolan asks. ‘Do you have family? I hardly know anything about you.’

‘You know everything about me that’s important to know. Before the tadpole, I was just a soldier in the Baldurian army. It was good enough, and I was good at it, but there wasn’t much variety. I never thought I’d see the Shadowfell, Avernus or the Astral Plane. Definitely not all within two months.’ You laugh ruefully. ‘Shouldn’t have wished for more interesting times.’

Rolan returns your regretful laugh. ‘You’re not the only one. Two tendays ago, I wanted nothing more than to start my apprenticeship with Lorroakan.’

Sadness creeps back in. You squeeze his hand hard for a moment, before you continue talking.

‘As for family, I was raised by my grandparents. But they died some time ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, don’t worry about it.’ Tiredness laps again at your consciousness. There is more you could say, a lot more you want to ask, but instead you curl over, putting your head on Rolan’s shoulder. He wraps his arm around you in response, and you cuddle into his bare chest, feeling his chin resting on your forehead…

Metal clangs on metal, heralding a voice that barks orders at you.

‘Dress yourself. We need to go.’

What? You feel a wet patch on your forehead, and the sudden shifting of the pillow you were sleeping on. Your eyes take a moment to unblur. Oh Gods, Lae’zel is standing in front of you and Rolan, who is sheepishly wiping his mouth and pulling his robes back over his body. Her sword is poised to knock again against the metal railings, and she looks down at you both with a characteristic lack of care for the average Faerȗnian’s idea of privacy. Thank the Gods you’re still wearing your shirt.

‘Lae’zel. Has something happened?’ You don’t want to let go of Rolan, but she would not intrude for the fun of it.

‘Cazador has taken Astarion.’ 

‘What? How?-’ You realise it’s dark outside, beyond the reach of the tower’s magical light. ‘Fuck.’

Rolan scrambles to his feet at the same time as you do. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘It’s not your fight,’ you say softly. He still looks rough. You still feel a little rough, but you can sink a health potion and be fine.

‘I want to fight with you.’ 

‘What about Cal and Lia? What happens if you die?’ 

‘What happens if you die, and the Absolute kills us all? No. I’m coming with you. Just give me a moment.’ He waves awkwardly at the remains of his robes. ‘I need to find new clothes.’ 

Before you can argue, Lae’zel breaks in. ‘Let him fight. Aylin and Isobel have gone, and Jaheira has not yet returned. We could use the allies.’

Lae’zel agrees with Rolan? Things have certainly changed today.  You're still not happy, but you accept it.

‘Fine. Get dressed as quickly as you can. We need to go.’

Chapter Text

You strap back into your armour with practised speed, displacing thoughts about whether you were too short with Rolan. Astarion is missing, and you should concentrate on that. 

Across the room, you heard a ripping sound. Rolan claws out the back seam of Lorroakan’s robe, making a hole large enough to fit his tail, before stripping off the rags of his own shirt. Without realising, your own dressing slows to a crawl as you watch him pull the rich silk of the robe on over his bare skin, his tail flexing and then slithering through the newly-made hole. Your thighs clench involuntarily. Fuck. 

Rolan catches your eye and looks away, apparently mistaking your stare for judgement instead of desire.

‘It’s not like I enjoy stripping his corpse. I have to wear something though, now that’s ruined.’ He waves dismissively at the remains of his old robe.

‘Sorry about that.’ You hastily finish putting your armour on, realising you’ve fallen behind.

‘It was half-destroyed anyway,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He brushes his hair back into place with his fingers, a distant look on his face.

You wonder if he’s regretting joining your fight. If you are honest with yourself, you’re hoping he is. ‘You can still change your mind. You don’t have to-'

‘For the last time,’ he says tightly, ‘I’m coming with you.’ 

‘I don’t want you to risk your life for someone you hardly know.’ It’s supposed to be a statement, but it sounds more like an order.

‘Ah, and you’ve never done that,’ Rolan whips back with biting sarcasm. Why, gods, why are you always stepping on each others’ toes? For some reason, you’d thought that once you’d finally told each other how you felt, you’d stop having these pointless, painful arguments - though, on reflection, neither of you did much telling.

‘Hmm.’ Arguments line up on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them. ‘If you’re ready, then let’s go.’ 

He nods and strides out through the portal, leaving you to follow.

Gale unfolds from his nervous hunch when he sees you coming down the stairs. ‘Thank the Gods, I thought you were never coming.’ 

‘I need to talk to Tolna,’ Rolan says abruptly, and sails off towards the bookseller, who is packing up her stock. There’s not a customer left in the shop - even the elementals are napping.  

Gale expostulates. ‘Could you not have done this earlier? Perhaps? In the six hours we left you to your own devices? Just how much getting to know each other do you need to do in one day?’

He collapses back to hugging himself, anxiously rubbing the side of his face in a way you’ve seen many times before - usually when he’s thinking about Mystra. 

You try to distract him. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘What is there to tell? We were in the Elfsong, having a drink, and then his siblings appeared and dragged him off. Just as he was worried they would. We should have gone after Cazador earlier.’ 

‘It is easy to see your enemy’s movements in hindsight, and to blame yourself for being deaf to the sound of their unsheathing swords. But foresight is a less well-honed sense.’ Lae’zel frowns, perhaps feeling she’s been too nice, and changes the subject. ‘Two wizards in the party. It is very unfortunate.’

Gale laughs, in spite of himself. ‘Better than none at all.’

Rolan is back. ‘Tolna has agreed to stay and watch the tower. She and the elementals will be guard enough for one night.’ 

‘For the gods’ sake, both of you, drink a healing potion. You look awful.’ Gale unpacks two from his bag, and you reluctantly acquiesce. Underneath your armour, you feel your shirt unstick from your shoulder, as the puncture wounds beneath heal over and the scabs have nothing left to cling to.  It would have been nice to keep those marks a little longer. 

With a sharp gesture to follow, you head for the door. You know where the Szarr palace is, though you’ve luckily never had a reason, or invitation, to enter. The upper echelons of Baldur’s Gate prefer their own company. Rolan pushes on ahead of you at times, even though he can’t possibly have any idea where he’s going. In those opulent robes, he looks much more imposing and magisterial than Lorroakan ever did; but it only serves to irritate you. 

‘It’s this way,’ you say, as he starts to turn the wrong way at a crossroads. You see his flash of annoyance at being caught out, though he follows you without a word. Normally, you could rely on a kind word from Gale to break the tension, but he is far too lost in his own worries.

Crossing the threshold into Cazador’s palace, you slip past servants far too detached from their own minds to care about your break in, and stop at an ominous door that crackles with arcane light. Everyone takes a long look at the script written on the central panel.

‘Do you know what that language is? Because I don’t,’ Gale says. Rolan admits he doesn’t either, though he points out a crest-shaped indentation in the centre.

‘In that case,' you say, 'we need to search for both this crest and some way to read this script. Maybe one of Cazador’s servants will know.’ 

Heading down the stairs, you tell Gale and Lae’zel to split off and search further down the corridor. Ideally, you’d spread out more, but who knows what unpleasant surprises await here. Better to stay in pairs.

The door that you and Rolan stop in front of looks quite normal; whatever is inside though, doesn’t, because an ugly green cloud is oozing out from underneath. As you reach out to open it, Rolan snatches your wrist.

‘Careful. It’s cursed.’ 

You pull your hand back gratefully. ‘Can you remove the curse?’ 

He frowns. ‘Ah - I haven’t practised in a while-‘. He mutters incantations beneath his voice, clearly trying very hard to find the spell’s essence. It’s not coming, though. 

‘We don’t have time. I’ll risk it.’ You seize the door handle, dragging it open, and immediately bend double with a blistering pain in your lungs. ‘Agh!’

Rolan’s hands are on your shoulders. ‘Wretched hells, are you hurt?’ 

You turn away from him to cough a foul green lump, the same colour as the ooze, up onto the floor. With it gone, you feel your lungs clearing. Ouch. 

‘Not too badly.’ 

You brush away his concern and take a look inside the room. The green cloud is dense, and it looks like it’s emanating from a body on the floor. A dead child. You’ve seen a lot of horrible things, but some will never stop being upsetting. No time to wallow in your feelings though. The cloud is blocking your way into the room, and you can dimly see on the other side a desk and wardrobe that might be worth searching. 

‘Can you misty step over there?’ you ask Rolan, pointing to the desk.

He shakes his head. ‘I haven’t learned that yet.’

‘That's fine. I’ll have to risk walking through then.’ 

‘What?’ No!’ 

‘I’ll be fine. I can-‘

You feel an arm slide around you, hear a shouted incantation and the rush of the Realms warping like a pond around a falling pebble. Rolan’s arm drops from your waist. You’re both standing on the other side of the cloud. 

‘You wanted to search this?’ He opens the desk, rifling through its contents.

‘Did you just Dimension Door us here? I told you I could handle it! You need to save your resources for the actual fight !’ You may not be well-versed in magic, but Gale doesn’t just use that spell on a whim. It must be quite draining.

Rolan is unrepentant. ‘What were you going to do, walk face first into a curse and hope not to die?’ 

‘Yes, actually,’ you snap, before adding stiffly, ‘It’s not your choice to make, anyway.’ ’

He doesn’t reply, just shoves the desk door closed. It makes an ugly squeak. ‘There’s nothing in here.’

You let the argument rest. It will keep, until you’ve rescued Astarion. Searching the wardrobe, you quickly throw out the clothes, one by one, listening out for the sound of anything in the pockets. Then you see it. A book, with the same script as before, alongside Common. 

‘Found something.’ You show him the book. ‘I think that’s all. We should go.’ 

You both stand looking at the body for a moment. You’re still sure you could walk into the curse and live to tell the tale, but you don’t want Rolan to risk it.

‘Can you move her with Thunderwave?’ 

‘What?’ Rolan chokes. 

‘I know it’s awful. But how else can we get back past that curse? Without any more Dimension Door.’ 

He reluctantly agrees to your plan. Both of you turn your heads as he casts the spell; there’s an awful thud as she hits the wall, but your way is now clear.

You touch his hand gently. ‘Let’s go.’ 

Heading back out into the corridor, you hear the sounds of a fight. ‘What’s that?!’

You both pick up your heels and run towards the sound, but before you get there Gale and Lae’zel emerge, also sprinting. Gale is panting with exertion. 

‘He’s got Astarion in the dungeons- there’s no time to lose- we have the crest!’

Rushing up towards the door, you thrust Rolan the book you found. You need both hands to hold your greatsword ready for whatever is behind this door. 

He shouts something at the door you don’t understand - apparently mispronouncing it, because nothing happens. Then, he shouts again. The door clicks, and Rolan throws it open with a glorious flourish. 

A room full of werewolves bare their fangs at you. 

‘Hells!’ he shouts, then recovers enough to blast a wave of fire at them. You race past, sword aloft, and start to slash at the closest werewolf, your arms burning with the effort of hacking through its thick hide. Lae’zel is making similarly efficient work of another wolf beside you, as bats swarm you both. A scorching ray heats the air beside your ear. Teeth crunch on the metal around the back of your thigh, then slide off uselessly. Whipping around, you swing your sword through your assailant’s neck, cutting deep; blood spurts everywhere, and it collapses into a whining, twitching pool of matted fur. That’s all of them. You wipe your face off on one of Cazador’s elegant hangings. In a moment, there’s blood threatening to pour into your eye again - you reach up and realise you must have got a cut on your forehead, something you didn’t even taste in the flavour of battle.

‘Gale, how are we doing for healing potions?’

‘Not that many,’ he says grimly. ‘I had planned to go to Bonecloak’s tomorrow.’

‘Never mind.’ You do your best to staunch the bleeding with more of Cazador’s fine furnishings. ‘It’s just a bit of blood.’

You can see Rolan scowling. What are you supposed to do, waste precious healing on a scratch? His concern is making you more stubbornly determined to press on, no matter what.

You try one of the doors leading off from the room. ‘Where the hells do we go now?’

‘In here!’ Gale shouts, pulling you all onto a beautifully filigreed platform. As soon as you’re on it, it falls like a stone, down into the dungeon beneath. 

‘Who are you?’ a voice calls from within an iron gate. Prisoners?

Haunted faces crowd the gate. The man speaks again. ‘Who are you?’

‘We’ve come to kill Cazador. Where is he?’

‘Through that door. You need to hurry,’ the man says. ‘They dragged one of his spawn down here kicking and screaming only a little while ago.’ He sounds hopeless. Beyond caring if you kill Cazador or not. ‘They were saying he’s the last one, before Cazador ascends.’

‘Astarion,’ Gale mutters. 

‘You know Astarion?,’ the man sighs. ‘He was the one that brought me here.’

Gale looks ill. ‘I’m so sorry. We have to go. But we will help you.’

You squeeze Gale’s shoulder, and nod to the group.

‘Before we go in - our first priority is to save Astarion. Gale-’

‘I’m ready,’ he says quietly. ‘Leave it to me.’

You turn to Lae’zel and Rolan. ‘Lae’zel and I will go straight for Cazador. Rolan, stay behind us and try to keep his minions off us until he’s dead.’ You’ve already encountered some of his beasts. If there’s any more, you need to be prepared.

Lae’zel reaches into her pack. ‘I brought this.’ It’s the mace you found in the old monastery. Glowing with the might of the Sun. You could hug her. At least one of you is prepared for this fight. 

‘Do you want to take it, or shall I?’ you ask. 

‘I prefer my sword. You should take it.’ 

With a little more hope in your hands, you enter Cazador’s chambers. Seven people are arrayed around a central willowy figure, chanting an incantation that reverberates around the cavernous room. It must be Cazador. And - one of those seven - Astarion -

Cazador opens his mouth to speak, but you will not give him the privilege of listening. You charge down the stairs, mace aloft, your enemy’s silky words flowing past your ears unheard. With a rap of his staff, Cazador summons a wave of undead creatures, and you and Lae’zel crash face first into it, your weapons slicing and thudding as you go. The wave of creatures parts, howling and snarling, around the burst of light emanating from your weapon. Rolan shouts an imperious command to the Weave, and lightning crashes next to you, unleashing the hideous scent of burning wolf hair. Then Cazador gives the same command, and suddenly lightning is agonisingly coursing through you . The shock of it seems to turn you to stone, and then to liquid; raw, brutal pain, there and then gone. 

Seeing Gale misty step towards Astarion, you plunge again towards Cazador, intent on distracting him, your mace slamming into his blocking shoulder. Cazador’s perfectly composed countenance is ruined by a scream of pain. Suddenly, all his creatures’ attentions are on you, savaging at you with fangs and claws. A wolf’s teeth land in the gaps between your plates, but you are unstoppable, slamming your mace into its side until it lets go with a sharp whimper. The wound only staggers you after the teeth are out, agony splintering across your mind, making you buckle for a moment, but you gather your strength, ready to strike-

‘ROLAN, NO!’

He’s pushing past you in a blur of red silk, straight for Cazador. You act on instinct, grabbing him around the waist and practically throwing him safely behind you, but he pushes back.

‘Let me-!’

‘NO!’ you shout, shoving him back, as you turn back to shatter Cazador’s outstretched arm with your mace. 

The blow lands and Cazador’s arm falls uselessly to his side. You hammer into him again and he screams, screams again as Lae’zel hacks into him, again as Astarion jumps onto his back and slashes through his neck until he collapses into a bloodied heap. You thrust him down, your boot on his chest, and look around to survey the battlefield. Everything else is dead. Rolan catches your gaze with a simmering look of anger. Not now, for the gods’ sake, you think, looking away .  

‘Don’t kill him.’ Astarion’s voice is breathless. ‘I need him- the-the ritual-’

Bile is rising in your throat, your body’s protest against the pain you’re ignoring. You swallow the acid down, and keep Cazador pinned with all the force you can muster.

Gale comes running over. ‘Astarion! Wait!’

Cazador is barely alive, but he smirks beneath you anyway. ‘You can’t complete the ritual. Your soul is bound to it. It will consume you, boy.’ 

Astarion’s eyes flash with two hundred years of pain. ‘You’re lying!’

You are terrified of the choice Astarion wants to make. You can’t, you can’t let him do this. Gale is the eye of the storm, saying words you couldn’t express yourself. Telling Astarion that this power will not set him free. Will cost him everything he cares about. And then you stumble back, because Astarion is throwing himself towards you and Cazador. You fall to the floor, watch in a daze as he stabs his master over and over. Numbly, you press at your injuries.

Astarion’s frenzy finally gives way to convulsive sobs. You hold on for a moment, not wanting to interrupt, but eventually the pain is just too much.

‘Gale,’ you gasp, ‘could I get a healing potion?’

He nods and hands you one without taking his eyes from Astarion. The potion has the honeyed clarity of stream water when you’ve gone hours without a sip. Slowly, you stand, taking your place beside Gale and Lae’zel, the three of you clustered protectively around Astarion. When he breaks from crying, he turns to you and Lae’zel.

‘Go. Gale and I have things to do here. To discuss.’

You nod. ‘We’ll see you back at the Elfsong. Whenever you’re ready.’

As you pass Rolan, you beckon him over. He follows, but he lags behind.

‘Are you alright?’

He scowls, tail swishing in agitation. ‘I’m fine.’

Once you’re clear of Cazador’s palace, you nudge Lae’zel to go ahead, and fall back to walk in step with Rolan, down a street empty of all but sleeping drunks.

‘Is it about Astarion?’ 

Rolan’s dismissive voice comes out in force. ‘ No , it’s not about Astarion. As you said, I barely know the man.’ 

Using your own words against you. How chivalrous.

‘Then what is it?’ You feel like you’re banging your head off a wall. It’s been bad enough, trying to keep him alive, stopping him from pointlessly acting the hero. Suddenly, a thought occurs. ‘I’m sorry. I should have thanked you. You didn’t have to fight.’ 

‘That’s not- For the gods’ sakes. ’

‘What then?’ 

‘Let’s not talk about this now,’ he says firmly. Moonlight is shining a little too brightly in his eyes again. It reminds you, guttingly, of Last Light. Fear claws at you. 

‘Tomorrow then,’ you say, equally firmly. 

To your relief, he nods. ‘Tomorrow.’ He leans in to kiss you, briefly but with intent. Your shoulders drop a little, reassured, but it still doesn’t feel good to watch him stride off into the night.

Chapter Text

Waking the next morning, you are relieved to see Astarion and Gale back in their beds - well, the same bed. And Dame Aylin, Isobel, and Jaheira, eating breakfast beside the fire with Lae’zel. It’s homely - as if you had siblings, and maybe a great-aunt. When you tell Jaheira that, she cackles. 

‘Don’t expect any Midwinter presents.’

Dame Aylin seems to have recovered from her melancholy, but she’s not in high spirits. Instead, she seems contemplative. Isobel, though, is happy to have her love back. 

‘And I hear you finally cleared the air with your friend from Last Light. The wizard?’

You’d thought Isobel had kept herself to herself in Last Light, too busy to find out about your little scene, but apparently not. And who told her about yesterday? 

You glare at Lae’zel and she shrugs unapologetically. ‘I was keeping Isobel apprised of developments in our fight against the Absolute. Rolan might be a powerful ally. Despite being a wizard.’

Lae’zel might be in denial, but you see her for what she’s truly doing - gossiping, and enjoying it. Out from under Vlaakith’s heel, she’s discovering surprising new strings to her bow. 

As sweet as their interest is, though, you don’t want to talk about it. 

‘Is there something the matter?’ Isobel asks. 

‘Hmmm.’ You take some porridge and turn it over half-heartedly with your spoon. ‘I don’t know.’

Isobel frowns. ‘If you care about him, you shouldn’t waste your time. You never know when the rest of it might be snatched away.’

Dame Aylin has been sitting silently, but at these words she pulls Isobel tight and kisses the top of her head. ‘My darling.’

Isobel looks softly at her. Adoringly. You can’t imagine them arguing the way you and Rolan do. But maybe you should take Isobel’s advice anyway, and patch this up sooner rather than later. 

When you arrive at Sorcerous Sundries, on your own, you’re greeted only by a projection of Rolan and not the real thing. ‘The Master of Ramazith’s Tower is out at present,’ the projection says, in a briskly efficient voice. ‘Would you like to purchase any scrolls?’ 

You sigh, disappointed. But you linger, watching the projection. It doesn’t just look like Rolan, it moves like him, with self-assured poise and a sinuously winding tail. It sounds like him too. The Master of Ramazith’s Tower. Heat spreads across your chest. Frowning, you turn away and hurry out of the shop, embarrassed that even a replica of the real thing makes you so lustful.

You return later in the afternoon, just as the last customers are leaving, and head back towards the projection.

‘The Master of Ramazith’s Tower is-’

The projection disappears. Rolan himself stands beside you. He’s wearing Lorroakan’s robe again today, sumptuously formal next to your coarse linen shirt and trousers.

‘You wanted to talk.’ He doesn’t sound particularly happy about it. ‘Let’s go up to my room. Cal and Lia are in the tower at the moment.’ And then, to your utter disbelief, he misty-steps away from you up to the balcony, leaving you unable to reply. Instead, you have to take the stairs. 

Well, you can take the high road, even if he’s being petty. When you catch up with him, you say genuinely, ‘You learnt that today? That was fast.’

‘It’s not a complicated spell. If anything, it was an oversight that I failed to learn it before.’

‘Gods have mercy. Never mind.’

‘Sorry,’ he says abruptly, and has the grace to look abashed. He pulls the door open and lets you through first, locking it behind the two of you. There’s not much room in here. Your heart races. No matter how frustrating he is, when you’re this close to him, in his bedroom, you can’t help but want to- you think he wants to as well, because he’s staring down the opening of your shirt and not even trying to hide it-

‘Mmh-’ Rolan makes a noise in the back of his throat as you kiss him, his lips parting immediately to let your tongue slip past. Your hand goes straight to the top of his tail, fingers rubbing over the ridges, and then as your kissing gets more frantic you press harder, pulling his hips into yours. He wraps one leg around you, hands running up and down your body, breathing hard.

It takes a lot of determination to pull away from him.

‘We were going to talk.’ 

‘Hmmm.’ Rolan’s lips twist downwards.

You scowl too. You’re not even sure what to say, and somehow, inevitably, you start in the most confrontational manner possible.

‘You don’t like taking orders. Is that it? We all know you’re an amazing wizard, for the gods’ sakes.’

‘Do you?’ he snaps. ‘You don’t seem to think I can do anything for myself.’ 

‘What? No! That’s not it!’ Scrambling  for reassuring words, you find a grievance first. ‘You’re the one who thinks I need saving, as if I haven’t trained for years to handle myself in a fight! But no, you have to put yourself on the front line, in danger.’ 

‘How do you think I felt?’ The volume of Rolan’s voice rises to match your own. ‘You won’t let me help you, even when you’re hurt, and then you pick me up like some pathetic fool who doesn’t know what’s good for him and throw me aside. Humiliating.’

‘Oh.’ A first, defensive impulse gives way to guilt. Before you can gather your thoughts, though, he says with quiet urgency- 

‘Do it again.’ 

It takes a moment before you understand what he is saying, but when you do your body lights with desire. 

‘You want me to pick you up?’ 

He closes his eyes, breath suspended. ‘Yes.’

For a moment, you let your hands just wander over him, watching his lips part in anticipation. Then, in one jerk, you bend, seize him behind the thighs and throw him over your shoulder. 

‘Oh- Gods!’ Rolan groans against your back. You feel his cock pressing against your shoulder through his clothes, hard as ice, and wish he was naked. 

‘Humiliating enough?’ you ask with a honeyed voice.

‘Mmmmmf!’ Rolan moans incoherently, his tail flicking wildly. ‘Yes!’

You walk two strides with him dangling uselessly over you, and then throw him unceremoniously onto the bed. Once again, as you lean over him, you remember you are supposed to be talking - that when you have both fucked each other senseless, you still won't have solved your problems. 

Rolan stares up at you with hard-edged desire, and speaks in a voice strained with need. 

‘Sit on my face.’ 

You take him by the shoulders. ‘When we’re finished, we’re going to talk.’ 

‘Mm.’ He waves his hand in vague agreement. ‘Sit on my face!’ 

You stroke the soft skin where his throat meets his jaw. ‘Ask nicely.’

‘Please. Please sit on my face. I can’t - I can’t think of anything else until you-‘ 

‘No.’  

He gives you such a deliciously sulky look that you regret refusing. Those surly lips demand to be put to good use. But you don’t want this to be quick.

‘Tell me where you’re sensitive,’ you murmur, kissing his neck. ‘Where you like to be kissed.’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, with his usual irritation at any question that he doesn’t know the answer to. ‘Why should I- oh- nhhhh-’ You’re pressing your tongue into the hollow between his ear and his jaw. Rolan squirms. ‘There!’ 

‘Hold still,’ you tell him, and he nods, but he does not. He keeps squirming as you lick up over his ear, catching his earlobe in your teeth, your hot breath reflecting back to you from his skin. You reach between his horns to seize a handful of his hair, tugging at it. ‘I said hold still. ’

He groans. ‘More, please, more.’ Your tongue plays over the grooves of his ear, exploring closer in, and he writhes harder, harder still as you tease your tongue up to his earhole. ‘More!’ 

‘You want my tongue in your ear?,’ you tease. ‘I thought you didn’t know what you liked.’

‘How was I supposed to know- this?! It’s not like everyone in the Realms goes around pinning people down and licking their wretched ears!’ Rolan complains, able to speak now your tongue is back in your own mouth.

‘Oh, so you don’t like it,’ you say, mercilessly winding him up, ‘I’ll stop-’

‘No! You teasing harpy, my Gods, you- Nnnngh!’ Before Rolan can curse you out any further, you thrust your tongue as far into his ear as it will go, grabbing the side of his face to better hold him steady. A shiver wriggles down the whole of his body. ‘Fuck! Nnnngh!’ 

Mirrored shivers run across your own skin. You pull your tongue out, satisfied with the effect it had on him. Rolan breaks free of your grip and grabs you closer for a kiss, a little too hard because you knock teeth - not that it stops either of you. Nor does the slightly odd taste of his ear on your tongue. You sink down into him, chest pressing against his, matching the pace of his frenzied lips, feeling yourself soaking through the fabric between your legs. You slip your fingers down to touch yourself. Rolan’s hand runs down your arm, and when he realises where your hand is going, he grasps your wrist. 

‘Let me,’ he begs.

‘Not yet.’

He growls in frustration and pushes you off. ‘What do you want? ’

‘You,’ you say, a little more softly than you mean to. Rolan tries to catch your eye, but you push past your half-confession with a hurried, ‘I want you to take that robe off.’

Briefly, he looks like he’s about to say something, but then he just does as you ask, working the buttons on his robe as fast as possible. You prop yourself up, one arm each side of his chest, watching. For a moment, your heart burns with longing, far beyond your base hunger to fuck him.

Finished with the buttons, he pushes against your arm. ‘How can I undress when you have me trapped like this?’

‘Try harder.’ 

He pushes again, with much more effort, and doesn’t succeed. Giving up, he runs his hands along your arm muscles, squeezing softly, and says in an unsteady voice - ‘Hmm.’ 

You’ve wondered before if he was blushing, but this time it’s unmistakable. His face is burning with colour. You brush your fingers against his hot cheeks, and they turn an even more livid red. It’s Rolan’s turn to avoid eye contact. He awkwardly wriggles out of the robe and casts it aside.

‘Now what?,’ he mutters.

Your fingers go straight to the amulet around his neck, hanging in the opening of his shirt. He’s wearing it. However annoyed or upset he was- is? - he’s still wearing your amulet. The longing returns, but you shove it down. 

‘Get up, and take the rest of your clothes off.’ 

His fingers go to take off the amulet first.

‘Not that!’ 

There’s a certain knowing look in his eye as you hastily reach to stop him. There’s a knowing tone in his voice too. 

‘I see.’ 

You feel yourself blush. Gods damn it, why can’t you just tell each other you love each other and be done? Or… something like that. In a panic, you think of something teasing to say.

‘Are you going to take your clothes off, or should I just keep my own company tonight?’

Your fingers dance threateningly at the top of your trousers, close to slipping inside. Rolan kicks off his boots in a hurry. You stand up and tug his arm to pull him with you, shoving him against the wall, dragging your hand up, over his thighs, his cock… He tries to stifle his moan.

‘Go on, take your clothes off,’ you purr, still rubbing your hand against him.

‘Gods- damn- you-’ he breathes, in between groans. You let off a little bit, and he manages to strip off his shirt and trousers, leaving nothing but the amulet on his naked body. It sits just below the hollow of his collar bones, framed by ridges of cartilage that run in V shapes from his chest to his shoulder, ridges that look hard but give a little under your fingers. The ridges repeat down his hips, at a deeper angle, breaking into islands just above his cock. You slide your fingers behind his cock to touch them, remembering the last time you came, and then slowly wrap your hands around his twitching, pulsing shaft. Rolan’s lips twitch too, and his eyelids crush closed. 

Your wrist twists a little as you work his cock with a slow, hard grip, wringing out a low moan and a steady trickle of fluid that runs down onto your hand. 

‘Look at me,’ you murmur sweetly.

With apparent effort, Rolan’s eyes blink open. He leans in to kiss you, but you pull away, smirking, and lick your fingers instead.

‘No,’ he says emphatically. ‘It’s not fair- you’re not fair- why won’t you let me taste you? Just a little.’ It’s not easy for someone with a voice as low and rich as Rolan’s to whine, but he is very close.

You rest your forehead against his. ‘If you so much as put your tongue down there, I am going to come so hard I can’t move for the rest of the night. Do you want that now, or do you want to wait a little longer?’

‘Gods, you’re going to ruin me,’ he gasps, and then snaps. ‘Fine, keep torturing me. I know you like it.’

This ungrateful man.

‘Don’t make me put my tongue in your ear again.’

Whimpers spill immediately from his lips. ‘Please! ’

As you plunge your tongue back into him, curling and twisting to draw as much noise as you can, you feel his claws rake down your back. He’s still gasping for breath, writhing against you, when you move from his ear to trail kisses down his neck.

‘Where else?’ you ask, lips against his skin, not really expecting any answer. Rolan makes none. You stroke your hands down his waist, over his hips, grinding into him, his cock trapped between your bodies. Your own cunt is achingly hot, rippling and convulsing at the feeling of him. Just a little more teasing, and then his tongue.

Licking slowly down over his chest to his nipple, your hands running up over the backs of his thighs, you listen for his reactions, waiting to hear the same noise you heard in the hollow of his ear. He keeps gasping and clawing, but not quite as hard as you’d like, until-

‘Nnngh!’ Your fingers press into the soft skin on the underside of his tail, right where it meets the top of his ass. He shudders. ‘There!’’

You need a better vantage point.

‘Face the wall.’

 He nods hastily, turning around, and you drop to your knees to get your tongue in, his tail quivering over your shoulder. You push him back against the wall, and then play very softly and slowly on his tail skin with just the tip of your tongue. Rolan breathes heavily above you, small noises punctuating your strokes. As you press harder, he stiffens and whines. 

‘Gods- nfff - I want- ‘

You slow again. ‘What? Tell me what you want.’

‘Never mind,’ Rolan says quickly. ‘Don’t stop, for the Gods’ sakes!’

‘Hmmm,’ you muse, between licks. ‘What more could the Master of Ramazith’s Tower possibly-’

‘Fuck!’ Rolan whimpers. ‘Just- I want your fingers inside me!’

‘Fuck,' you echo back, surprised and even more turned on. 'Should I lick them?'

‘No- let me.’ Twisting away from the wall, he takes your hand. He starts to cast a spell, so you helpfully lick underneath his tail, making him break off and groan. ‘I can’t concentrate if you’re - give me a moment. ’ You stop, and listen to the musical sounds of his incantation. In an instant, your first two fingers are covered in some kind of oil.

‘There,’ he mutters, and then gasps, as your tongue wanders down just a little from his tail. He bends at the hip, offering himself towards you, almost voiceless in desperation as you tease your fingers between his cheeks. ‘Please, I’ll do anything you ask, anything.’

Lightning strikes through you. You can’t believe you’re here, listening to him beg like this. You’ve never wanted someone more than this. You do love him, and you’re going to fuck him into oblivion, until you both scream. 

Your finger presses gently against the entrance to his asshole. 

‘Breathe.’

Chapter Text

‘Oh!’ 

Rolan shakes and whimpers as you enter him. ‘Ah! Both- both fingers, please!’

‘You are greedy,’ you tease, ignoring his request. ‘Let me see how much I can get out of you with one first.’

His asshole is hot and tight around your finger. You press harder against the inside, sliding slowly deeper, hearing the volume of his cries grow louder. Once more, you lick the soft underside of his quivering tail. It wraps immediately, tightly, around your shoulders. 

‘Fuck! There!’ Rolan almost sobs out the words, arching his back as he cries out. Pressing harder, you work up and down a little with your slick finger.

‘Here?’

Absolutely nothing coherent comes out of his mouth, but he squeezes even harder with his tail. You must have found the right spot. 

‘Does it feel good?’ Inspiration strikes. You’re learning very quickly how to torment him, and enjoying it. ‘Tell me that it feels good, and I’ll let you take another one.’

‘Ngggh- it- ahhhhh! Fuck!’

‘That’s not very articulate of you. I expected more from the future Archmage of Baldur’s Gate.’ 

‘Fuck! You witch!’ Nothing sharpens Rolan’s mind like the reminder of his station. ‘Nghh- you know- nnnnh - exactly what I want so just give it to me!’

You don’t give up that easily. Not when he’s literally wrapped around your finger. 'Tell me it feels good.’

‘Fine!’ Rolan is literally forcing out the words, almost shouting. ‘It. Feels. Good! Now, please!’ 

You push the second finger inside. Immediately, his ass clenches around you, his whole body tautening, his fingers scrabbling against the wall - and then he screams .

‘Oh Gods, Rolan! ’ He slumps against the wall. ‘Did you just-’

He nods, dazed. You gently pull your fingers out of him and stand up, bringing his shaking body close, both trying to cuddle him and rub your desperate clit against his thigh.

‘I wanted to come inside you,’ he whispers, a little self-rebuking. 

‘Never mind,’ you gasp. ‘You came on the fucking wall, my gods. Mmmmmf. ’ It’s your turn to be totally incoherent, attacking his neck with bites and kisses in between your whimpers.

‘Why are you still wearing clothes?’ he groans. ‘Let me taste you, please.’

You start pulling off your shirt, awkwardly, trying not to stain it with oil. 

‘Wait.’ Rolan takes your hand and mutters the same incantation you heard before, though it seems to take twice as much effort. This time, it has the opposite effect; your fingers are clean again.

Your shirt is on the floor in an instant, and Rolan’s eyes are fixed on your breasts. 

‘You are beautiful.’

‘Which part of me is beautiful?’ you tease.

‘ All of you,’ Rolan says, sounding affronted, bringing his gaze up to burn into your own. The intensity of his voice, his stare, scorches beneath your skin. ‘Do you really think I-’

You interrupt him with an impatient kiss. After a moment, he sinks from your lips to your nipples. They harden instantly beneath his forceful tongue. 

‘Oh!’ Scintillating strands of pleasure bloom out across your chest, seeking his touch. He cups your breast in one hand, as he works on the other with his mouth. Twitches convulse down your body. 

‘Mmm,’ Rolan murmurs. He teases his teeth gently against you, and you lose it.

‘Fuck! Enough! Get- get on the bed!’

He nods and follows your orders, watching you pull off your trousers from beneath tired, half-closed eyelids as he lies in wait.

‘Do you still want me to sit on your face?’ you ask softly. 

His voice is hoarse but certain. ‘Yes.’

You swing your leg over him, sitting astride his ribs. Rolan’s eyes widen. They widen even more when you tug on the amulet chain around his neck, and seize him by the hair to pull him into a kiss.

‘You had better be really good at this, if you’re so desperate for it.’

‘I am good at it,’ he brags, a smug smile on his lips.

You shift up over his shoulders.

‘Then show me.’ 

Rolan wraps his hands over the tops of your thighs, and burrows his nose and tongue into you. His tongue presses hard against the entrance of your cunt, circling it, his nose rubbing into your folds. Slowly, he traces a firm, unyielding path along the innermost skin of your lips, up to your clit.

‘Oh!’  

You gasp, biting your lip. Rolan catches your eye from between your thighs, and keeps your gaze as his touch softens and he begins to lap at you with wide, tender strokes. Your clit pulses against his tongue. 

‘Mmmmf, more!’ 

His eyes close, and he laps faster, his head moving a little with every stroke. You feel a hum of enjoyment ripple through his tongue and onto your sensitive skin, tickling and pleasuring in equal measure. Rolan tugs you down harder.

‘Stop hovering and sit on me! ’ he gasps, his words muffled.

Letting go of the tension in your thighs, you sink down onto his eager mouth. Rolan moans and thrusts his tongue hard against your clit, dragging slowly back and forth, making you whimper, licking faster and more forcefully with every noise you make. 

‘Fuck!’ Your hips start rocking back and forth. ‘Fuck! ’

Nails dig into your thigh. His tongue is hot and stiff, unrelenting even as you begin to take over and fuck yourself on it, riding him, so unbearably close to-

‘Nnnf!’ He pushes you off and snatches a deep, ragged breath.

‘Are you-’

Before you can ask if he’s alright, he yanks you straight back down onto his waiting tongue, waving away your concern without so much as opening his eyes. He strokes all the way back down to your cunt, drinking you in, tongue flickering teasingly on the way back up, until he finds your clit again and doesn’t let go, sucking at you, grabbing at you, grinding his tongue over you over and over again with ferocious determination, even harder as you start to scream with a wave of overstimulated, painful pleasure, and reach out to grab his horns.

‘Oh gods! Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t- Aghhhh! ’ 

You cling to his horns like they’re a lifeboat in a storm, half-crying as you come. ‘ Rolan! ’ 

He keeps you tight against him until your throbbing skin starts to calm, and then shoves you off indecorously to gasp for breath. You sit back onto his chest, exhausted, staring at his wet lips with slightly blank adoration. Neither of you speak. Instead, you snuggle down onto the bed next to him, and close your eyes.

You emerge from a sticky, sweaty haze some time later. Rolan’s head is on your shoulder, his leg and tail draped over you.

Never a better time to apologise. 

‘You were right. I wasn’t fair to you yesterday. I’m sorry.’

‘Hmm.’ His voice tickles your skin. 

It’s not exactly encouraging, but you forge onwards. ‘I like fighting with you at my side. I hope it’s not the last time.’ 

‘Of course not.’ Rolan says it like it’s completely obvious, as if he’s offended by the suggestion that it might be otherwise. 

‘What’s ‘of course’ about it? You already broke it off with me once before.’ 

‘In Last Light? If you had stayed one minute longer, I would have gone to bed with you.‘

‘I can’t detect your thoughts! Not without a potion anyway.’

Rolan sighs, playing with the amulet around his throat. ‘Indeed. You are right - I’m sorry. I’ve wasted so much wretched time.’

‘What changed your mind? I’ve still got a tadpole in my head. I might still turn into a Mindflayer and eat you tomorrow.’ Your tone is a little teasing; a little challenging. Last Light still chafes your heart raw. 

The teasing hits the mark. 

‘For the Gods’ sakes,’ he says, sounding hurt rather than angry, ‘I never feared that. You know what I was afraid of.’

‘No, I don’t,’ you counter, exasperated but gentle. ‘How could I possibly know that?’ 

Before he replies, he unwraps himself, to lie beside you rather than half over you, staring up at the ceiling. The bed is narrow enough that you’re still pressed up against each other. You let him stay there, silent, for a moment, about to give in and just tell him how you feel, though it feels like a monumental task. How do you admit feeling so much after so little time? 

You are saved: he speaks, at last. ‘I thought you were going to die. We had only just met, and I was already grieving for you. I couldn’t- it hurt too much-’ He swallows the words and covers his eyes, rubbing at them harshly.

You sit up. ‘Rolan.’

‘I will never take this off again,’ he says fiercely, clasping the amulet tight. ‘I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. When you left this, I - I felt awful. I wanted to run after you to Moonrise. Since that went so well the first time.’ 

The wry note in his voice is too much. It breaks you. 

‘I love you,’ you whisper, trying not to let more than one or two tears break away down your face. ‘Even though you keep telling me I’m going to die. I love you.’

Rolan sits up suddenly too, drawing you tight. You kiss for a long time, so long your back gets cold - until you say that and he pulls the blanket up around you. 

At last, he stops kissing you long enough to speak.

‘I love you too.’

Warmth floods you. You study his face, admiring his nose, his horns, the creases in his skin and the radiance in his eyes, trying to find the words to tell him how beautiful he is. Before you can, you are stopped by his own musings, of a very different nature.

‘It seems our fates are bound together,’ Rolan says quietly. ‘Either you destroy the Absolute, or Baldur’s Gate falls.’

‘I hope it’s the former.’ You realise once again just how little you’ve told him. When he’s been in your every waking thought for weeks, you forget that he wasn’t there to witness everything with you. ‘The Absolute is an Elder Brain, in thrall to the Dead Three. Connected to our tadpoles, and those of countless cultists. If Baldur’s Gate was taken over by it - it would not stop there.’

Rolan frowns, taking in the news. ‘In that case, perhaps destroying the Absolute will kill the tadpole. Hells. I can only hope it won’t take you with it.’ Suddenly, he slides from melancholy to irritated. ‘Of course, that only matters if you don’t bloody kill yourself first!’

You laugh at the abrupt change of mood. ‘I don’t know if I can die before fighting the Absolute. There’s a skeleton - it’s a long story. Gale thinks he is an avatar of Jergal. But I don’t really know how it works.’ A brief flash appears in your mind, of Wyll’s terrified eyes after he killed the supposed devil Karlach. How he begged Withers to resurrect her, and he refused. After Wyll ran away, did Withers still stand guard over him?

As if divining your thoughts, Rolan breaks in. ‘I have precious little faith in any god. I wouldn’t trust a single one of them with you.’ He wraps his hands around your shoulders, his eyes fixed on yours. ‘There were only two people in the Realms I would give my life for. Now there are three. You have to understand that I can’t stand back and do nothing when I see you getting hurt.’

‘And you think I’m any different? If something happened to you, and I could have stopped it, it would destroy me. I know I take risks, but - that’s a leader’s job.’ 

‘How are you supposed to lead if you’re dead?’

‘I can’t ask others to - ’ You stop dead in the middle of your sentence. ‘Let’s just… practise not getting in each other’s way.’

‘Hmmm.’ Rolan gives you a begrudging half-smile. ‘I suppose that sounds like a good idea.’ He runs his fingers through your hair, down behind your ear. ‘I can’t be with you for every fight. I wish I could. There is so much I must learn in this Tower, before we face the Absolute. But I will assist you in any way I can.’

‘I’m surprised you’ll have any time for me at all. Sorcerous Sundries won’t run itself.’ 

You’re just teasing, but fire runs through Rolan’s reply. ‘These might be the last days of our lives. I will not waste a moment on petty concerns that I could be spending with you.’ The intensity simmers out, and he manages a slight joke. ‘Besides, Cal and Lia have to earn their keep somehow.’

The thunder in his first words has you pinned in place; the joke after them barely registers. Rolan is yours, and you are his, until the end of the world, and - if you’re lucky - after it.

‘I love you,’ you murmur, taking delight in the weight and shine of the words. He smiles, showing his sharp teeth, and looks away from you a little shyly. You can’t remember him ever looking quite like this before. 

‘I love you too,’ he replies, and then hesitates. ‘Can you stay? Tonight?’

‘Yes, I can stay. I have to tell the others first, though.’ 

‘This minute? ’ Rolan asks reluctantly, trailing his hand up to your breast.

You shake your head with a smile, and slide your fingers in between his thighs, eliciting a satisfying noise from him. You have plenty of time to spare.

Chapter Text

The next two days are a struggle.

There are murders to be investigated, the Steel Watch Foundry to destroy; the trails to both Orin and Gortash lie before you, marked by blood and infernal steel. Lae’zel wants you to see Voss and discover how to save Orpheus; you and Gale find yourself tugged by the vast number of poor and desperate people in Baldur’s Gate down a thousand avenues at once. But you care mostly about when you’ll be able to see Rolan again. It’s hard work to think about anything else, especially as Baldur’s Gate seems to lie in some strange calm before the storm. 

You leave him to his studies on that first day after, once you’ve agreed on dinner in the Elfsong. You don’t make it that long. As you pass the Tower on your way back from a chance encounter with some Sahaguin, you feel yourself irresistibly called to go in.

Cal nods at you, but Rolan doesn’t notice your arrival for a moment.

‘Gods, what is that smell?’ Rolan coughs, his face scrunched in disgust, though he doesn’t look up from his book. ‘Cal, what are you eating?’

He must be engrossed, if he didn’t hear the clank of your armour coming through the portal. 

‘It’s not me, it’s her!’ Cal exclaims, offended, brandishing his normal-looking lunch in your direction. Rolan looks up sharply and literally drops his book.

‘Oh!’ 

You feel a little regretful at the state you’ve chosen to come and see him in. Slime in your hair, oil that smells of rotten fish all over your armour. But he rushes over to you anyway. 

‘Is something the matter?’ 

‘No, I just wanted to see you.’ 

You’re getting better at noticing when he’s blushing. There’s a distinctive red tinge to his usually coral-coloured cheeks as he checks that Cal isn’t looking in your direction, then slides his hands beneath your wet hair and kisses you softly. You put your hands - thankfully, not fishy - around his waist, and lean into the kiss as carefully as you can, trying not to brush your dirty armour against him. 

After a moment, he pulls away, and pulls a face. ‘What in the Hells have you been doing? You smell vile. Sorry.’

You laugh. ‘I know. I’ll see you at dinner.’

You wait a little nervously, freshly bathed and wishing you had something nicer to wear than your usual rough shirt and trousers. All you could do was raid your pack for some of the rings you’ve found, and brush your hair a little more nicely. When Rolan sweeps in the door of the Elfsong, looking every inch the powerful mage, you feel a little outclassed. Especially so as a few murmurs ripple out, that the man who just came in is the new master of Ramazith’s tower. How quickly fortunes change. 

For once, you tell him at least half of how you feel on the spot.

‘You are so handsome,’ you whisper.

‘Thank you,’ he says, earnestly. ‘You are astonishingly beautiful.’

‘In this?’ you ask. ‘I feel a bit under-dressed.’

He brushes his hand appreciatively over your thighs, where your trousers cling close over your muscles. ‘I like it.’

You can see the lust in his eyes; it makes you lick your lips, involuntarily. Before you know it, you’re all over him, kissing and grabbing, tugging at his hair and clothes. Rolan clasps you tight, his mouth opening to yours, yielding to yours, making your heart pound - 

‘Oh, come on.’ A woman’s voice rings, amused, behind you. ‘Didn’t get enough of each other in Last Light?’

You break apart with a guilty smile, and realise it’s Lakrissa, back on her shift. ‘Not really.’

Rolan says nothing, but he takes your hand, lacing your fingers together.

‘Well, rule number one in here. No heavy petting. Sorry, Alan makes the rules, not me.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Try Sharess Caress if you really can’t wait.’

After swearing to her that you’ll behave, she leads you to a table, though not before extracting the promise of a large tip.

‘I’m keeping my eye on you,’ she threatens, as she saunters off. 

Mostly, you keep your word, although both your legs and his tail get very tangled up beneath the table. Together, you drink your wine and eat your food and talk about your day; his exploration of the Tower Vaults, your fight with the Sahaguin and a surprise afternoon meeting with Mayrina - which in turn means telling him your history with Auntie Ethel. 

‘I knew there was something strange about her,’ he mutters. ‘I even asked her why there was so much peculiar magic around. She had the nerve to tell me I had no idea about magic.’ Clearly, a grudge still lingers. ‘I swear, I heard her say I should stick my horns up my arse, when my back was turned.’

The wine is taking effect, because you burst into a fit of laughter. ‘You’re lucky. She told me she'd rip off my tits and eat them for breakfast. To my face.’

Rolan winces. ‘Ugh. An ugly turn of phrase.’ He tries to suppress a smile, but doesn’t quite succeed, and then gives up entirely. ‘I’m glad she didn’t. I prefer them where they are.’ 

‘Rolan,’ you say in mock outrage, and slide around the table to sit on his bench. You slip your hand beneath his robe and up over his trousers, squeezing a little. Rolan makes a funny noise and hastily covers his mouth.

‘You’re going to get us thrown out,’ he groans, suppressing another smile. 

‘Then let’s go, before they can.’

You start to pull out your coin purse, but Rolan pushes your hand away and takes out his own. ‘No. Let me.’ 

‘Absolutely not.’ You catch him with one hand and try to simultaneously empty coins out of your own purse with the other, dodging his grasp. Rolan leans further forward, trying to beat you to it, so you climb half on top of him, hitting the table, grabbing both of his hands to wrestle him down.

Suddenly, he goes limp. ‘Oh Gods. Kiss me.’

You barely have your tongue inside his mouth when-

‘Thanks for all the coin,’ Lakrissa says behind you, counting the combined spoils you left on the table. ‘Now, get a room.’

She doesn’t have to tell you again. You drag Rolan away from the table, towards the stairs. 

‘Aren’t the others in your room?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’ Your voice drops to a whisper. ‘But I thought we could try the roof.’

The following day’s breakfast with your party is like bringing him home to meet your family - something you’ve never really had the chance to do, barring a few awkward dates as a youth under your grandparents’ watchful eyes. 

Rolan wastes no time, though he seems a little nervous. ‘I should thank you all. You’ve all risked your lives to assist me, and my siblings, so many times by now. I am in your debt.’

‘You owe no debt to me,’ Astarion says, a little tetchily. ‘Unfortunately, it seems like I should be the one thanking you, for helping save me from the ritual. Not that I think for one second you did it for me.’

‘No. Not really,’ Rolan admits. ‘But I am still glad you survived.’

‘Survived, and did the right thing,’ Gale says softly. To your surprise, it doesn’t annoy Astarion. In fact, Astarion kisses him on the cheek, before he sighs.

‘I’m not sure releasing seven thousand vampire spawn into the Underdark qualifies as ‘the right thing’, but I suppose we will find out.’

Rolan can’t help himself. ‘You did what? ’

‘Sorry,’ Astarion snarks, ‘would you rather I killed them? Most of those spawn have been trapped in that dungeon for over a hundred years. They never asked to be turned.’

‘No, I just-’ Rolan frowns. ‘It’s difficult to imagine. Seven thousand vampire spawn. But in truth, I don’t think I could kill them either.’

‘As if I asked.’ Astarion rolls his eyes. ‘Urgh,’ he complains to you, ‘what do you see in him?’

You forestall the argument forming on Rolan’s lips by kissing him. He’ll get used to Astarion in time.

‘Enough chit chat,’ Lae’zel interrupts, though not as harshly as she used to. ‘When are we going to see Voss?’

You reach out for your pack and weapon. 

‘First, we kill the hag, and then we find Voss.’

The battle with Ethel is not exactly a walk in the park, but it is fun. It’s fun to see Rolan in his element, and to work together as a pair, as he casts a holding spell and you empty the Hag’s Bane down Ethel’s throat, once Gale, Astarion and Lae’zel have finished destroying her life-giving mushrooms. She coughs up Vanra and perishes with one last burst of crude curses, leaving you to pick up the pieces with her surviving masked servants and lead Vanra back to a very happy Lora. 

The sun is shining, and you wrap your arm around Rolan’s back as you congratulate everyone on a job well done. You notice a few funny glances and chalk them up to your armour, and the blood spatters in your hair. 

‘Rolan, would you mind?’ you ask, gesturing to the mess. 

‘Of course.’ He concentrates for a moment, murmuring a spell you’re getting quite used to by now. You watch his elegant fingers pull on the weave, and suddenly your hair feels as fresh and soft as if it had been newly washed and brushed.

You’re about to thank him, when one of those staring passersby laughs. ‘Seems the Baldur’s Mouth was right. You’ve got him whipped.’

‘The Baldur’s Mouth? What? ’ 

The man just snorts and walks off. You blush and look at Rolan, disconcerted. Surely the Baldur’s Mouth has better things to write about, in the midst of an invasion, than whatever rubbish they’ve printed about you and Rolan? It always was a rag, but this has to be a joke. 

‘I think we should find a copy of the Baldur’s Mouth,’ you say to Rolan, on your guard. ‘Thank you, by the way.’ 

‘It was nothing.’ 

You nudge him. ‘You know, it doesn’t have to be incredible magic for me to appreciate it. I just appreciate that you did it for me.’ 

Rolan smiles a little and brushes your hand.

‘How twee,’ Astarion scoffs. ‘Anyway, shall we go and get the gossip? I’m sure whatever the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette has to say about you is both thrilling and entirely accurate.’

The first seller you find gives it to you for free.

‘Since you’ve already sold so many copies for me today.’

Rolan gives him a steely glare and snatches it out of his hands. Unfurling the paper, you all crowd around, and find your eyes immediately drawn to the picture at the bottom of the cover. It’s not the first headline of the day - that honour goes to some tedious speech of Gortash’s - but -

‘Magic Touch,’ Astarion reads aloud, and cackles. ‘Any Baldurians hoping the new Master of Ramazith’s Tower has civic defense on his mind would be sorely mistaken. In our time of need, this apparently illustrious wizard has been spotted in the Elfsong getting handsy with a deserter from the Baldurian Army. Some civic spirit that is!’

Recollecting yourself from your initial shock, you steal a glance at Rolan. His face is burning. 

‘Enough,’ you tell Astarion.

‘Oh, fair enough,’ he says, a little mournfully, dragging his eyes away from the rest of the story. ‘I think you should keep that drawing though, once you’re over the shock. It’s really quite sexy.’

It is quite sexy, and deploys rather a lot of artistic license. You don’t remember ripping Rolan’s robe open last night, nor pinning him down on a table. They’ve captured your likenesses quite well, though. Someone must have been sketching furiously at another table. No wonder you’re being recognised. It probably doesn’t help that Rolan posted his own notice about being the new owner of Ramazith’s tower, on the day he went to get his siblings.

‘Oh Hells.’ Rolan puts his face in his hands. ‘And - Cal and Lia have probably seen it!’  You can see he’s grimacing through the gaps between his fingers.

‘Sorry,’ you say sheepishly. You didn’t really stop to consider his reputation last night - not that he did either. Then a new thought occurs. ‘Wait, a deserter from the Baldurian Army? I was captured! That’s not deserting! Who told them -?’

Lae’zel butts in. ‘If you’re quite finished reading about your own conquests. Voss is waiting for us.’

‘You’re right. We have to go.’ You awkwardly hand off the paper to Rolan. ‘Do you want this?’ 

‘Not really,’ he says, with forced cheerfulness, taking it anyway. ‘I suppose I’ll see you later.’

‘Of course. I’ll come by when I can.’

He nods, gives you the briefest peck, and turns away for home.

Gale is a tad offended as you walk the streets, headed for Sharess Caress. ‘Nobody ever wrote tawdry articles about me, and I was the Archmage of Waterdeep for a decade!’

‘I doubt Mystra was fond of public displays of affection anywhere, especially not in cheap taverns,’ Astarion counters.

‘True,’ Gale muses. ‘Well, perhaps we can turn over a new leaf when we get back to Waterdeep. Stir up some trouble.’

‘Oh, you are learning from me, darling.’

Lae’zel is steely and silent, and she remains so all day. Especially after your encounter with Voss, and Raphael. The prospect of a devil’s bargain, or a devil’s wrath, is sobering to you all. The Emperor, already not your friend, is inflamed. More problems that demand to be dealt with. And of course, Orin and Gortash still lie in wait. You feel a little worried, especially about Orin - if Gortash’s description of her is accurate, she’s incredibly unstable, a loose cannon dangerous to her allies and enemies alike. It’s strange that she hasn’t tried to get your attention yet, like Gortash said she would. Perhaps he is playing some kind of game - or he doesn’t know her as well as he thinks he does.

But those are problems best left for tomorrow, when you’re fresh and rested. For now, you head to Sorcerous Sundries, and are surprised to see it rather full of people. It seems the Baldur’s Mouth article has made them nosy.

Lia flags you down from behind the counter. 

‘Good to see you. You can take half the blame for all these people in our shop, not bloody buying anything. It’s chaos!’ She’s mostly joking. ‘I don’t know if Rolan is going to survive the embarrassment. He’s upstairs in his room.’

You hurdle the rope blocking the stairs off, as Lia signals the guarding Elemental to let you through. 

‘Rolan?’ Knocking on the door, you immediately hear Rolan’s panicked voice calling your name in reply. You hear the rustle of paper, and feet hitting the ground, but the door doesn’t open. You knock again.

‘Ah- just- wait!’

The door swings open just enough for him to pull you inside. He looks… dishevelled. His bun has fallen out, his robe is half off, and your amulet sits over the top. The offending issue of the Baldur’s Mouth gazette is next to the bed, discarded on the floor.

Realisation dawns. ‘Were you…?’ 

Rolan says nothing, but he looks very flustered. You grin. 

‘You were. And I thought I’d be promising never to kiss you in public again.’

‘It’s a good picture,’ he says defensively. ‘I was embarrassed, at first. But after thinking about it, I don’t care. In fact - ’ He hesitates, then confesses. ‘I like it. Knowing that other people know about us. Are judging us - or, me.’

‘Oh .’ You wrap your arms around him and then, as he starts kissing you, you slip one hand between you, down his half-buttoned trousers. Rolan’s grip tightens hard on your arm. 

An idea occurs. There are a lot of people out there, in the shop just below...

‘Can you cast Darkness?’

‘Yes, obviously.’ Rolan manages to be scathing, even as you have your hand wrapped around his cock. You pull your hand away, and bring it up to grasp his chin. 

‘Can you concentrate on it with my tongue in your ear?’

‘What - oh -’ he gasps, and looks at the door. ‘Are you going to -’

‘Only if you want to.’

He nods. You step apart from him just a little, pull the door open, and gesture for him to go ahead.

‘Tenebrum! ’ 

The darkness beckons, just out on the balcony beyond the door. You grab Rolan by the waist and plunge into it. He gasps loudly, and keeps gasping, until you slide one hand up to find his mouth and cover it.

‘Nod if you’re ready,’ you whisper. You keep your eyes open to the pitch black, ready to pull him back if the darkness fades. Beneath your hand, you feel him nod vigorously. 

You lean in slowly, unsure of exactly where he is, kissing his hair first. But a little to the right and-

‘Mmmf!,’ Rolan whimpers, clasping his own hand over yours, trying to silence himself. You tease a little with your tongue and then press into him properly. ‘MMMMF! ’

He writhes in your grip. Suddenly, the darkness gets less opaque.

‘Fuck!’ 

You yank him back into the room and shut the door just in time, before you give all of Sorcerous Sundries a show.

When he recovers his breath, Rolan groans. ’Please tell me you’re going to fuck me.’

You smile. ‘I wouldn’t leave without.’

You don’t leave until the next morning, as it happens. You thought you’d rise a couple of hours after the sun, and leave Rolan to his books and studies with a long cuddle and the promise of dinner - perhaps at a different tavern, this time. 

Instead, you are both woken by a scream, at the barest break of dawn.

‘Rolan!’ Cal howls, outside your door. ‘It’s Lia!’

Chapter Text

Both of you scramble out of bed, shoving your shirts on. You grab your sword and a healing potion from your bag - the only one you’ve got with you. 

‘Cal!’ Rolan shouts, racing for the door with you hot on his heels. ‘What - ‘  He’s taken a little aback to find Cal standing within inches of the other side of the door.

Cal is practically bawling. ‘It’s Lia, it’s Lia, she’s dying, they stabbed her.’

‘Hells! Let me through!’ Rolan says. Cal keeps blocking the doorway. ‘CAL! MOVE!’ 

Cal stays put for a moment, looking like a rabbit in a snare. 

And then his face splits with an ugly smile. ‘Oh, I love families. How sweet they look, as I kill them one by one. How much harder they scream for each other than themselves.’

‘What?’ Rolan’s voice is hoarse. 

Cal cracks his head to the side, and the dust of an illusion falls away. 

‘Orin,’ you gasp.

‘Mmmmmm,’ she wheedles. ‘It’s so good to see you, my carrion-fly. I thought you’d fly straight from Ketheric’s corpse to Gortash’s, sucking up their netherstones. But it seems you got a little distracted.’

You draw your sword. 

‘Oh no, hero,’ she says, teasing her dagger at her lips. ‘Not if you want Cal to live.’ The dagger dances to Rolan’s throat, and Orin laughs hideously, seeing your face tense in barely-concealed fear.

‘Where are Cal and Lia?’ Rolan demands, despite the blade at his neck.

‘Cal is with me, wondering when I’ll slice him into a thousand pieces… I told him a beautiful little bedtime story about it. But you can have him back in one piece, if you bring me Gortash’s netherstone. As for Lia…’ She licks her other dagger, and your stomach lurches. Fresh blood.

A horrible, injured noise comes out of Rolan’s mouth. ‘No. NO.’

‘So long, little carrion-fly. I’ll see you soon.’ Orin disappears.

Rolan chokes, and then runs for the portal. You follow.

‘Lia? LIA?!’

Her body lies in a gathering pool of blood, given a purple cast by the magical light of the tower. You throw yourself to your knees and empty the potion down her throat. It’s barely enough, but her eyes flicker back to life, though blood still flows from her wrists and neck. 

‘Is that it? Haven’t you got any more?’ Rolan shouts, beside himself. 

‘Stay here and staunch her wounds,’ you tell him firmly. ‘I’m going to run to Bonecloak’s.’

‘I think she’s paralysed!’ Tears run down all the way down to Rolan’s lips, stealing away his voice.

‘I’ll be back,’ you promise him fiercely, and run away through the portal, barefoot and hardly dressed. The tower door has been left open - it must have been Orin, on her way in - and you bolt through it, over the dirt and broken glass of Baldur’s Gate streets to the shop across the road. 

‘DERRYTH!’, you scream, over and over, hammering on every door and window you can reach. When there’s no response, you slam into the front door with your shoulder. ‘DERRYTH!’

‘’What the HELLS are you-‘ 

You almost collapse at her feet in relief when she opens it, your lungs throwing themselves into your throat. 

‘Derryth, please, I need a healing potion right now, basilisk oil, whatever you’ve got.’ 

She sees your desperation and responds with brisk efficiency, not wasting a word. 

As she rips open every cabinet door, you’re already pouring out your gratitude, promising to pay her back so many times over when this is done. 

‘Enough!’ Derryth tells you, slamming three bottles into your hands. ‘These should cure everything. If they don’t - they’re beyond saving.’

There is no more time for thanks.  You hurtle back over into Sorcerous Sundries, up the stairs, sprinting so hard you think you might be sick as pain throbs through the sole of your right foot. Something is stuck in it.

‘Here they are,’ you gasp to Rolan. He wears just the shreds of his shirt, the arms and length ripped off to wind around Lia’s injuries. Lia lies cradled in his arms.

You don’t waste time checking if she’s still alive; you simply throw yourself to your knees and pour potion after potion into her mouth, with Rolan closing her jaw inbetween to try to stop the precious liquid running out.

It seems like the blood is slowing, her wounds are knitting themselves back together - but her body goes limp first, and Rolan starts to shout her name in panic. It’s just the paralysis wearing off, you realise, as her eyes focus at last and she looks groggily at both of you. You breathe through the pain of your own injured foot, your focus firmly on Lia. And on Rolan, worrying about Lia.

She is quickly regaining strength. The painful grimace on her face gives way to fear and confusion, and she sits up. 

‘Lia,’ he gasps. ‘Thank the Gods.’ 

‘Cal - Cal’s gone - he’s been taken.’ 

‘I know,’ Rolan says.

‘It was a woman, long braid, white eyes - pretending to be Cal - and then she attacked me - ‘ Lia shudders. ‘I can’t believe I’m alive.’ 

‘You are alive,’ Rolan nods, on the verge of tears again. ‘Gods, I- ‘

Lia squeezes his shoulder. ‘It’s fine, Rolan. I’m here.’ 

At last assured that Lia is going to live, Rolan looks back at you and the bloody mess you’re making on the carpet.

‘Hells!’ He pulls you close, your cheeks pressing together. ‘Your foot - what happened?’

‘I’m fine,’ you promise him. ‘Just some broken glass.’

‘You idiot,’ he says, with only concern in his voice. ‘Don’t move. I’m going to get Isobel.’

You glance at Lia. She nods her thanks at you. After that, though, you’re both silent. She looks very far away.

When Rolan returns, it’s with Jaheira instead of Isobel.

‘Bhaal worshippers,’ Jaheira groans, attending to your foot. ‘Do me a favour and get rid of them permanently this time. I gave it my best shot twice already.’ She carefully pulls the glass out, making you wince, before casting a healing spell. 

‘Where’s Isobel?’ you ask, trying to ignore the peculiar sensation of melting and setting skin. 

‘She and Aylin have set off for a Selȗnite enclave outside the city,’ Jaheira says. ‘They’ll be back soon enough.’ 

Rolan’s eyes are glazed over. They have been since he came back. You reach up and rub his thigh reassuringly, unable to reach the arms crossed over his chest.

‘We should have pursued Orin earlier,’ he says, without looking at you. 

‘We couldn’t have known she’d do something like this.’ You try to sidestep the feeling that he’s blaming you. He’s blaming himself at least as much. 

‘She’s a wretched, evil lunatic who wants your netherstone. Of course we should have known.’ 

The melting and setting has stopped. Standing up on your now-healed feet, you stalk over towards the window, and speak as levelly as you can, ignoring the sting of implied accusation - that this is partly your fault.

‘There’s nothing we can do now except find him.’

‘I know,’ Rolan snaps. He sounds wretched, and it takes the sting out just as fast as it entered; you are drawn back towards him, to look in his eyes and reassure him.

‘I’m going to search every last lead we have on Orin today, and then I will come back here to get you. And then we will rescue Cal.’

‘You can’t promise that.’ An undercurrent of bitterness washes through and stains his words. 

It’s true. You can’t. Not that it matters anyway. Nothing you can possibly say will satisfy him, so long as Cal is missing.

You turn to leave. Rolan catches your hand tightly.

‘Please be safe.’

You make no promises, since it seems he won’t accept them. But you do squeeze back. ‘I’ll do my best.’

He lets you go, and you beckon Jaheira, who stands unusually quiet next to Lia. Lia’s jaw is set; you have no idea what she thinks  - whether you are to blame or not. But no opinion of hers could matter one bronze piece compared to Rolan’s.

‘I’ll see you outside,’ you tell Jaheira.

Once you are dressed, and safely out of the shop, she gives you a sadly knowing smile. 

‘It’s never easy, cub. Take it from me. There is always something you could have done better. Count yourself lucky, if you have someone to remind you of that.’

When you get back to the inn, you split up into two groups to chase down your leads, combing the city for every mention of a mysterious disappearance. It seems there are new ones every day; the real challenge is in catching up. The killers have been far too active. It’s not that long though, before you find a days-old body and with it, the key - a list of Bhaalist targets. That’s when the guilt really begins to course. You could have avoided all of this, if you weren't so distracted. 

Jaheira won’t let you mire yourself in it though, even as it tempts you. Every time your mind begins to circle, she reminds you that there’ll be plenty of time to wallow once Cal is found.

Looking at the list, you recognise some of the names; disappearances and murders you’ve already heard about. Father Lorgan. Ffion. Cora Highberry. Facemaker is one you haven’t heard of, though. You leave word at the Elfsong for the others to join you, and make your way there, anxious that you’ll be too late. 

Facemaker himself is unconvinced, but when he realises it’s Jaheira with you, he relents. He takes extra persuading when Gale, Astarion and Lae’zel show up too. 

You stake out the shop for hours, hoping the Bhaalists will come soon. If not, then you need a new idea. Eventually, though, they do come, and your trap snaps shut so neatly that it’s all over in a minute. In the assassin’s pack, you find a bag of hands, and the instructions to win entrance to Bhaal’s Temple. Sloppy. Like the Absolutists back in Moonrise... like yourself, now.

‘Time to go,’ you tell your party grimly, clutching your disgusting bag of trophies. It smells utterly foul. The stench follows you through the streets as you march back to Sorcerous Sundries, even from the inside of your pack. 

Jaheira splits off at the door. 

‘I have to warn the rest of the people on this list. The ones who are still alive, anyway.’ She speaks to you personally. ‘Don’t believe in the Bhaalists’ fairy tales. They are nothing but weaklings worshipping a failed god. Dangerous, but not organised. Good luck.’ 

Dangerous, but not organised. Some cold comfort that is.

As you step foot across the door of Sorcerous Sundries, you see Rolan anxiously watching the door from behind the counter. He grabs his staff and hurries over to you. You don’t touch him, or hold him. You are only soldiers from here on out, you tell yourself, until you have recovered Cal.

‘Do you know where to find him?’ There’s a tiny flicker of hope amidst the desperation in Rolan's voice.

‘Yes. But we have to get through some kind of Murder Tribunal first. It might be a long night,’ you warn him softly. 

Rolan grits his teeth. ‘I’m ready. Lead the way.’

You find your way into the murder tribunal blocked by two death knights. As agreed on the way, it is you who steps forward with the bag of severed hands, and you who claims the assassins’ disgusting crimes. 

‘Then enter,’ the death knight says.

You are greeted by a man in a fearsome horned helmet, flanked by blood-soaked echoes, who declares himself to be Saverok, son of Bhaal. A person Jaheira said was redeemed, but who now stands before you demanding your tithes. 

‘Prove yourself worthy of Bhaal, and I will give you my token.’ 

His token. Is there anything else you need? Could you simply kill him now and take it? You consider your enemies, sizing them up, letting Saverok continue until he demands an answer.

‘Why, murderer, do you bring so many with you? A true assassin needs only themself and their blade. And why do you hide your face in a helmet, when you should revel in the sight of Bhaal?’

He knows you’re not here to win Bhaal’s favour. It seems you are out of options.

Shouting, you tell the others to take the Echoes first. Saverok is already upon you as you draw your sword and dodge his weapon. Blessings rain down upon him from his echoes, parrying your blows in a haze of golden light. Fucking Sanctuary . As a soldier, you’ve always thought that was cheating. You do your best to keep up this unfair dance, dodging, blocking, slashing, listening out for your companions’ cries and hitting this monster as hard as you can.

‘One!’ shouts Astarion.

‘Two!’ Lae’zel adds, in quick succession.

You expected the loss of his echoes to stagger Saverok - to reduce his power. But he fights on unslowed, undaunted, your muscles burning and cramping in your effort to keep pace.

‘Echoes - make - him - stronger,’ you shout, with all the thought and breath you can find. But if they stay alive, they’re helping him too. Better dead. Your orders remain the same. ‘Keep going!’

Clanking metal strikes the wall behind you - it must be Rolan or Gale, fighting the death knights-

‘THREE!’ Lae’zel shouts.

The last echo down. You see an opening and slam your blade into the gap between his arm and chest plates. Blood spurts, his arm goes limp, but you’ve opened yourself up to a glancing hit into your groin, and though you’re lucky it’s not worse, as you reel, you realise - the blood has stopped, his arm is moving better - he healed himself as he hit you. Lae’zel rushes in to rip and slash at him too, but you yell to back off, disengaging. 

‘He’s healing from hits! Careful!’

‘Around me!’ Rolan calls. You don’t know what he’s doing, but you have no option except to trust him. You scuttle backwards, still facing Saverok, sword still at the ready, until you bump up against Rolan and brace for Saverok to charge at you. He runs, sword held aloft, ready to smash down with all the might of a demi-god’s cursed bloodline, and then -

‘TUERE NOS!’

And then -

A glowing, shimmering presence. A waterfall of gold, before your eyes, that slows Saverok’s weapon and time itself like syrup. You thrust the sword away like a toy, lining up your own hit in this disconnected realm, breaking through the wall to slice into Saverok’s neck and kick him in the chest, darting into safety before he can hit you back. Lae’zel rushes out and strikes a slicing blow - together, you have him on the back foot - and from the safety of the golden sphere you hear the hiss of bolts, loosed from Astarion’s crossbow and Gale’s lightning hands.

Saverok stumbles backwards, and you break from cover once more, racing towards him, thrusting the point of your sword through the opening in his helmet and through his eye. The weight of his suddenly limp body drags your sword down, and you let him slide off, down to the ground. Dead.

You pull your helmet off, breathing easily for the first time since the fight began, and turn to face your team. 

‘Rolan,’ you say hoarsely, ‘that was incredible.’

‘It was pretty good, I have to say,' Gale adds. 'I’ve never seen another wizard learn so much with so little tutelage.’ Gale’s compliment is a little self-serving, but genuine. 

The golden sphere drops. Rolan looks exhausted from channelling so much magical power, as exhausted as you feel on the inside from keeping pace with Saverok’s strength. 

‘I don’t think I can cast that again - not yet. Hells, I meant to save it, to keep Cal safe - I’ve failed him again .’

You want to stroke his hair, but you remember that you’re trying to act less like a lover and more like a soldier, until you’ve fixed this horrible mess. So you make do with looking in his eyes, and telling him with all the conviction you can muster that together, you will all keep Cal safe. One spell does not change that.

Then you address your team, in the blunt tones of an army commander.

‘Good work everyone. We’ll rest here briefly, and then we’re heading for the temple.’

Chapter Text

The only token you could find on Saverok’s body was an amulet, bearing the face of Bhaal. You hope that’s the right one, as you make your way down and through the city’s sewers, searching for the entrance to the temple that the assassin’s note told you is here somewhere. When you find the door to the temple of Bhaal, you let Astarion take it from you and speak to the door himself. He’s a much better liar than you, though you generally avoid asking him. He’s done enough deceiving for three human lifetimes. 

The door believes Astarion’s bluff. It swings open, and you swing into a defensive stance, ready for whatever is behind the door. But it’s just a set of rough-hewn stairs, down into a red-mist darkness.

You descend to the temple in quiet. The second netherstone is before you, and none of you expected to be here so soon. Admittedly, you should have expected the end of the Realms to come knocking again. It’s not like it waits for a convenient moment. 

Making your final checks, you ready yourself to pass through what must surely be the temple door, for real this time. It stands three people tall and proportionately as wide, and the red stones on the door seem to swirl in celebration of all the colours and textures of blood; fresh, congealed, dried. Your stomach twists. In you go. 

The Amulet of Bhaal gets you past the worshippers at the front gates. They barely seem interested in you. Below you, the temple worshippers move like ants; you think you see a body on an altar.

‘Cal,’ Rolan breathes beside you. You brush your hand over his arm reassuringly. 

‘Astarion,’ you whisper. ‘Can you do reconnaissance?’ 

‘With pleasure.’

He drinks an invisibility potion and seems to slither out of his body, away into the darkness. When he returns, his face is grim. 

‘He’s chained to the altar. Still alive, though I couldn’t get too close.’ 

‘When we get down there, do you think you can free him from the chains?’

Astarion flexes his fingers, checking out his manicured nails. ‘I think so, darling.’

‘In that case, our first priority is to free Cal. He’s a sitting duck.’ You realise your blunt choice of words too late, but keep going. ‘Astarion, you go for the chains first. Rolan and I will keep any cultists away. Gale, Lae’zel, it will be up to you to pick your targets - we’ll have to fight them all in the end. We’ll deal with Orin once Cal is safe.’

You can almost believe your own confidence. It’s not a complicated plan, but there are so many unknowns in executing it. 

Astarion sneaks off once more, to find a hiding place in the shadows, and the remaining four of you descend the stairs. Beside you, Rolan is apparently composed, but you can see he’s fighting down anxious tremors that twitch through his arms and are quickly stifled. 

‘Stick to the plan,’ you murmur. He nods, his breaths tight and unhappy. 

Your descent ends. From the dust and dirt of Bhaal’s temple floor, Orin rises, assembling herself from it, sloughing off the dead skin of an illusion to stand before you. Her eyes flash with anger, her lips with a contemptuous ripple.

‘Pathetic little carrion-fly. You come buzzing through the city’s underbelly to me, without bringing a token of your appreciation? No hand, no tongue, no blood, no brains, no eyes? And no netherstone.’

Your eyes flick up to two red ones, watching you from the darkness. Inclining your head, you give Astarion the subtlest signal you can, and nudge against Rolan to be ready as you step forward, closer to Orin’s foetid presence.

‘I killed Gortash,’ you lie.

‘No, my sweet hero, you didn't-’

You slam into her willowy assassin’s body with your full force, knocking her to the ground and the words from her mouth, for an instant. 

‘KILL HIM!’ she shrieks, wriggling dexterously away as your sword threatens to pierce straight through her body. She runs away from you and you sprint for the altar, where Cal is lying defenceless. Astarion is fiddling with the chains and cursing as Rolan thunderwaves the nearest cultists away from him. A huge wall of stone erupts from the ground under Gale’s commandment, buying you all a little more time. 

You turn back to face Orin, ready to stave her off as long as Astarion needs you to. When you see her though, you take an involuntary step backwards, struck with awed horror. She is transforming, painfully shedding her human carapace into something much more terrifying; a creature that towers above you, dripping foul-smelling drool from its canines, indeterminate but for its tools of carnage. 

Recovering yourself, you plant your feet firmly, ready to slice at it should it come near. Lae’zel’s arrows pierce into its leathered hide, but they don’t draw much blood. 

It rears, screams, and charges at you. You parry and thrust, throwing it backwards with all your might, listening to the sounds of battle behind you - the crackle of lightning, the tinkle of chains and Astarion’s grunts, presumably as he dodges some assailant’s swing. You can see the scene in your head without looking, every noise a brushstroke in the picture of battle. 

Lae’zel runs down to thrust her blade into the Orin-creature, and you feel safe enough to check that the picture in your head matches reality. As you spin to face the altar, you see Astarion stab a Bhaalist through the heart and suck the blood from their dying neck, throwing them to the ground before he attacks the chains with renewed vigour. Rolan is throwing out another thunderwave, trying to hold back two cultists intent on Cal. One of them is thrown backwards into the stone wall, snapping with a sickly crunch - but the second gets lucky, keeps their footing, and slips past Rolan’s outstretched arms -

‘No!’

Rolan throws himself beneath their raised dagger. 

‘NO!’ you scream in echo, tackling the cultist just in time. As they lie prone on the floor, you drive your sword down into their unarmoured chest, unleashing a torrent of blood that sprays up into your helmet. 

‘I’ve done it!’ Astarion calls. Cal begins to sit up, confused, and Rolan scrambles to pull the last chains off his body. The Orin-creature’s attention is caught. Enraged, it breaks from fighting with Lae’zel to run at you, taking a slicing hit to the back as it does.

‘Get down!’ Rolan barks at Cal. Cal doesn’t need telling twice; he slides down the side of the altar, away from Orin, and hunches against the stone. You and Rolan block the way. He unleashes a barrage of Scorching Ray, and then as the creature recoils and howls, you run at it, wielding your blade with the certainty that you have the upper hand. It seems like something in the beast falls away, the inner glue that binds its foul leather body dissolving as you hack it into ribbons, until those ribbons combust on their own into pools of blood and gore. Within those pools, Orin’s weapon clangs to the ground, as if it had been embedded in the beast. 

The Netherstone. You seize the dagger and pry the stone from it, shoving it into your belt. The wall of stone behind you crumbles, and you spread out as a group to pick off the remaining cultists, making short work of them. 

The moment the last body hits the ground, Rolan rushes over to Cal.

‘Are you hurt?’ 

‘My back hurts. But I’m just tired.’ Cal rises and stumbles. He’s alright though. Everyone is safe, and you can at last let a little of your guilt go.

It takes a long time to get back; a combination of you and Lae’zel, carrying Cal, and Gale and Rolan teleporting him. At last, you get back to Sorcerous Sundries, in the dead of night. Lia is waiting for you, and she cries when she sees Cal, hugging him tightly.

‘You’re alive! Thank the Gods.’ She looks at you, and the others, and you feel once more that perhaps she blames you for this happening in the first place. But she gives her thanks anyway.

You hover uncertainly at the door, worrying that you’re intruding amongst the siblings. When you try to move away, though, Rolan takes your hand. Lia gives you an odd look, but Cal smiles.

‘I thought we could all sleep in the Tower tonight.’ Rolan says. ‘I’ll find some more bedrolls. If you’re alright with that,’ he asks you, more quietly.

You nod, and press his hand in your own. Lia offers to help Cal up the stairs, to the dinner she’s got waiting.

‘Hopefully there’s enough for four,’ she says, as her parting shot.

You linger back with Rolan. 

‘Are you sure you want me to stay?’

‘You ask the most unnecessary questions sometimes,’ he chides, annoyed by your doubt. ‘Of course I want you to stay.’

Gods, he is frustrating and sweet in equal measure. You crush him close in an adamantine-armoured embrace, wishing not for the first time that there was less metal between you. 

‘I love you,’ he murmurs, as you let him go. Words that haven’t dulled since you first used them.

‘I love you too,’ you say. ‘I’m glad that we got Cal back. I couldn’t live with the guilt if-’

Rolan nods. You cut your sentence dead. He knows what that ‘if’ means, and you don’t want to make him think about it any more.

‘I couldn’t either,’ he says.

‘It wouldn’t have been your fault. It’s my responsibility. I knew Orin would be after us, and I let days go by without trying to strike first. I failed as a leader.’

‘No. You saved me from Lorroakan. You saved so many other people in that time. I have never seen you fail, not once.’ 

His conviction sways you a little, makes you feel a little better. But you still try to deflect his kindness. ‘You saved me from Lorroakan, remember? I nearly died,’ you remind him.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ he says, refusing to let you duck from his point. You give in and kiss him softly, letting his reassurance wash over you, believing a little more that this wasn’t entirely your fault.

‘You let me forget the end of the world, for two days. I know we have to focus now but - it was - ‘ You search in vain for a word lightweight enough that you can say it. ‘Nice.’ 

‘More than nice.’ Rolan folds his arms and adds with determination, ‘You only have to defeat the Absolute, and then we can have many more days like that. As a matter of fact, I have discovered something that might help.’

‘Tell me about it over dinner,’ you say, smiling.

A strange dinner, at midnight, sat cross-legged on the floor with Rolan’s siblings; your first real talk with them, since you became a pair. Cal is exhausted but cheerful, propped up on a pile of cushions, asking for wine as the rest of you pour a glass each.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Lia asks.

‘I feel fine!’ he insists. ‘I’ve been strapped to a slab for the last day. Let me have a good time.’

‘Fair enough,’ she shrugs. ‘I suppose we should celebrate another near-miss with death. I hope it’s our last.’ 

She flicks you yet another watchful glance, and you frown. You don’t want to fight with Lia. Mostly for Rolan’s sake, but also because you remember being friendly once upon a time, back when you first convinced Rolan to stay at the Grove, and when you saved her from Moonrise Towers. In the hope of fixing it, you cough up words that will certainly not go down well.

‘Is there something the matter?’

She sighs. ‘Look, I don’t want to be harsh. And I know you saved us once before. I’m grateful for that. But you led this murderer, Orin, straight to us. Put our lives in danger while you - ‘ she waves a hand awkwardly at you and Rolan. ‘I don’t know.’ She pauses, and then adds with surprising honesty. ‘Maybe I’m just not used to Rolan dating someone. He’s my brother. You had better not fuck it up.’

‘If it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now,’ Rolan replies sharply. He slows a little. ‘I never told you the real extent of what happened with Lorroakan. It wasn’t a mere disagreement about whether you could live in the Tower, or whether imprisoning celestial beings was acceptable. It was - .’ He stops dead. ‘Worse than that.’

Lia softens. ‘Rolan. You can talk to us, you know. Your siblings.’

‘Another time,’ he says. ‘Please, just trust her. I am equally to blame for what happened. I knew of Orin too, and did nothing.’

‘I promise you,’ you say to Lia, ‘I will do my best never to let this happen again. But - if it makes you feel better, I made a mistake because I love Rolan, not because I’m out to ruin his life.’

‘Aww,’ says Cal, at the exact same time Lia pulls a ‘too much information’ face. You look at Rolan and smile at the sight of his flushed face. He catches your eye and leans in to kiss you on the temple, lingering a little. It’s your turn to blush.

‘So,’ you say, keen to change the topic. ‘What secret have you discovered, that will help us against the Absolute?’

The mood settles down into something more congenial, as Rolan tells you about the arcane cannon hidden within the Tower, and the notes detailing its incredible firepower. His voice is alight when he speaks of magic and of scholarship. 

‘I must figure out its intricacies first - but give me a couple of days, and it will be ready.’ 

You realise you’re giving him a rather vacantly adoring look, too busy thinking about how wonderful he is at magic, and how lucky you are, to really take in the details. In your defence, you are very tired, and he is very wonderful. Rolan catches the expression on your face before you can sharpen it to that of a person paying a normal amount of attention.

‘You look like you need some sleep,’ he tells you gently.

Nodding, you take a last bite of your dinner and wash it down with the last of your wine. He takes your plate and glass from your hands. 

The bedrolls beckon you; Rolan has put yours together. He dims the magical lights with a wave of his hand, until only the moonlight through the windows is all that’s left. When you both crawl into bed, you wrap yourself around his back, feeling him relax into you, his tail following the line of your legs, the tip rubbing softly against your calf. In a few moments, you are asleep.

You wake some time later, when you feel him roll over and slip his arm around you. Without opening your eyes, you pull him closer, pressing against his warm chest. Both of you keep moving, twisting and rubbing against each other, until he whispers in your ear.

‘Come downstairs with me?’

‘Yes.’

Sneaking past Cal and Lia’s sleeping forms, you turn to look at Rolan, stunningly illuminated in silver by the moonglow. Thanks, Selȗne , you think, cheekily. You take his hand and pass through the portal together, feeling the realms ripple around you, not once, but twice, and find yourself standing with him on the counter of Sorcerous Sundries.

It’s quiet down here; the elementals have gone back to their planes, and the tower’s magic is slumbering just as thickly as Rolan’s siblings are upstairs. Rolan holds your face in his hands, looking at you, over every inch of your face. The urge to kiss him is strong, but you let him just look for a moment, slipping your hand up over his shirt to play with the amulet against his chest. Your other arm snakes around his waist. 

‘So what do you want to do?’ you ask softly.

‘Eat you out.’

Wordlessly, you slip your clothes off, and slide down to lie on the counter. Rolan takes his off too, and slowly kneels between your open legs, slipping his fingers inside his mouth to wet them. There’s really no need - you’re already soaked - but he looks beautiful doing it. Your heart skips. 

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’ His fingers slip between your folds. ‘You are perfect . More beautiful than any magic, and I thought that was the most beautiful thing in the Realms. Another way you proved me wrong.’

You shiver and cry out as his fingers brush your clit. You wish you could think of something - anything - as poetic as that to say, and find nothing. Only - ‘More.’

‘More of my fingers, or more of my words?’ he asks.

‘Both.’

His fingers push into you, and he ducks his head to lick over your clit, his tongue soft and broad. You’re a little cold, in the night chill of a stone room, but it makes the warmth of his mouth so much more delicious.

‘The night we talked at the party,’ he murmurs, his face still between your legs, ‘I tried not to think about you, but I couldn’t stop myself. I thought about the way you would taste, until it hurt. I had to slip away, and- nhhhh’

You pin his head between your thighs, overwhelmed by the image of him hiding away, stroking his cock to the thought of you. Every bit of your skin thrills, but especially your cunt, throbbing around his exploring fingers.

‘More tongue,’ you moan. ‘I want you to tell me everything but - I need your tongue.’

Hot, soft strokes follow immediately. You feel his hand wriggle beneath your leg, rummaging for something under the counter, though his tongue doesn’t leave your clit. Eventually, he puts something cold and hard on your stomach. Glass. Your fingers wrap around it. 

‘What? - ’

‘It’s a potion of mind reading.’

Oh . Of course. It’s hard to see the colour in the moonlight.

He nudges your thigh. ‘Take it. Then you can hear me as well as feel me.’

You sit up to drink it, feeling a little nervous. When you close your eyes and reach out with your mind, you hear his thoughts -

~ Can you hear me?~

‘Yes.’ you murmur. You wish he could read your thoughts too - but - another time. You clench your hands around his hair and horns, feeling a surge of his approval ripple from his mind to yours. Breathy, needy whimpers fall from your lips. Rolan is slow with his tongue, tender and teasing, letting thoughts linger slowly in his mind. You’re careful not to push deeper, enjoying only what he offers you - and that is plenty. Gods. He thinks endlessly, over and over, about how good you taste, how hard he is, how much he wants you. His hunger bleeds into yours. Scorching, twisting, dancing sparks spill from the point his tongue touches your clit, as his tongue stiffens, and he begins to prise an orgasm from you.

‘Oh,’ you gasp, your body tensing. 'Ah!'

~ Does that feel good?~

‘Yes!’

His thoughts are frantic.

~ Come on me, come on my fingers, come on me~

You wail, feeling the storm tide race through you, his tongue so harsh and insistent now, forcing it out of you -

‘Fuck!’ you shriek, as you finally let go. 

Liquid spills from you as the tide surges and breaks, down over Rolan’s tongue, your cunt pulsing around his fingers. He licks at you greedily, determined to taste every last drop of you, and to make this moment stretch as long as it possibly can. As the feeling subsides, you pull him up and shove him backwards, eager to hear him come in your head before this potion wears off.

Rolan can speak now, but he chooses not to. You straddle him, squeezing your knees tight around him to fit on the counter, and lean in to kiss his wet lips, tasting the mingled flavours of his spit and your silk.

~I can’t last long~

‘I know ,’ you groan with satisfaction. ‘I can feel how close you are.’ You settle on to him, gasping as his cock slides inside you. No matter how turned on you are, you have to relax and take him slowly, to get all of his length inside you. Rolan whines, and whines more as you start to ride him.

~ I want you to fuck me like this all night. Every night. Please. I want to taste your cunt every day for the rest of my life. I want you to -’~

 ‘ Ahhh!’ he gasps, biting his hand as you fuck him harder and faster. You pull it away from his mouth, leaning down to him.

‘Bite me. ’ 

He doesn’t even think a reply; he just sinks his teeth into your skin, his arms wrapping round and clinging onto you. More ready for the pain than last time, you still yelp with the shock of it, and wrap your fingers into his hair to pull it. His thoughts are gibberish, nonsense, only strands of 

~ yes~ and ~ Fuck!~, and ~ please~

tangling together, until suddenly you feel him snap and shout between his teeth into your shoulder. The feelings drench you too, possessing you, making you grind desperately against him as he comes because you are suddenly so close again.

‘ Aghh! ’ 

You come for the second time, a briefer but still delicious flash of pleasure compared to the first. Rolan pulls his teeth out of your shoulder, and you collapse onto him, aware once more that you’re on the counter of Sorcerous Sundries, of all places. 

‘I know we both have our responsibilities. I’m not about to forget that now.’ you say reluctantly, as you both climb down from the counter. ‘But-’

‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ he promises. ‘Every day. Just - come and find me whenever you can.’

Chapter Text

You lurk at a side table inside the Blushing Mermaid, wondering if your assumed form is really helping you go unnoticed. Gale told you the spell would make you appear as a High Elf, but their refined traditions and centuries of accumulated wealth perhaps don’t make them the most common customers in the Blushing Mermaid. Here, outcasts gather - half-orcs and hobgoblins, pirates and adventurers, seeking refuge and a cheap beer before they set out on the ocean or the road once more. Or maybe everyone is looking at you because you’re just a very attractive elf. You can’t see your own glamour in the mirror to tell.

The tavern is alive with talk of the fallen Steel Watch, all of it gleeful. Gortash has few admirers here - that’s why you chose it as a hiding place, worried that he might retaliate with the living remainder of his forces. After a while, another High Elf strides in, looking around rather obviously. You agreed he’d cast a spell to identify himself, but you can tell from just the way he moves that it’s Rolan beneath the illusion. So you take advantage. 

‘Hello,’ you whisper in his ear.

‘Ah!’ The fireworks he was conjuring in his hand abruptly go out. He turns to kiss you, stops short, and frowns. ‘I’ll wait until you’re back to normal, if that’s alright.’ 

‘Of course. Let’s go somewhere private.’ 

Safely tucked in comfy, ratty armchairs inside one of the Blushing Mermaid’s rooms, Rolan shucks off his disguise with a brief incantation, revealing his tail lying relaxed over the armrest. Yours takes longer; you read the instructions Gale left, and attempt the words he’s written, but it’s a struggle to get the magic to do what you want. Embarrassed, you glance at Rolan. He takes your hand.

‘You have to believe it a little more. Then it will listen to you.’ 

You breathe a slow, counted breath, channelling the way you feel before a sparring match. Confident, prepared, at ease. The words flow this time, and the illusion falls like silk from your skin.

Rolan smiles widely at you. ‘See?’

The pride in his voice sounds so unbelievably far from the man who told you your amulet was nothing special. 

‘I remember Gale channelled the Weave for Astarion once,’ you venture. ‘Is that… something you could do with me? You could teach me some magic.’

‘You’d like that?’ Rolan sounds a little incredulous. Happily so. ‘I would love to share the Weave with you. But… I have to admit Gale has a great deal more experience than me. I don’t know if I could do it - but I’d like to try.’

‘After this is over,’ you say, as if that’s a thing you can promise.

‘You should teach me too. How to fight. You are so assured in battle - always in command. It seems to me that I’m forever reacting to my foes, where I see you dictate the fight to them. Though,’ he adds with a smile, ‘I don’t think I will ever have a fraction of your strength.’ 

‘I like you the way you are. Easy to pick up, and pin down.’ 

Rolan makes a funny noise and shifts in his chair. ‘I don’t think most people would see me like that.’ He looks at you with wide eyes. ‘Please do it. Now.’

He’s become a fraction more polite in his demands, but you still ignore them. Your hand wanders up his thigh.

‘That just makes it better. You look so regal as the Master of the Tower, that no-one would imagine you face down in my bed. But I get to see that.’

The whimpering noises intensify. ‘Please, please. Take me.’

‘Hmmm.’ You shift over and climb on top of him, your knee between his thighs, gently pulling his tail up. Rolan’s breath runs away from him. He arches, pressing his hard cock against your leg, staring wildly at you as you bring the tip of his tail to your mouth and suck it, tease it, just the very tip, still looking at him- 

Rolan’s mouth falls open, and - Gods - did he just drool a little? 

‘Oh, Gods.’ He sounds excruciatingly embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’

He snaps his hand up to wipe it off, but your reactions are faster. You catch his wrist, and lean in to lick it off yourself. Heat writhes against your skin - the heat of Rolan’s body, burning even through his shirt, as he squirms beneath your touch.

‘Please just take me!’ he begs, ‘Please, I need you, I need you - ‘

There’s a rap at the door. Shit . You scramble off Rolan’s lap. 

‘House stew and wine,’ the server says. Service has really sped up here since last time - probably now it’s back under the original management.

You can hear Rolan’s ragged breaths behind you as he fights to slow them. It’s slightly rude how fast you shove a tip into the server’s hands and shut the door behind them, but your own blood is running blindingly hot right now.

‘Should we wait and have dinner first?’ Rolan asks, reluctantly.

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Thank the Gods. I don’t either.’ 

You stir a little while later, on the floor next to the fire, kissing Rolan’s ridged shoulders and then his lips.

‘I take it you destroyed the foundry,’ he says, when you finally get up and start on your now-cold stew. 

‘And liberated the Iron Throne. We even appeased the Umberlee temple. It’s been a busy day.’

‘You have a knack for getting the Gods on your side.’ Rolan’s mind is elsewhere. Ruminating. ‘I suppose, after Gortash, that’s it. This might be our last night together.’

‘Once we kill him, yes. I don’t know how long their final commands to the Netherbrain will last once they’re all dead. We’ll have to act fast.’ 

You see his face crease with worry, though he tries to hide it from you.

‘But - that’s not yet,’ you add in an attempt to reassure him. ‘We’re going to Avernus tomorrow.’ 

‘What?! You can’t do that. You told me you didn’t have to do that.’ 

It’s true that a couple of nights ago, when you told him about it, you weren’t entirely sure. He hadn’t passed much comment, except to change the subject. But since then, you’ve accepted it’s the only thing you can do.

‘I promised Lae’zel I would help rescue Orpheus. I can’t go back on that promise. It’s either steal from a devil, or make a deal with him, and I’m not doing that.’

‘This is stupid.’ Rolan seethes. ‘The Githyanki have been plundering and conquering for thousands of years, and you want to risk your neck to save one of their damnable leaders?’

‘I don’t know much about Orpheus, but Lae’zel believes in him of all people to overthrow Vlaakith-‘

‘That’s not your problem!’ He scowls. ‘You’ve been through Avernus for a few minutes. I was there for - too long. It’s not just that it’s full of wretched fiends and devils. It’s the despair. The whole, gods-awful place wants to suck out your soul and keep it. Please don’t go. I am asking you not to go.’ Those last words are practically begging, and it doesn’t sound musical any more. 

‘I’m sorry,’ you say genuinely, your heart wrenched. ‘I don’t want to go. I’m afraid of dying in a Hell far away from you. I don’t want to die of a tadpole either. But Lae’zel has stood by me for this entire journey, since we met on the nautiloid. All she’s ever wanted is to do right by her people, and this is the only way I can repay her. And Orpheus - he’s been imprisoned for a thousand years .’

‘Damn you and your gods-damned do-gooding,’ Rolan curses, crying. ‘Just come back to me, please.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ you say, reaching out for him. You spend the rest of the night in aching silence, holding him, horribly aware that he’s hurt and yet still sure that you can make no other choice. 

In the morning, you promise you’ll come and find him again, as soon as you return. 

‘If you return,’ he says bitterly. When you kiss him goodbye, he kisses you as hard as that first time in Last Light inn. ‘Come back to me, damn it.’

Lae’zel is determined, Gale is anxious - but Astarion is positively relaxed, as you head upstairs in the Devil’s Fee armed with the recipe for a portal to Hell.

‘Oh well, we’ve killed one of Raphael’s lackeys before. How hard can it be? And I bet he’s got so much gold and silver to steal, if he hoards treasure as jealously as he hoards souls. I hope you all have plenty of space in your bags.’

‘There is only one piece of treasure we require,’ Lae’zel replies. ‘But since you have so nobly pledged yourself to the Prince of the Comet’s cause, I will not begrudge you a little of your own. You have earned it.’

‘Ah, well, something like that,’ Astarion replies airily. ‘I’ve grown far too attached to your sweet little frog face these last months. I simply couldn’t let you down.’ He chuckles. 

You and Gale share a worried glance. The moment you step through the portal and into the House of Hope, Astarion’s laughter stops. Hope herself is here to remind you what’s at stake. 

‘CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT, AND IT WON’T BE SO KIND TO YOU!’

The longer you spend in the house, wearing these debtor’s clothes, the more it seems to drain the spirit from you. You thought you were prepared, but Rolan was right; the hopelessness claws at you. All you can do is think of him and let that be your lodestone. You will not be a debtor. You will not be stuck here. You will not give in to Haarlep’s insistence that you need their help to kill Raphael, and you need not abandon Hope. 

By the time you steal the Hammer itself, caked in Haarlep’s blood, you begin to adjust, regaining your sense of direction in this foreign realm. But the heat of the Hells only grows more oppressive. Hope veers from happiness to mania, dragging you all off-balance with her as you rush back towards the portal. She dances and skips with limbs newly freed, weaving between infernal beasts as if they were children playing in the street.

‘Raphael is not going to like this! He’s going to be sooooooo mad!’ she shrieks, between glee and terror. Inside your brain, your tadpole squirms. The Emperor, loosening his grip for a moment, punishing you for this choice.

As the cambion himself rises before you, you are sickened to the soul with all the dread you’ve been fighting off. In Faerun, Raphael seemed a loathsome blaggard, more accustomed to trickery than force. But in his own Realm, he looms so much larger, burns with a hatred brighter than any you’ve ever seen. You realise with trickling fear that you might have miscalculated. Underestimated. But there is nowhere else to go. 

With the first swing of your blade, you feel your soul step back from your body. Not because Raphael stole it, but because you cannot move unless you put every feeling on hold and give in to pure instinct. The orders fall from your lips, but you do not hear them; hellfire burns through the gaps in your armour, but you do not feel it. You feel so little, as you see Gale fall, Astarion fall, Lae’zel fall, all of Raphael’s minions fall, until it is just you and the Cambion and a Hope in hell.

The flames strike your body once more. You are fading. 

A searing light scores the room. It floods from Hope to you, to the others - they’re picking themselves up, readying their weapons once more - you feel the radiance sweep you from the edge of despair and make you whole again. You fight on, to the limits of your strength once more, and this time Raphael crumbles when you reach it. He is dead. 

‘My gods,’ Hope says. ‘We’ve actually done it.’

Slowly, your soul filters back into your body. Sensation returns - the sword clenched in your hand, the helmet heavy on your head. The acid in your muscles. 

‘We’re alive,’ you say. ‘We’re alive!’ 

Kneeling down, you hug Hope, and she hugs you back, now laughing with joy now rather than hysteria. 

‘Thank you, Hope.’ 

‘No, thank you. You’re welcome here any time.’ 

Astarion snorts, rolling his muscles. ‘Very kind, but I think I’ve had quite enough of the Hells for the time being.’

When you take your leave of the group in the Devil’s Fee, there is only one thing on your mind. You are so careful to elude notice that you take multiple invisibility potions with you into Sorcerous Sundries, lest the effects of one wear off. Sneaking upstairs, you try the door to Rolan’s room; when it opens, his head whips immediately up from his notes, and the quill drops from his hand. 

‘Please tell me it’s you.’ He stands up and you rush over to hug him. You can feel the gossamer of invisibility still clinging to you, but he hugs you back despite it. ‘Thank the Gods. Now I just have to worry about you dying tomorrow instead.’ 

‘I’m not going to do that either,’ you say, grasping him tighter. As the invisibility wears off, he pushes you gently away, looking into your eyes with an expression wrought from both love and sadness. 

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I wish I had a picture of you.’ 

You brush past the implication that he might soon not have you to look at, unwilling to confront your own looming mortality. 

‘Was the Gazette drawing not enough?’ you tease, with deliberate nonchalance.

It works fairly well. Rolan makes a concerted effort to sound brighter, to sweep the melancholic look from his face and replace it with a smile. ‘I admit, I’ve admired it quite often.’

‘I should have got my own copy.’ 

‘No need. When this is over, you can move into the Tower and look at it whenever you like.’ 

‘Oh, I’m going to move into the Tower, am I?’ you ask, both delighted and amused.

The response is brusque; he still doesn’t always know when you’re teasing. ‘Only if you want to. Never mind.’ 

A wild, and yet completely obvious, thought suddenly occurs to you, and the only way you can bear to risk saying it is as a joke. 

‘At this rate, you’ll be saying we’re engaged before I’ve even had a chance to propose.’ 

It's utterly unconvincing. 

‘Are you going to propose to me?’ Rolan breathes. He fiddles with something on the desk behind him, shoving it under some papers - but not before you see what it is.

You step closer, stacking your hand over his, over the ring. The ring. ‘Were you going to propose to me?

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘You were! ’

‘Why are you so determined to - mmmh - ’

Rolan makes a sweetly guttural sound when you kiss him, extinguishing his complaint. He snatches your hand, lips still firmly on yours, and holds it tight as he jams the ring onto your finger. 

‘There. Consider that a promise to annoy me for the rest of your days.’ He does his best to sound irritated, but he can’t keep it up any longer. His voice heats with feeling. ‘My Gods. I must be crazy. But I love you so completely. You have ripped up the fabric of my life and woven yourself into it, and I cannot imagine myself without you.’ 

‘I’ve barely imagined a life beyond tomorrow,’ you admit, to yourself as much as him. ‘But if there are more tomorrows after that, then I want you to be in every single one.’ Half-laughing and half-crying, you stop to thoroughly kiss his beautiful, smiling lips. ‘I love you so much.’ 

Rolan curls your hand, his claws digging in very gently, and drops something in your palm. ‘Put this on me. They’re a pair.’

You take his hand, softly kissing the pads of his fingers, still amazed at how sudden this is, and how certain you are. The ring is lovely; braided silver with a carved white-grey stone, a perfect double of yours. As you slip it over his finger, you feel yet another shimmering, thrumming burst of happiness, and - very slightly - an echo of magic.

‘Are they sending stones?’

He nods. ‘So you can call on me, whenever you want a little magical assistance.’

‘After tomorrow, I won’t need them. We’re not getting out of bed for at least a month.’

Rolan laughs. ‘Hmm. I give it a tenday before you find yourself someone in need of saving. As long as you don’t go falling in love with them, or killing yourself, I don’t mind.’

Eventually, bliss has to take second place to strategy. There is so much to plan, to be ready the moment you strike against Gortash tomorrow; allies to organise, the Arcane Cannon to prepare. But it’s still there, humming gently in the background, as the darkness sets back in. 

Chapter Text

The fight with Gortash is brief. Without his Steel Watch, he still carries himself like a Duke, but has none of the support to back it up. Only Kelemvor knows how many died beneath the feet of the Watch to bring him this high, and to keep him in his station. His reign ends beneath your blade, and the God of Tyranny is vanquished once more. 

It is strangely anticlimactic. The four of you stand, looking at each other, the final Netherstone in your grip. This morning, you saw Jaheira again. She is leading the effort to coordinate your allies; to bring as much magic and steel to the final fight as possible. And Rolan will be responsible for the arcane gate that brings them all to you, just as soon as you send him the message. You don’t even know if there will be a final battle - perhaps, with the stones, you can simply command the Brain to kill itself. 

Heading back beneath the city, Netherstones in hand, you follow the trail of cranium rats through the dark, watching their noses above the water as they swim away from you across a vast pool. They are swarming; something big is coming. The Brain has already been unleashed from these stones too long. Finding a boat tied by this strange underwater dock, you row after the rats - chasing a bad omen, all the way back to the source. 

Lae’zel curses in her Gith language, watching the ghaik rats with disgust. ‘The Grand Design must not succeed!’

Gale looks faraway, until Astarion’s touch on his hand recalls him. 

‘I hope you’re not thinking about your ex-girlfriend,’ Astarion teases him. ‘Not when it’s the end of the world, and you haven’t given me a goodbye kiss.’ 

‘We’re not at goodbyes just yet, are we?’ Gale jokes softly back, before he gives Astarion the kiss he’s asking for. Gale’s orb has not been much in your thoughts since he chose not to use it at Moonrise. Since then, Astarion has become his closest confidante; perhaps they have talked about it together. You certainly couldn’t ask him to use it.

It takes quite some time, but at last, you reach another bank, and disembark. The swirl of rats is almost hypnotising. They shift like quicksilver, in clumps that seem to roll and slide as one being. before they break apart into individuals and start the dance anew. Suddenly, you are all cast down, broken by a wave of psychic energy that compels you to your knees 

~interlopers~

~PAWNS~ 

You struggle back to your feet, forcing yourself to move forwards, to reach and bring the Netherstones from your pocket - and as you try to command it, the last of your will saps from your body and your tadpole wriggles in rapture. 

No, no, please not like this, not to come this far and -

Peace washes over you. The still, cool air of the Astral Plane. The Emperor is before you, and so is Orpheus. You are still piecing your thoughts back together as the Emperor insists you need a Mindflayer. He’s telling you that you need him - that it is him or Orpheus. You don’t believe him. He would never be so foolish as to side with the Brain, and he’s never told you the whole and complete truth about anything. It’s a risk, but you must take it. You give the nod to Lae’zel.

As Orpheus’s chains crack, the Emperor draws back in fear, his eyes blazing with un-Illithid anger. Suddenly, before you can stop him, beg him and Orpheus to make a truce, he is gone, throwing himself out through a portal to a world that appears in chaos. The portal shuts as quickly as it opened, and now there are only the four of you and Orpheus, newly freed, to make sense of the Emperor’s threat.

‘The Prince of the Comet,’ Lae’zel says, awed, though she does not kneel. ‘I offer you my sword.’

Orpheus is briefly hostile, but it is not hard to convince him that you are on his side. But after he’s agreed to keep you under his protection, to fight the Netherbrain with you, he says -

‘The ghaik was right. I see no other option than for one of us to become Illithid ourselves.’

Time does not tick past in the Astral plane; it swirls and lilts, carrying your actions in local pockets of cause and effect, detached from the other Realms and the rest of the Astral Sea. But now it comes to a halt entirely. You are suspended, in front of this choice, the worst choice you have ever had to make. The thought of Gale, and his Orb returns. A way out. But there is silence from him, and that is the right decision. He and Astarion deserve a chance at love, at happiness and freedom once the invasion in your minds has been healed. There is silence from Lae’zel, even as she faces her Prince. She has lived only a fraction of a life on her own terms; you couldn’t bear for her to do it either. 

But that leaves you. 

A tear crawls down your face, meandering so slowly in this place with barely weight or time. It will have to be you, who loses everything. The new family you’ve only just found. The love of your life, whilst everyone else can hold theirs. Another tear. You realise only now how certain you were, despite your fears, that you would destroy the Brain and save the day - save both the Gate, and your soul, so it can be with Rolan’s. And now - a death without the hope of afterlife, a body destroyed beyond repair - there can be no other way -

You buckle to your knees and sob. 

Orpheus’s voice reaches out, as if from across the Astral Plane.

‘I can become Illithid. It is in my power, though I have no Tadpole. One thousand years of imprisonment - to die a ghaik .’ 

Though his voice is calm, you hear the pain, the sadness, a thousand years of exhausted hope at last extinguishing. He waits, and waits, and waits, and you realise with unbearable selfishness that he would be waiting forever. You can’t do it. You can’t let go of Rolan, or of the friends that you love so much. Suddenly, you are tied to life, in a way you have never been, and you cannot be the hero. 

And so it falls to Orpheus. 

The change shatters his body, breaking and wrenching and destroying, ripping him up from the inside out. You force yourself to keep watching, to accept this choice with all its consequences. Orpheus deserves your acknowledgement, and he expresses no desire for you to look away. 

When he rises again as an illithid, he looks you - not Lae’zel - straight in the eye.

~When this is done, you must kill me. I do not wish to live in this form~

You assent without protest. If it were you, you would want the same. 

When he draws you a portal back to Faerun, you find it much worse than when you left. You stand in the wreckage of High Hall - instantly recognisable, though haven’t been since you were inducted into the army - watching the Netherbrain rise through tattered flags and crumbling turrets, against a sunset sky. It is breaking free, smashing through masonry weakened by the Nautiloid onslaught that swarms through the sky. Githyanki dragons, too, beat their way through the air, crashing into the Nautiloids, clawing at them, clouds of smoke rising ominously. 

‘Run for cover!’ you shout, as a Nautiloid pitches towards you. You sprint into the nearest door, through the adjoining rooms until you think you’re deep enough to evade any attack. Behind you, you hear the impact of Nautiloid fire on stone, but it sounds far enough away. 

‘I’m summoning them,’ you tell the party, your finger on your sending stone.

Gale nods. ‘Do it. No better time than the present.’ 

Eyes closed, you open your mind, and feel out for Rolan. ‘We’re ready. Bring everyone.’ 

There isn’t a single word in reply. You keep your eyes closed, ‘Rolan?-’

A whoosh . You open your eyes to see him striding out of a portal before you. Taking his hand, you pull him over to stand at your side, as your allies begin to make their way through the portal. Jaheira and the Harpers, Florrick and her guard, Duke Ravengard - who you saved from the Iron Throne just yesterday, and is still determined to join your cause. Dame Aylin and Isobel, hand in hand. And - Halsin and Zevlor? More Flaming Fist and Hellriders crowd through the portal as you stand in shock. The biggest shock of all, though, is the man standing at the back, with Mizora by his side.

‘Wyll. You survived?’ 

He nods.  ‘No time to explain. It has been a long road. But the Blade of Frontiers stands again at your service.’

You can’t believe it. The very first agony that your group went through together - losing Karlach, losing Wyll - it will never be alright but today, it is better. Wyll looks older and more haunted, a man changed but still very much alive.

Mizora chimes in. ‘It’s been rather difficult keeping my little pet alive and free of tentacles, but he made it.’ 

You ignore Mizora’s smug words and step forward to shake Wyll’s hand.

‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

Orpheus appears distracted suddenly. Yet another portal is opening in the room. 

~Voss~, his thoughts greet the man who steps through.  

‘Orpheus,’ Voss says in quiet horror, and then outrage. ‘What treachery is this?’ he demands of you. 

~No treachery, my friend~, Orpheus replies. 

Guilt stabs at you once more, and sharpens when you feel Rolan’s shoulder brush against yours and know you’d make the same decision again. Voss’s face crumples.

‘But how-?’ he starts.

~ It was necessary. Your knights will see me fight now. They will know my sacrifice. And when I am dead, you and Lae’zel must take up my cause and lead the Gith to their destiny ~

Outside, the rumble of battle sounds a little closer. This is it. You must rally the troops and go.

‘Rolan,’ you say softly. ‘I love you.’ 

He feels under his robe, and pulls out the amulet, clasping your hand over it, your rings touching.

‘I love you too.’ 

With one last kiss, you cast off the mantle of a lover and assume that of a leader. 

‘The fight is just above us. The Arcane Cannon will provide covering fire, knock out as many Nautiloids as possible. Once the barrage has finished, we must press upwards towards the Brain, and get Orpheus as close as necessary to use the Netherstones. Isobel, hang back with the Harpers. We need our best healer alive, and with a good vantage point. Wyll, Gale - control the chokepoints. Voss - I will leave you to command your allies.’

Mizora looks like she’s about to say something, but you cast her the foulest look you’ve ever given in your life and carry on.

‘As for the rest of us - listen for my orders. We must charge onwards, at all costs.’

You address every single person in the room, determination magnifying your voice.

‘We are all that is left between the Brain and Baldur’s Gate. But if we all play our part, we will be enough. We will triumph over evil today.’ 

A cheer goes up. With a last, restrained wave, Rolan steps back through the portal, and it closes behind him. You command your forces onwards, out into the gathering dusk.

Shots from the Cannon rain down ahead of you, lighting the sky with purple and blue fireworks. You see at least three Nautiloids felled, and more as Voss and his dragons finish off some of those damaged. Forging ahead, you march towards the High Hall tower, where the Brain emerges. It seems it is caught; it rumbles and shakes, but goes nowhere. An onslaught of flame and Absolutist forces faces you, and you plunge into the chaos with resolution, the battlefield cluttered and yet clear in your mind. Pawns and rooks and clerics in a game of lanceboard, falling like rats around a poisoned feast. 

Slowly, in fire and radiant light, their ranks clear, and your closest allies press onwards. None of them lost yet, though you dare not wonder about the others. The tower shakes and crumbles under Nautiloid fire; new infestations of Illithids and their Intellect Devourer kin appear around every corner as you scramble up the tower’s staircase, winding your way to the top. For a gut-wrenching moment, you think you’ve lost Astarion through the broken walls, knocked back by an explosion - but Lae’zel catches him, hauls him back up over the side, and you keep going. The moon has long risen, and you are nearly there, finding a pocket of safe haven within the wreckage. Gale passes out sleep potions, apologising that he hasn’t got more of them. 

‘These should perk us up. Whatever’s waiting for us up there will need all our strength.’ 

It is a welcome restoration. You’re so close, you can hear the squelching, slapping sounds of the Brain’s undulating wrinkles, and you can just about see the top, see the Crown that is your target. 

‘Orpheus, can you command it from here?’

~ I feel nothing from the stones. We must be closer.~

‘Gale. Have you got any Dimension Door scrolls prepared?’ 

‘A couple. But I don’t need one myself.’ 

‘Nor I,’ says Wyll.

‘Split into pairs. One caster, one ally. Or one flyer,’ you say, as Dame Aylin takes hold of Isobel. ‘We’re going up to the top.’ 

You did not anticipate the scene that awaited you. With Wyll’s help, the High Hall bubbles away from you, replaced with a sea of pink flesh beneath your foothold on the Brain’s carapace. But on that sea - a red dragon, and the Emperor. There is still some distance between you and the Crown, too far evidently because the moment Orpheus is teleported beside you he makes haste towards it. All you can do is run to keep up with him, hacking away at the visions the Emperor conjures to stop you. Behind you, you hear your allies shouting their targets, loosing crossbow bolts and pelts of thunder. 

The dragon swings around, aiming a blaze a little too high to hit that still bakes your eyes uncomfortably dry. You blink, and keep running, towards the Mindflayers guarding the Crown. 

More fire, from the Mindflayers this time, in thin bolts you lurch from side to side to dodge, feeling your arm guards heat where they catch you. Abruptly, you feel your mind seized against your will; the briefest of commands, to drop your sword, but one you cannot resist. Crouching to snatch it up, you spring to standing again only to see Orpheus meeting the Emperor head on in front of the Crown. 

‘Leave him to me!’ you shout, but he has no choice to fight back - Orpheus wilts, and then the Emperor recoils, seemingly trading psychic blows that the rest of you can’t see. ‘Isobel! Orpheus!’ 

‘I’m coming,’ she yells back, with harsh, desperate breaths and pattering, unarmored footsteps. ‘TE CURO!’

It’s enough to give Orpheus a slight edge. He blasts the Emperor back and you throw yourself between them, knocking him prone. With one great swing, you finally know the satisfaction of his conniving, manipulating brains meeting cold steel - and it is over in moments.

A bright red glow suddenly illuminates his dead body, and you wheel around to see Orpheus in full flow, Netherstones held out - a portal forming - 

‘Hold the line!’ you shout to Aylin and Jaheira, gesturing at the Mindflayers still threatening you. ‘We’re going in!’

The portal doesn’t lead forward; it tumbles you down, down out of the grip of reality and into the heart of the Netherbrain, like swimming through an eel’s slime into a nightmare. Your tadpole squirms and kicks, but it feels so far away - everything feels so far away. This strange dream populates with faces you recognise, Lae’zel and Gale and Astarion, Orpheus and Wyll, all converging, staffs and swords raised, streaming towards the brain within a brain, and as you look into it to drive your sword home, you think you see more brains, on and on into infinity, all bleeding, all bursting, all dying…

You’re dying. Liquid - the dream? - fills your lungs, your armour suddenly weighing on you again as you kick your legs and struggle. Two tadpoled months well-lived weave before your eyes; a life with few regrets, except that you could not have more of it. Rolan, you think, tongue too heavy to move. Rolan, are you there? We did it… 

With a huge gasp, you roll over and cough up sea water, the brine wracking your throat and chest. You feel light, and realise your armour has been peeled off. You see light - dawn is breaking - and the scaled arms of the waveservants, delivering your friends onto the dock beside you. More coughing. And then, the sound of magic, fizzing and crackling, hissing and bubbling, the sound of feet thumping. You turn, and Rolan collapses to his knees and pulls you tight against his chest. 

‘It is you! I saw - Gods, I thought you were - but you’re alive!’

His voice trips and rasps, and when you look up, you realise he’s crying. You seize him tightly, the strength gradually returning to your air-starved body, and suddenly tears are spilling down your face too. Tears of joy, and relief, even more when you realise - 

‘The tadpole is dead!’ 

‘Of course it is,’ he whispers, his voice hoarse. ‘The wretched Brain is dead, and all of Baldur’s Gate saw it die. You saved this gods-forsaken city.’

‘With your help - with everyone’s help - Gods - I have to - I love you.’

Thoughts of all the people you have to check on, your friends and allies, your promise to Orpheus, swim back to the surface. But all of that can wait for a moment. As the sun rises, you kiss Rolan with the tender certainty that there will be so many more days like this; free from gods and masters, from control and manipulation and fear. And the best way to spend these first free moments is with your salt-spoiled lips on his, kissing him like there’s no tomorrow when for once there truly will be. 

Chapter Text

You enter the portal just in time to hear Rolan curse in frustration and gesture angrily at the dancing lights above him, beside a table set for ten. 

‘For the Gods’ sakes,’ he mutters at the lights, ‘wretched, bastard lights, will you just bloody do as you’re told?’ 

You watch him quietly for a moment, admiring the elegant figure he cuts in his new midnight-blue-and-silver robes, as he fights to make the lights do - something? They look beautiful already, rippling like the aurora up to the roof of the tower and cascading in a shower of stars back down again.

‘Gods damn it!’ he snarls to himself, and you decide it’s time to intervene.

‘They’re lovely.'

Rolan jumps.

‘They’re not -’ He stops abruptly when he catches a glimpse of you. ‘My Gods. When did you get that?’

Your new silver gown glints under the lights and his appreciative gaze. It webs itself in fine gossamer around your upper body, the neckline diving deeper than anything you’re used to wearing, and pools in an ocean of glimmering fabric around your feet. ‘I sneaked out to Facemaker’s the other day, when you were reading.’ 

‘It’s - you look beautiful. Though I don’t remember being away from you long enough for that,’ Rolan says with a smile, as you come closer and pull him into an embrace. It’s true, you’ve barely been apart in the tenday since you defeated the Absolute, finding yourself drawn back into each other's arms each time you try to break apart. And now you’re kissing again, for the umpteenth time, and it still feels as fresh and wonderful as every time before. You run your finger along his jaw, tilt his face into yours, feel his lips opening to you…

‘Guests are arriving!’ Cal grunts, short of breath as he runs through the portal. Rolan springs apart from you.

 ‘Hells, the food isn’t here yet and these bloody lights’ - he scowls, running his hand through his hair, until he knocks his bun loose and then scowls even harder. ‘Oh for the God’s sakes! ’ 

Cal pulls a face and turns to go downstairs. ‘I’ll keep them busy until you’re ready,’ he calls back, sprinting away from the stress that Rolan is radiating. 

‘Rolan,’ you say softly, tugging at his hand as he tries to put his hair back up with far too much irritation to actually succeed. ‘Let me do it.’ 

‘Ugh. Fine,’ he says, and then smiles wryly at you. ‘I’m sorry. This will be a lovely evening. I just… wanted it to be perfect. Foolish of me, I know. But I want to impress your friends. Especially when we announce our engagement.’ 

You give him a gentle shove down onto one of the chairs, and start gathering strands of his hair, twining them in your fingers the way he showed you. Rolan finally relaxes a little. 

‘They’re already impressed, I promise you,’ you murmur. ‘No need to be so hard on yourself. Though I think I’m going to be telling you that until your dying day.’

He sighs, and laughs ruefully. ‘Perhaps. But I do appreciate it.’

With one last twist, you finish arranging Rolan’s hair, and lean down to kiss the side of his neck. ‘Let’s go.’

Downstairs, the party is already breaking out. Lakrissa, Roveer and a couple of the other Elfsong staff have finally arrived with steaming pots and pans, and Astarion has apparently convinced them to hand over the wine, cracking open a bottle with no regard whatsoever to appropriate guest behaviour. You can see Gale shaking his head, a loving smile on his face.

‘Here she is!’ Astarion calls, announcing your entrance onto the Sorcerous Sundries mezzanine. ‘Our wonderful leader and host.’ He waves the wine theatrically in your direction. ‘I hope you don’t mind!’

Rolan’s fingers lace more tightly in yours as you descend the stairs, teasing apart only when he remembers he has to pay Roveer. Gale seizes the moment to give you a hug. 

‘It’s so good to see you. I wish Lae’zel could be here. Our party is not the same without her frequent, and slightly peculiar, opinions.’ 

‘I know.’ It’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing Lae’zel is out there somewhere in the planes, doing great things, leaving you to miss one of your closest, strangest friends. But she’ll be back, no doubt. 

‘And what about me?’ Astarion demands. ‘Are you going to give me a hug too, or are you trying to steal Gale away from me? I know you have a taste for wizards, but I thought you had your hands full already.’ 

Your eyes flick over just in time to see Rolan blush. He busies himself with organising the dishes, directing the Elfsong staff upstairs. 

Astarion palms off his bottle on Jaheira, and you give him the requested hug. 

‘It’s not fair, you know. I tease you about Rolan constantly. You could at least return the favour. Why not ask me a pointed question or two? How about, “Is Gale’s tower is as impressive as he always said it is?”’ 

Gale fires back with mock outrage. ‘Astarion!’ 

You turn to greet Jaheira, welcoming her with a handshake.

‘Who else are we waiting for?’ she asks.

‘Wyll, Aylin and Isobel,’ you say, just as the latter two walk through the door. 

Rolan reappears at your side just in time for Dame Aylin to clap her hands on both of your shoulders. ‘It is a night for celebrating, my friends! The full moon is out, and we have come ready to share in your feast, and to proclaim our victory to the Moonmaiden herself!’ 

You grin at Rolan’s confused face. He hasn’t seen Aylin happy before, and it’s an experience few would forget. 

‘I hear I have you to thank in part for saving my love?’ Isobel asks Rolan. 

‘It seems a long time ago now,’ he says quietly. ‘Not that long, I suppose, to everyone else. But an eternity to me. I hardly know the man who wanted to be an apprentice to Lorroakan so desperately. With that fight, I cast him off and never looked back. It seems to me that I should be the one thanking Aylin.’

That memory will never stop being painful to you. Softly, you rub your thumb against the inside of his palm, reminding him that you’re there. That you will always be there. 

‘That might be,’ Isobel says, ‘but I will always be grateful, to both of you. And the others, of course.’ 

She moves over to greet Jaheira, to swap their news of Selunites and Harpers, and you start to wonder if Wyll is coming at all. You fear he might feel ill at ease with the people who saw him at his lowest - but you hope otherwise. 

Rolan nudges you. ‘I think we had better start. Before the food gets cold.’ 

You nod reluctantly. ‘I’ll bolt the doors and be with you in a moment.’ 

But you don’t get quite that far, because Wyll arrives through the door just as you reach it. 

‘The Blade of Frontiers has arrived. Late again, I know,’ he smiles, as you give him a hug and lock the doors behind him. ‘But I am eager for some dinner, and good conversation about something other than city taxation.’ 

Upstairs, you usher Wyll to his seat, and take yours next to Rolan in the centre of the table. Rolan’s magical lights play over the silver of your gown and his robes, dancing over you both like a glamour. Isobel and Aylin are full-throated in their appreciation of them, gasping as each green and pink bubble bursts in a spray of white sparks. 

‘Almost as pretty as you, my love,’ Isobel murmurs to her. 

The sound of wine being uncorked, lids being lifted, spoons beginning to clatter - you smile at Rolan, already safe in the feeling that tonight is going to be a good one. Chatter fills the room, and you give everyone a few more minutes to fill their plates and glasses before you stand up to speak. 

‘Before we begin celebrating, I wanted to remember those who died defending Baldur’s Gate from the Absolute. Every Fist, every Hellrider, every Harper, every civilian who gave their lives to protect others. And from the ranks of our friends and allies, Counselor Florrick, who led her personal guard into battle with immense bravery. May she stand proudly before Kelemvor.’

You stop for a moment and take a slow, steadying breath, folding the notes in your hand.

‘We also remember Orpheus. Without his sacrifice, the Absolute could not have been defeated. He was not of Faerun, but his bravery and selflessness saved it.’ The mark he left on you personally burns brightly in your lungs, seizing your voice. The resistance, and then the ugly, easy slide, of his chest beneath your sword. Rolan reaches for your hand and presses it. You squeeze back.

‘Lae’zel and Voss carry his banner back to the Astral Plane. The Prince of the Comet is gone, but his message will still be heard amongst the Gith.’

You raise your glass. ‘To Orpheus, Florrick and everyone who gave their lives for Baldur’s Gate. We will remember them.’ 

A sea of murmured thanks echoes across the table. 

‘And to the rest of us. Every single one of you played a vital part in saving the Gate. I wish Lae’zel could be with us today. She set aside everything she thought about istiks,’ - a laugh ripples through those who knew her well - ‘to charge into battle with us time and time again. I am proud to have fought by her side. I am proud to have fought by all of your sides, and of our allies - Duke Ravenguard, Zevlor, and Halsin - who are too busy remaking the Sword Coast to be with us today. Some of you may not know Cal and Lia well. They made this tower a safe haven during the final battle and risked their lives to defend civilians.’

‘Enough!’ Lia calls, embarrassed, but she grins. Cal punches her affectionately in the shoulder.

‘To Jaheira, the wise voice of reason,’ you continue. ‘To Dame Aylin and Isobel, the Moonmaiden’s might and grace. To Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers, and of our hearts. To Astarion and Gale, without whom I would have been dead by the roadside a long time ago. I could not wish for better allies. And of course, to my love, whose magic defended Baldur’s Gate when it was most vulnerable. When I awoke on the Nautiloid, I thought my life was over. But now, I count Tymora’s blessings, that I met and fought alongside all of you. I will be forever grateful to have you in my life.’ You check your notes, and smile. ‘And now, I leave it to Dame Aylin to proclaim our victory.’ 

She stands at one end of the table, and raises her arms as if to catch the moonbeams shining through the glass roof. 

‘Hear me, mother Selune! Hear me, o Moonmaiden! In your name, we have vanquished Evil and triumphed against Loss.’ Her words rumble through the floor and resonate through your chest, glowing inside you. ‘We celebrate our conquest, and promise to steward this land as a precious, hard-won treasure. To victory!’ 

‘To victory!’ the table echoes in chorus, and you add with a laugh, ‘Now eat!’, seeing Cal’s fingers hovering over his fork. 

Dinner washes past in a glorious symphony of wine and conversation. Rolan is keen to discuss his plans for the Tower with Gale; how best to share its magic with the populace, and organise its knowledge so that every mage can benefit. Wyll might have much to tell you all, of his time apart from you, but he notably prefers to talk of his father’s plans for the Gate.

Astarion drinks from a second bottle he’s brought with him. ‘I haven’t actually seen Gale’s tower yet, of course. He did make a lovely projection of it for me though. Nice and dark inside.’

‘We can’t leave for Waterdeep until I’ve finished fishing up the crown for Mystra.’ Gale adds. ‘Then I’ll be cured of this damned orb, and a certain thirsty vampire can finally have a taste.’ He winks at Astarion.

‘Gale!’ you laugh. It’s unlike him to be so… saucy. 

Astarion grins and looks over to check that Rolan is listening. ‘As if you’re immune to the charms of some sharp teeth sinking into your skin.’

Rolan chokes. ‘What? - No -’

‘Oh, you’ve never had a bite? Then I wonder who those marks on her shirt were from?’ 

Rolan looks like he’s in danger of sulking for the rest of the night, so you start to pile up the plates and give him a gentle shove. One day, maybe he and Astarion will learn to get along. You can hope, at least. 

‘Dessert?’ you whisper meaningfully. He nods, and in a few minutes, the table is clear except for your many drinks, and a delicious, freshly-baked cake. It’s time. Rolan looks at you nervously, and stands up.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ he starts, uncharacteristically quietly, then clears his throat and continues more loudly. ‘I have something to announce - '

‘Isobel,’ Astarion butts in. ‘How do you feel about a double wedding?’

Rolan makes an incredibly affronted noise. ‘What? How do you -?’

‘You’re getting married?’ you ask Gale, astonished. He nods and breaks into the widest smile you’ve ever seen, then pulls Astarion close, kissing his cheek. With a burst of joy, you jump to your feet and sweep Rolan into a kiss too. 

‘Bloody Astarion,’ he mutters into your ear when you let him go, his face flushed. ‘Yes, we’re engaged,’ he announces to the table and then a smile blooms on his face. ‘We’re engaged!’ He pulls you back for another kiss, even though Cal and Lia are right there and already cheering and whistling.

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you turn to see your friends’ delighted faces, and drink in their well wishes. ‘You’re all invited! And Isobel, we really would like you to officiate.’

‘Of course! Congratulations, both of you. And to Gale and Astarion too. Aylin and I would be delighted to bless your unions.’

Lia raises a glass. ‘To our newest family member. Congratulations on making Rolan smile once every other day.’

He smiles a lot more often than that. He’s still smiling at you, right now, with a sweetness you wish you could catch and keep forever. 

Cal grins and raises a toast to you too. ‘Plus, she saved my life. Twice. You should keep her around.’ 

‘I will. Always.’ Rolan’s happiness glows from him, as he looks from you to his siblings. 

Jaheira smiles. ‘I suppose you want some wisdom from me, cub. I wish I had more to give. Live a long time if you can, but however long your time together is, be sure that you appreciate every day. A long marriage and a short one are both just a sequence of days. It is up to you to make them worthwhile.’

‘I think that was a success,’ you say, as you return from locking up the Tower again, once Wyll has twirled his last dance partner and Aylin has eaten the last of the cake. Rolan is re-reading your speech notes, where you left them on the desk. Cal and Lia have gone off to their new bedrooms, downstairs in the former vaults, and now you are alone together beneath the Tower’s glass roof. 

‘I was just thinking about everything that has happened,’ he offers, in explanation. 

‘Anything in particular?’ 

‘Lorroakan. I suppose. Seeing Aylin again reminded me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you whisper, sliding your arms around him. 

‘Don’t be. It hurts. I can’t deny that. It was only a short few days but - I came too close to giving up on everything. I fought so far in the hope of a future, and thought it all in vain. I don’t love you because you saved me but - I will always be grateful.’

‘I didn’t - ’ Saving doesn’t seem the right word, not when he fought alongside you too. But you know what he means. ‘You changed me. I lived my life without thinking about myself, sure that I’d die one day in battle, unremembered except for some good deed. If I was lucky. I thought I should be the first in line to every danger because nobody would miss me when I was gone.’ 

‘I cannot imagine that. You make friends easily.’ 

‘In the army, everything is temporary. Recruits come and go, get posted elsewhere, quit or die. I had no-one close. Until Lae’zel, and Astarion, and Gale. And you. You know why I chose not to become Illithid. I thought of all those people, and I hated to let go - but if it wasn’t for you - ‘

‘Don’t say it.’ Rolan gathers you closer with his arms and tail. Your cheeks touch. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ you murmur back. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking. Now that I’m free of the army and the tadpole, I still want to fight for good. To help others. I thought - maybe I should take a Paladin’s oath.’ 

Rolan peels out of your embrace just enough to look into your eyes. ‘You know that whatever you choose, I will support you. But I don’t think you need some rigid oath to help others, or to know right from wrong. In my experience, you do it anyway.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ you say, and smile. ‘You are wonderful. I can’t wait to marry you.’

‘I can. If Astarion is going to be there,’ Rolan jokes, and then is serious. ‘No. I can’t wait either. I am bound to you already, in ways no vow could ever come close to. But I want everyone to know that I feel that way.’

A teasing itch twitches at your lips. ‘Maybe I should carry you across the threshold of Sorcerous Sundries afterwards. When it’s open, of course. Then the whole city will know how we feel.’

‘Absolutely not -’ he starts, but as you sweep him into a bridal carry, his tone abruptly changes. ‘Hmm.’ 

Rolan squirms slightly in your arms, breathing hard, looking at you with sudden intensity -

‘Ow!’ 

His teeth nip the exposed skin of your shoulder, hard enough to draw blood, and a bolt of lust streaks through you. 

‘If you wanted to be fucked,’ you murmur, slamming him down on the desk, ‘you could have just asked.’

You get nothing but heavy breathing in reply. Rolan looks at you with wide eyes and open lips, and when that doesn’t immediately make you fuck him he starts to writhe suggestively, trying to press his hips into yours. Heat swells within you at this vision of desperation, this beautiful, handsome man in his Archmage’s robe, wanting nothing more than to be yours.

The squeak of the desk drawer interrupts your thoughts. Looking down, you see Rolan’s tail nudging it open, and inside are a few things you left the last time you fucked in here. Including - 

‘Oh, I see.’ You grab the leather harness out of the drawer and hike up your dress to fasten it around your hips, stroking your strap-on cock with deliberate slowness. Rolan bites his lip so hard it bleeds. 

‘Oh Gods.’ 

‘Careful what gods you pray to,' you tease. 'Do you really want any of them to see this?’