Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

With a final blow from the druid’s staff, the Gur dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Karlach let loose a sigh that turned into a raspberry. She scratched the back of her head, before turning to Astarion. “So, what’d you do that pissed Szezzie off?”

Astarion opened his mouth to explain, but the druid cut him off before he could start.

“Doesn’t matter. A word, Astarion,” they grunted, hauling him into following them, their hand clenched tight around the neck of his armor. He stumbled after them, still reeling from the fear and outrage as they let go of him. They leveled an unimpressed stare his way, arms crossed, tail moving angrily behind them.

Seconds stretched as they refused to speak, staring sharply through him like he was a puzzle for them to decode.

Well, fine. If they insisted on being childish, he would start, then.

“What in the Hells were you thinking?!” He didn't bother to keep his fangs passably hidden because, well; they sure hadn’t, it was only fair. “You told him! You utter moron, do you have any idea –”

“Why is there a monster-hunter after you, Astarion,” they asked, voice low and rumbling with a growl. Their eyes still burned like shards of ice.

Astarion swallowed heavily.

“ Cazador ,” he spat, beginning to shake. “ He sent the monster-hunter after me.”

Szeryn didn’t look convinced. “How can you be sure?”

“ Because ,” he snapped, “It was a gang of Gur that attacked me that night in Baldur’s Gate. Had Cazador not appeared and saved me, I would have died.” He couldn’t control the trembling; his hand shook as he pressed his fingers to his mouth, pulling off his glove and clamping one of his nails between his teeth.

Astarion could still recall the awful feeling of fangs sinking into his throat. What a cruel salvation that had been.

“Still, monster-hunters working for a vampire?”

“Well, obviously they don’t know they’re working for him,” he scoffed.

The druid pinched the bridge of their nose, expression twisted in open frustration. “But why send them now? Surely he would have noticed your absence before, you've been stranded with us for days.”

They didn’t believe him.

How stupid was he, of course they didn’t believe him! He hadn’t told them of every cruel impulse his old master had inflicted on him, they didn’t understand. All he had to do was explain, rationalize it, and hope they saw reason.

“It was a message for me – a reminder of his power. Even in the middle of nowhere, I can’t escape his reach. He wants me back. Maybe to make an example of me, to show what happens to runaways! Whatever he wants, it isn't good! I'll be starved, beaten, or thrown in the Kennels and–”

“Shh, shh – alright, alright.” Their warm hands pressed to his cheeks and jaw.

They were gentle, careful of their claws and of straying too close to his neck and mouth. He didn’t understand why, but Astarion found himself relaxing as they told him to breathe. The druid gazed unblinkingly into his eyes, unflinching and kind once again, even if the angry crease between their thick brows remained. He studied them; the gentle slope of their heavy-lidded eyes and their thick eyelashes, the deep wells of shadow punctuated by the violet ring of their irises, how the crushed dust and charcoal they smeared around their eye-sockets every morning made their eyes look much bigger, and wider, than they really were. It had been a little unsettling, at first, but now it was just… comforting.

“It’s okay, you’re safe – I won’t let him take you,” they said, and the feeling of comfort vanished.

He pulled away sharply with a mirthless bark of laughter.

“ Safe ? You think I'm safe?! Oh, no – he is a vampire lord : he can turn himself to mist, summon packs of wolves, turn into a bat, and shrug off blows like they're nothing. He could sneak into our camp and slaughter you all with his bare hands, before any of us knew he was even there. And you would be lucky if death was the worst thing that happened to you,” he corrected harshly. He gnawed anxiously at his nail, eyes darting to each shadow frantically.

“Alright, okay,” they soothed. “None of us are safe. What do you suggest we do, then?”

Why were they asking him? They were the leader, they were the one who planned things. What was he meant to say when he didn’t have anything more than the faintest traces of an idea?

What should they do? Gods below, if his head would only think of anything besides red eyes watching him from the shadows, or how Cazador would punish him for his latest disobedient bid for freedom…

(The taste of iron — blood — flooded onto his tongue as his nail tore. Warm hands guided his own away from his mouth, glowing with healing magic.)

“Well, first we should– Er.” Damn it all. Astarion just couldn’t think. “I don’t– I don’t know , but for a start, we kill every monster-hunter on sight.”

They blinked. Slowly, they raised a skeptical eyebrow. “ Every monster-hunter?”

“We can probably make an exception for Wyll,” he conceded, “Probably.”

Szeryn huffed, amused. “Alright, every monster-hunter excepting Wyll. What else?”

Wait. No, what were they doing?! They couldn’t just agree with him, he wasn’t done explaining! How would they know he was useful if he didn’t convince them he was worth it?!

A pit began to form in his stomach, a feeling of discomfort brought on by the druid’s blind acceptance. They looked at him, waiting patiently for him to respond. Astarion reluctantly took the time to actually think about it, still feeling quite out of sorts.

(When was the last time he didn’t have to babble out hasty excuses, begging for even a single thread of respect? When was the last time someone had simply… taken him at his word? Especially after he had snapped or lashed out.)

“Just, keep watch for anything lurking in the shadows,” he said, watching them intently.

They were holding his hand, squeezing tightly enough that it maybe should have hurt, but instead he felt grounded. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding with it.

“Alright, we’ll start a rotating watch,” Szeryn decided.

He felt his shoulders slump with relief. They had listened to him, even with his lacklustre justification. They tugged him back toward the others, and didn’t let go of his hand. Astarion stared, unable to parse through what he was feeling, only that he felt like there was a lump in his throat. Under that, there was something almost warm and almost alive that curled in the space under his ribs.

The longer he spent with them, the more the blasted druid confounded him.

Absently, he began stroking the side of their thumb with his own.

☙ ⛤ ❧

Anger flared and festered in Szeryn's chest when they thought of the words Astarion had spat at them. Most of what he had said were cheap insults — Szeryn didn’t often let other people close enough that anything they said could truly hurt. He had been lashing out, and probably didn't mean any of it. Probably. They hoped.

Telling them they were desperate for someone to care, to mourn them when they were gone, well. That had stung.

It wasn’t that he had insulted them. Much worse things had been hurled at them over the years, things that made them so angry they couldn’t sit still. Things that propelled them into motion to just stop the person from speaking . Even if it made them angry enough to burn everything they touched to ash, they were used to it — they were used to others being cruel, used to the scathing words their own brain hurled at them. But he had used the one thing they’d told him, in a moment of solemn contemplation and sorrow. They had been vulnerable, trusted him, just for a moment. Then he took the first opportunity to spit on it and threw it back in their face.

So, fine. He wanted to be cruel? He wanted them to stop bending to his every whim? Then he would get what he had asked for, and they would make sure he knew just how much grace they had been giving him.

But, even if they had been angry with him, Astarion didn’t deserve to look as afraid as that monster-hunter had made him. It was like a bone-deep terror had taken him, and he hadn’t been able to relax since. The anger had left Szeryn as quickly as it had come, and it left them feeling awful. He clutched their hand tight, thumb tracing a line over the bones as he followed them in silence, and all they could feel was the terrible guilt raking at their insides. They would have to apologize. Later.

It wasn’t like they had to apologize right away, they could still leave him on tenterhooks. His words had been cruel, and he could stew in the guilt for a bit. It was the only thing that was going to make them feel vindicated; they still felt spiteful. (It was likely he wouldn’t be apologizing to them for his cruelty, but that was fine. They were used to it.)

Usually, Edrin’s wise words were enough to keep the petty, ruinous urges Szeryn harboured at bay. Their temper had a long fuse, they’d been told. That didn't mean they didn't have one, and their grip on it had been particularly lax, of late.

Astarion had never been in any real danger, they wouldn’t send him back to the monster he had escaped from just because he’d been cruel to them — Szeryn wasn’t that spiteful. But, Astarion didn’t know that. The shaking fear and hysterical cackle that had loosed on them after was burned into their brain, squeezing around their ribs and clinging to the lump in their throat. They would have handled things differently, if their thoughts hadn’t been drenched in bitter hurt.

Astarion’s fingers laced with theirs, his grip making the bones in their hand creak. Szeryn might have bruises on the back of their hand, by the end of the day. They let him cling to them. (It felt like penance.)

Something else he’d said, before the insults, crept across their mind to chew a hole through the thin veil of anger and frustration: ‘ how far would you have let me take this?! ’

It made a different kind of lump form in their throat.

No matter how they came across, Szeryn was not sheltered from the horrors of the world. They may not know what Cazador had done to him, exactly, but they could imagine. Though he’d told them very little, what he had told them didn’t paint a happy picture. Szeryn was smart enough to be able to intuit that he had given them the lighter version. They knew how it felt to be helpless, just as Astarion did. The difference was that they’d had time to have different experiences, to have the curse carved from their senses. Even if they were scarred, they still knew with absolute certainty that they were the master of their own fate.

It was the cognitive dissonance between his increasingly emboldened teasing and the abject horror when he thought his advances were unwanted, that worried them.

Szeryn didn’t think of themself as inexperienced. Sex was one of those things that so-called “civilized folk” had decided you didn't speak openly about, if you wanted to seem at all respectable or polite. One of those things Szeryn would never understand, right next to trading metal for goods or services, or bathing with your clothes on.

Animals mated freely, relying on instinct without thinking overly much about it. Thinking creatures were different — mating for them was more complicated, filled with pitfalls and circular logic that bred confusion. It wasn’t as simple as Szeryn often thought it should be. In their opinion, you either liked someone or you didn’t, and Szeryn didn’t bother hanging around people they found loathsome. When it came to sex, their thoughts were much the same: if they didn’t like something, they firmly put a stop to it; if they liked something, they let it continue.

Szeryn was used to men not questioning it when they were distant, or aloof. They just took what Szeryn allowed them to, then said their goodbyes. That had always been fine by them, they didn't particularly care for the idea of anyone's fumbling hands on their body, unfamiliar with the way they were built, and trying to prod pleasure out of them like it would just magically happen if they were rough enough. Szeryn knew their body better than anyone else, and that had been preferable to the idea of a stranger touching them with clumsy fingers.

Perhaps Astarion needed reassurance, to know that he wasn’t pushing them past breaking, because he didn’t know his own limits. He hadn’t had the time to learn them, or even listen to them.

Szeryn was naturally soft-spoken; they didn't try to be flamboyant, or loud, and they didn’t like to draw attention to themself, even though it ended up happening more often than not. They had learned, through feverish kisses stolen behind bars and taverns, that most men preferred them passive. People liked them to be something they could use, a nothing-shape that could be anything they wanted — they liked thinking they were in control.

Most men assumed they were timid. Maybe they had been, at first, content to follow another’s lead until they found their own footing. But Szeryn had always been a fast learner.

As they had followed more of their instincts, found what came naturally and what didn't, they discovered that people often said one thing when they meant another. Szeryn, on the other hand, simply didn't bother with that nonsense and most people, apparently, found them off-putting. No one really liked who they were, they just liked that Szeryn was pretty.

As long as they gave someone what they wanted, they were tolerated. Until they got boring, or a bit too comfortable being themself, and then they were quickly tossed aside for someone more personable.

For years, after they left Baldur’s Gate, it had grated on them. It had cracked something in their chest every time they were rejected for just existing how they were, in a state that wasn't a performance for anyone else. It didn’t grate on them any more. Instead, it was just a cage that they had grown used to. The teeth-gnashing, howling creature shut behind the bars in their mind, the thing that they had to pretend they weren't if they wanted people to like them, wasn't pleased by the cage. But it was tolerated, and that had to be enough for them.

Over the years Szeryn had learned that they could be honest about who they were, but only if they phrased it coyly, as a joke or a question. They were pleasant, kept all the fun tidbits of knowledge and their fascination with poisons in a cage chest in their head; they were quiet, but not too quiet, they were eager, but not too eager, they were enough but not too much .

It was exhausting. But it made people like them, and they liked it when people liked them. They wanted people to like them, desperately. But they just weren't likeable.

So, they didn't know how far they would have allowed him to take things. They knew how far they had allowed other men to go, before they put a stop to it, but they actually liked Astarion. More than they had liked anyone in a while, really. He was silly, and clever, delighted by the littlest things, and horribly curious. Szeryn already knew that they wanted to kiss him, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that they were not normal.

It wasn’t normal for the amorous touches of someone you were interested in to make you so on-edge you felt sick. It wasn’t normal to be unable to stomach someone touching your skin, not unless you gave them something first. Whatever Szeryn was — a feral beast playing at personhood, the weary keeper of the memory of a dead girl — ‘normal’ wasn’t part of it. They had long-since accepted that. But their acceptance didn’t stop it from hurting when others found out, and no longer wanted anything to do with them. Often, that left Szeryn to make the first move, to distance themself before anyone could get close enough to really break them.

It was terribly lonely, even if it saved them the hurt.

That was partly why they hadn’t stopped him when he was draining them dry. It had felt like something cold and desolate inside them was warmed by his touch, by him being close and simply holding them. They hadn’t wanted him to stop. If they had stopped him, he would have left. It was selfish, and they hadn’t wanted to address it further, too ashamed of their own weakness to even bring it up.

They hadn't wanted to push him, either. They had recognized something of the hurt they themself felt, and they hadn't wanted to hurt him more.

Szeryn was beginning to see that that hesitancy might have been a mistake.

They sighed heavily, shooting a glance back at Astarion. He stared blankly at their joined hands, his thumb still tracing light little patterns on their skin. The rest of his hand changed the strength with which he gripped them — soft, then hard, fingers squeezing before he relaxed his hold, then doing it over again. It looked like he was thinking quite hard about something, and Szeryn was reluctant to interrupt whatever thought he was putting so much focus into.

A little crease formed between his brows, the smile lines on his cheeks growing stark as his mouth twisted for a moment. Szeryn tried not to think about how those creases would move if he smiled at them, soft and real. How they would feel against their palms, if they allowed themself to cradle his face. How his teeth would collide with theirs if they kissed his smile. They already knew what his lips felt like against their skin.

It was hard, trying to reign in the wild beast in their chest. It was overdramatic, and quick to become attached to anyone who gave them a second thought. The beast wanted Astarion to see them, to understand. It wanted him to pick the locks to the cage, throw the doors wide, and let them run free.

But that was dangerous. If there was no cage, no performance of personhood, all that was left was the feral beast. The one that was off-putting, violent, hurt, and so angry. There would only be the beast, the burdensome and hateful creature that it had been so easy for their aunt to leave behind. That thing wasn't something to be cared about, no matter how Szeryn ached for it.

It was too easy for people to sink knives, daggers, arrows and swords into its sides, too easy to gut the creature and leave it dying in the mud in Szeryn's ribs. The beast was unarmed, it wore no armor. It was a limping, piteous animal that Szeryn guarded and shut away in equal measure.

They turned their gaze away before he could catch them staring. (He didn’t like it when people stared at him.)

Turning to less perplexing matters, Szeryn thought of the approaching confrontation. Surely not every druid in the Grove agreed with and approved of what Kagha was doing, but what if they did? What were they going to do? How were they going to protect their kin? It was possible they could be leading their companions into a fight they couldn't win. In which case, maybe it was better for them to cut them loose. Karlach would likely still insist on going along, but Shadowheart and Astarion… They had nothing to do with this. They were neither tieflings nor druids.

Both of them could simply walk away, leaving them to deal with the situation on their own. Perhaps they should. They still hadn’t made their way to the goblin camp, despite that being the most promising lead on their parasite problem. If they took the rest of the group and went on without them—

“Whatever you're thinking, just stop it, would you?”

Szeryn’s steps faltered as Shadowheart sharply reprimanded them.

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” they lied defensively, making a halfhearted attempt to pull their hand from Astarion’s grasp so they could cross their arms.

Shadowheart’s armor clinked as she sped up so she could glare at them. She didn’t say anything, but her unimpressed expression spoke loud enough that they understood her all the same. Szeryn pursed their lips, feeling somewhat cowed.

“Look, you didn’t agree to help. I did. This is my mess, both with the Circle and my kin. You would be well within your rights to just go back to camp–”

“Don't you dare think about depriving me of a proper fight – I need blood,” Astarion cut in, his nails digging into their wrist.

“I can give you blood once I’m through–”

“Darling, delicious as you are, I would greatly like to hurt someone .”

Well, alright then. It seemed their well-meaning attempt at selflessness was unwanted.

(Once again, Astarion had agreed to help them. Even if it was mainly out of his own self-interest. The thought made them want to purr, so they kicked it down and shut it away.)

Looking at Shadowheart, they asked, “And you’re in agreement?”

“Oh please, spare me the self-righteous, overly protective routine.” She rolled her eyes, jabbing her finger into their chest. “If I thought you were a truly awful leader, I would have said so by now.”

Szeryn ducked their head, nodding, and tried to swallow the lump in their throat as their eyes stung.

“Should I be offended that you’re not trying to talk me out of coming along,” Karlach called from behind them, and Szeryn felt the attention of their companions slide away from them. Astarion’s hand slid out of their grip, and they found that they could breathe again.

Szeryn swiped at their eyes subtly.

“Knowing you, I assumed you would be excited to bash some heads together,” they shot back. “I’m not an idiot, Karlach. I know when a battle is pointless.”

The laughter of their companions lightened the weight sitting on their chest, filling their ribs with a similar fizzing feeling to what they felt when Astarion pinned them with his attention. No matter how selfish it was of them, Szeryn really was glad they weren’t going into this alone.

When they arrived, the contented feeling that had filled their chest vanished. The tieflings who had raised the gate were absent, replaced by druids in plain flowing tunics. The Grove was full of an anxious energy that hadn’t been present previously, their kin more agitated as they went about their preparations. The tieflings in half-plate metal armor, who usually roamed around on guard, clustered around the opening to the cave Zevlor had set up camp in. Arabella and her parents sat with the man who had been instructing the children on self-defense, Umi sticking close to Arabella and another girl, thin and bird-boned, with tight curls pulled back in a puff behind her horns.

Arabella waved when she caught sight of them, but tellingly stayed close to Komira and Locke instead of running to greet them.

Cal and Lia sat to the side, entertaining a silent boy. Lia gave them an uneasy look as they passed, and Szeryn fought the urge to reassure her with empty platitudes.

As they neared the clearing, the merchant children were conspicuously absent. The cart that held the wares they had been scamming people with was still there, but the children themselves were nowhere to be seen. Szeryn hoped they were alright.

The druids guarding the clearing glared venomously as they passed. Karlach blew a raspberry at the woman, Jeorna, that Szeryn had squared up against that first day when they’d arrived. They quickly pulled her away, before the bear wildshape could graduate from merely growling, to trying to maul them all. There would be time to fight later.

“Szez, do druids always give you dirty looks? Or is it just these fucks,” she asked as they neared the door, one large calloused hand falling onto their shoulder. Szeryn paused.

Could they afford more animosity to be directed at these druids? Was it worth it to try side-stepping the question? A quick glance at the faces of their companions, the curious, questioning, or worried expressions they wore, and Szeryn reluctantly acknowledged that the plain truth was owed.

“It’s not as uncommon as I’d like,” they admitted with a sigh, pulling the carved stone door open with magic. “It isn't normally this apparent, more unspoken rules I have to follow that no one else does. This is born of something other than prejudice.”

Karlach squeezed their shoulder, a comforting presence, and they began to descend into the Sanctum.

The druids milling around the grass-covered main chamber grew tense as they strode toward Kagha. The rats that usually scampered around her feet scurried to form a little line of infantry, squeaking shrilly. Kagha turned, shutting the tome she had been leafing through, and fixed Szeryn with a detached look of expectation.

“Ah, so you have returned.” She stepped lightly onto the grass, setting down her book on the stone table before turning back to them. “Well?” she prompted, waving her hand.

The last time they had spoken with her was when they had provided a distraction for Astarion while he stole the key to that hidden chest. They had hoped, maybe naïvely, that some time would have softened the sting of the theft, and she would be convinced to halt the ritual. She wasn't. Or, at least, Szeryn hadn't been able to convince her.

Now, it seemed she was back to assuming she could command them about as she saw fit.

Szeryn was rather tired of her treating them like an ignorant initiate, and Astarion had used up most of their capacity for being pleasant. (They really did want to bite her head off, crunch her skull between their jaws.) Instead, they jerked their head to signal Shadowheart. She nodded, reaching into her jerkin to retrieve the note.

They didn't bother with the innocently curious act, or putting on a sheepish smile. It hadn't worked on Kagha after that first meeting, anyway. “Well what,” they asked flatly, “Is there something you want to say to me?”

She sneered, crossing her arms. “ Well , hellspawn? Can I expect you and the rest of your kind to be departing soon? Or must I remove the outsider rot myself?”

Behind them, Szeryn heard Karlach’s quiet snarl and felt a flare of heat at their back. They coiled their tail around her forearm without a thought, continuing to stare Kagha down coolly. They cocked their head like a bird of prey.

Szeryn didn't speak for a good minute, letting the uncomfortable silence fester. When they didn't blink, her face spasmed strangely as she shifted on her feet. Her ears twitched, flicking back as she looked away. They smiled, knowing it was all teeth, wide and mean.

“That won't be necessary, I've spoken with Zevlor.”

Szeryn met Kagha’s gaze as she looked back at them, and held it. They watched her begin to shift in discomfort. Gradually, vertebra by vertebrae, they straightened to their full height, clenching their hand around the scorch-stained wood of their staff. It began smoking as their hands burned, fitting into the grooves seared into the twisting branch from their long years of wielding it.

Kagha huffed, scowling. Her eyes flicked to the thickening trail of smoke coming from their hand, and her nose wrinkled. “So what are you still doing here, then? Escort them out.”

Szeryn curled their lip, making their expression threatening as they fully bared their fangs to her. Satisfaction lit in their chest as she made an aborted movement to instinctually step away, face going ashen as they snarled menacingly.

“I’m not here for my kin,” they rumbled, “This is personal, now – you made it personal when you decided to perform the Rite of Thorns on the grove.”

Her expression soured, but before she could respond, Szeryn cut over her.

“Do not try again to excuse yourself, I have had a rather long day, and I have run out of patience for your disrespect.”

Kagha scowled, but said nothing. They almost wished she would be more combative; then they could justify biting her head off, and ending this quickly.

When she still didn't reply, Szeryn sighed and said, “Are you going to tell them, or shall I?”

That made her pause. Kagha blinked, her brow furrowing. “I don't know what you mean,” she tried, and Szeryn rolled their eyes.

“Does the rest of your Circle know you’ve made allies of the Shadow Druids? That you plan to convert the Grove to the Circle of Shadow, and elect yourself as Head Druid?”

Their question echoed around the chamber as all activity came to a screeching halt. The rest of the druids, those who had only passively been paying attention, stopped what they were doing to watch their confrontation intently. The silence was heavy, thick.

Parchment rustled as Rath read the note Shadowheart had given him, his age-creased face growing slack with horror. He looked up to regard Kagha with wide eyes. “Kagha, is this true?”

Her face went pale. “Where did you get that?”

Szeryn planted their staff in the dirt, folding their hands over the top to lean on it with a casualness they didn't feel. (One move, just one wrong move; give them a reason .) Their tail whipped behind them. “Inside a very old, very magical tree that you so generously led us to.”

Kagha’s head whipped around to face them again.

“Choosing that place to meet really wasn’t as clever as you thought it was,” they drawled, “A place with that strong of a connection to the heart of the earth? Please. I may be irritable and impulsive, but I’m not stupid . You can’t have expected that you would get away with this plot of yours.”

She bared her teeth, bristling, and Szeryn could have laughed. (Give them a reason, just one reason, and this would be over. Just one reason, and her skull would be a bloody mess sticking between their fangs.) The spines along their tail flared, flashing in the gloom as their tail flexed.

They scoffed. “Keeping a copy of Faldorn’s Canticle in the library? Along with instructions of where to find the incriminating note? Really, I wonder how you ever became an Archdruid at all. You are easily led, and a fool – and your teacher must have been an idiot not to recognize that.”

The druids around them murmured, collectively shuffling away as the smell of smoke grew stronger. All but Rath, who continued to furiously read over the note in stunned shock. Szeryn paid the rest of them no more than a passing thought, attention still focused on the adder hissing angrily in front of them.

They thought again of what she had said when they had first met her, how she had tried to ply them with coin to help the tieflings back on the road. She didn’t want them dead, she just wanted their kin to leave .

Kagha was more concerned with the health and safety of the Emerald Grove than she was with the lives of innocent refugees. As much as they disagreed with that, they could also see where she had gone wrong. Szeryn began to see an opening. If they could convince her to turn on the Shadow Druids…

But then they wouldn’t get the satisfaction of continually menacing her. They would never feel her skull crunch between their jaws. The Elders of their Circle would frown in disapproval, if they could see Szeryn’s thoughts. (Fuck’s sake, they just wanted to bite someone once and not feel guilty about it after!)

Reluctantly, they put the prospect of personal vengeance aside.

Perhaps, if they could show Kagha the corruption she had let fester, they might begin to live up to Archdruid Edrin’s expectations of them. It would make convincing the rest of the druids in the grove easier, if their acting First Druid was, at the very least, non-hostile. Szeryn was powerful, but they really were tired. They didn't want to have to fight their way past innumerable druids convinced they were a threat.

“Do you feel what you are doing to this place,” they asked her softly, biting down the insults they wanted to shout. “You are killing it. You're choking the roots, cutting them off from the heart of the world. Everything in this grove – the trees, the grass, the rocks and animals – you're squeezing the life out of them, Kagha.”

Kagha said nothing.

“Do you really know what will happen, once you’ve succeeded?”

She remained tight-lipped, but sweat was beginning to bead her brow.

“Do you even care,” they questioned, and she glared venomously.

“Of course I care! Everything I have done, all of the blood spilled and the vitriol I have endured – it has all been to protect this sacred grove! To remove the rot infecting it! In shadow we will be protected.”

“You keep saying rot like it’s an end,” Szeryn mused, “But it’s not. Life and death are a careful dance, a give and take. When one thing ends, something new begins. Rot sustains creatures and plants that feed on death, it becomes fertilizer for the trees, and nourishes the network of mycelium deep in the ground. It's a cycle: everything that dies will in turn enable something else to live on. Rot, disease, and death are not evil things, they’re part of the balance of the world.”

Szeryn gestured to the space surrounding them. “You claim you’re protecting this place, but all you’re doing is suffocating it – burying it, like a scared hare burying her kits.”

“At least I had the courage to do something,” Kagha spat, gesturing violently, “Instead of sitting back and allowing the outsider corruption to creep in!”

The rats at Kagha’s feet began to shift, shedding hair and tails as they grew in size. Szeryn watched as the Shadow Druids dismissed their wildshapes, eyes narrowed. An elderly halfling woman stood, glaring up at them. Dark marks were painted on her face, and a headdress of antlers sat atop her unruly pale hair.

“I've heard enough,” the woman said. “You’ve been poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, tiefling.”

Szeryn sneered, hands tightening over their staff and claws digging into the wood. “I belong here, protecting this place,” they replied, staring coldly down at her. “Your ideology is a poison, sowing discord and ruin.”

The woman scowled, thin lips growing thinner as she bared her dull teeth. “You're arrogant, for a flea-ridden outsider,” she hissed, the leather wrapping her hands creaking as her fists clenched.

Szeryn felt cold fury burning inside their chest, left over from their argument with Astarion. “Whether I'm an outsider or not, tiefling or otherwise; whether I have the approval of the druids here and their permission to intercede, or not – none of that matters to me.” They clenched their teeth, gripping their staff so tight the wood began to crack from the heat and pressure of their hands. Szeryn stared down their nose at the woman, envisioning her bursting into flames and screaming in agony as she turned to ash. In their mind, it sounded like sweet music.

The lines of scars around their mouth ached as they snapped, “I am not an initiate, freshly baptised into the arms of the Treefather, nor am I an ignorant child. I am a druid of the Circle of the Moon, and it is my duty to burn out corruption when I find it, and keep the balance of things. I have nothing to prove to the likes of you.”

The druids clustered around the chamber were silent, looking on intently as the Shadow Druid woman stared them down. They watched as Szeryn stood strong, unwavering in the face of her contempt. The other Shadow Druids watched their leader, eyeing Szeryn warily when their tail began to sway.

Maybe they looked frightening. The thought made them smile.

They were right to fear Szeryn, and they should be afraid. The Shadow Druids had tried to dig their venomous tendrils into the roots of this Circle, birthing corruption and threatening Szeryn's kin in the process. Whether Kagha saw reason or not, they were going to right the tipped scales and heal the unbalanced core of the grove.

The Shadow Druids were going to burn; the only thing that remained to be seen was when.

Rath spoke again, his shock and horror turned to outrage. “Kagha, what have you done?!”

She turned, hissing, “I have done what I must! Halsin withdrew from his duties long before he left with that insufferable band of adventurers! I have been acting as head of this Circle for years, watched destruction and foulness creep ever closer to this sacred grove, and what did he do?! Nothing!”

“Master Halsin–”

“Halsin is weak, a cowardly old fool !”

Rath looked like Kagha had slapped him. He hung his head, expression pained. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, and soaked in sorrow. “I saw your ambition, the danger it brought, but I stood by even as my heart cried out that you were going too far.” He closed his eyes, standing and stepping forward. “I have had enough of this madness. They are right, Kagha, you are killing Silvanus's Grove, and I trusted you too much to stop you.”

Kagha pursed her lips, trembling. “I– I didn’t–”

“No,” Rath barked, holding up his hand. He squared his shoulders. “There are no words you can ply me with that will regain my trust. Perhaps if you had told me when you were first contacted by the Circle of Shadow – but it is too late now.”

Kagha suddenly looked like she was about to cry. Her expression reminded Szeryn of a scolded child, one who had never been reprimanded. She looked at Olodan, then back to Rath.

“I only wanted to protect our home, please believe me,” she whispered.

Despite their dislike for the woman, Szeryn's heart ached. It was clear that she held Rath's opinion of her in high regard, and his disappointment had made something in her break. They could empathize with that. With a deep sigh, they stepped forward and relaxed, opening their posture.

“Kagha,” they tried again, “I'm urging you to think about this. Properly think. Look around you, look at the history this grove holds.” They gestured to the frescoes — the murals of an alliance, the founding of the Emerald Grove, the march of druids and Harpers against an army of shadows. “Would you deny the world the chance to learn, to grow and change, with the knowledge of this Sanctum? Would you deny future generations of druids the ability to tend to the Grove, to protect this place?”

Kagha looked at them again, her eyes misty and wide. “I–”

“Kagha,” Olodan snapped, warning her. “Remember your place. Remember what’s at stake.”

“For as long as I can remember, I have felt the heartbeat of the world,” they told Kagha, ignoring Olodan completely. “I can feel the energy in this grove. I can feel the life sprouting from the ground, and the protection that shrouds this place – and I can smell the unnatural stink of the corruption you’re bringing, soaking into the ground, from the ritual you started.”

They took a deep breath, letting go of their staff, letting it fall to the ground as they took another step forward.

“This grove is dying, Kagha: you're killing it,” they pleaded.

One more step, and they reached out, taking her thin, delicate hand between their own. She jerked as she felt the heat from their hands, tears spilling down her ashen cheeks. Szeryn held her tight, made her feel the warmth from the fire in their veins, made her feel how their heart beat in their fingertips. They reached down, through the rock and earth, and began to pull at Toril's heart, pleading with it to “let her see, let her feel, she needs to be shown what she's doing, words aren't enough.”

With a rumble that vibrated through them, Toril answered.

Kagha gasped sharply, looking down at her feet as the ground thumped beneath them. Wind swirled in eddies around their feet, snatching at their clothes and whipping their hair about. The water in the deep basins rippled, and the rock groaned. Dark, poisonous veins of corrupted ichor spread like viscous black spiderwebs, originating from where Kagha stood. Infecting the entire grove.

She stared, mouth agape and horrified, as the necrosis squelched and pulsed, almost as if it were a living monster. The grass turned brown and brittle as it spread, the earth soured, the poison of the ritual sinking into the ground to sap the life away and leave nothing behind.

Kagha jerked away with a cry, and Szeryn let her go. The wind wailed, clawing at her hair until it fell around her shoulders like a veil of flame. Kagha covered her face, shaking. She took a heaving breath. She sobbed.

Szeryn sighed, letting the spell go, and stepped back. “You see? Silvanus doesn’t stand for this . As long as you continue on this path, you are more of a poison than outsiders will ever be.”

They waited with bated breath, unsure if they had been heard. Kagha’s thoughts were a mystery to them, her face veiled by her hair as it was.

Finally, she stood, and turned to Olodan. So quiet they could barely hear, Kagha said, “I had forgotten what balance really is… In the past when shadows rose, we were the ones who brought the light. We pushed the darkness away. I let you poison my thoughts. I allowed you into this sanctum, and followed your lead in killing what I hold most dear.” She took a shaking breath. Then, louder, “They’re right: I have poisoned this place, and brought discord to our Circle. The Rite must be stopped.”

A wave of relief swept over Szeryn.

Then Olodan lunged, fur bursting through her skin, and the Sanctum descended into chaos.

☙ ⛤ ❧

Astarion had been surprised to hear the druid declare that death wasn’t evil, or an end. It struck something of a chord with him, touched a raw, vulnerable thing that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge. At least their foolish acceptance of his whims made more sense.

Luckily, he didn’t have much time to dwell on any of it. Mostly because fighting druids was generally terrifying.

With more physically imposing adversaries, he preferred to launch ranged attacks. If he were only dealing with the shape-changing, maybe that would be enough, but no ! The world just loved to kick him when he was down! Thrice already, Astarion had been the target of a moving ray of moonlight, and it seemed the tadpole was quite picky about how much radiance was “too much”. As if the magic didn’t make things challenging enough, there was the fact that, when a druid reverted to their original shape because of an injury, the wounds didn’t carry over! So if he wanted to hurt one of them permanently , he had to make sure it was when they shifted back!

He was hesitant to call them monsters, if only because he was beginning to appreciate their own druid, but this battle was growing to be a bit one-sided; and not in his favour. Astarion was beginning to understand the point Szeryn had been trying to make, when they called his little outburst the hissing of a feral kitten. He decided that, if he made it through this battle, and they were still cross with him, he would start to try to make it up to them.

Szeryn seemed to be holding their own well enough against the druid leader. They were a larger wolf, but their size didn't seem to hinder their speed, and the only thing he was able to make out was a blur of grey and white fur, as they fought.

Shadowheart was elsewhere, providing a healing hand, or a mace glowing with divine light, as she was needed. She stayed as far away from the fighting wolves as possible, but Astarion was impressed by how she managed to control her fear all the same.

Still, with those two occupied, that did leave him to fend for himself.

At least Karlach had decided to flank him, doing her best to guard his back and give him split-seconds of cover. She was rather good at that, using the handle of her great axe to parry blows meant for him, then changing her grip to swing the blade and make an opening for him to strike. They made a good team, and he wasn't even afraid to admit it.

Something about the give and take of battle sparked the beginnings of a memory; it almost felt like dancing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion watched as Szeryn, white fur speckled with red from the wounds the druid leader managed to land, was sent sprawling. They hissed, rolling to a stop with their staff in hand and shed fur littering the ground where they landed. Before they could get up, the leader of the enemy druids lunged. Her gigantic wolf jaws, snarling and snapping at them, missed Szeryn’s head by a hair.

With their back to the ground, Szeryn had managed to hold the drooling maw of the grey wolf away by shoving their staff between her teeth. Even then, he could see their arms shaking from the strain, their sharp teeth grit in a concentrated grimace. They were losing ground, and wouldn't last much longer without help.

Astarion turned and pounced on the man Karlach was tousling with, sinking his fangs into the man's throat. He only got a mouthful of blood, swallowing quickly, before he picked up the sound of wood beginning to break.

Szeryn’s staff splintered with a sharp crack, and they stared for a moment, eyes wide in shock. All that was left were the uneven lengths they had been holding. The rest of it was inside a large wolf's mouth, or scattered in pieces over the muddy ground.

Astarion tore his fangs from the druid man's throat, and started toward them.

The druid-wolf lunged suddenly, snapping her jaws around Szeryn’s arm and shoulder. They let out a guttural cry of pain as she lifted them off the ground, and began shaking them. When she stopped, they hung limp from between her teeth. The ends of their broken staff dropped to the ground.

He moved without thinking about it, fangs bared and claws extended, leaping for her fur-covered throat, and a mess of thorny vines twisted around him as he made a misstep in his haste. Restrained, Astarion could do nothing but watch, as panic began to clog his throat.

They weren't moving. Szeryn wasn't moving. He couldn’t tell if they were unconscious or if, by some cruel twist of whatever fate he still had, they had died when another pair of fangs sank into them. Astarion might appreciate the grim irony of that, if he were in his right mind.

Then the acrid smell of burning fur filled his nose.

The leader howled, flinging Szeryn away as she caught flame. Astarion watched them dig their claws into the ground, skidding to a stop with half their chest blooming red. There were gashes all down their arm, ragged lacerations welling with blood, drenching their arm with a heavy veil as it hung limp at their side. A deep, hair-raising rumble echoed from them as their tail whipped angrily. Their face spasmed, like they wanted to make the toothy sneer bigger, open their mouth wider, show more of their teeth so the druid-wolf would know the threat they posed. Their eyes burned bright, flickering like balls of flame amidst darkness.

In his chest, Astarion’s heart beat once.

Szeryn's eyes glowed gold-green with magic, muscle surging under their skin, bones shifting as their body grew and twisted. A wave of dark, sleek fur erupted from the top of their skull as the shape compacted, the top flattening while their nose became a muzzle. Black and white dripped down their body, mingling into broad stripes of a glossy and shaggy coat. Wickedly sharp claws dug into the earth, extending from great pale paws bigger than his head, and a slender striped tail lashed angrily. The little round black ears pinned back against their head, and they finally bared their full, terrifying fangs, longer than Astarion’s hand. Their chest heaved, covered in tufts of fluffy white fur.

Szeryn opened their mouth, and roared.

Sound reverberated through the chamber, echoing louder and louder off of the cave walls. Then the big cat pounced, landing solidly on the druid-wolf, and beginning to rain a swarm of slashes and bites down on her. Until all that was left was the elderly halfling woman, laying bloodied in the mud under them.

“Let's get you free.”

Astarion accepted Shadowheart’s offered hand, allowing her to help him out of the thorny patch of vines. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the gigantic beast, snarling over the enemy druid.

They were as tall as his chest at their shoulders, standing on all-fours. A mass of muscle rippled under the fur of their back with every minute movement. From their still snarling maw, all of those big, pearly-white pointed teeth stood out stark against the mottled fur of their muzzle. A paw kept the druid woman pinned to the ground, as big as her torso, wicked claws digging into her clavicle to pull beads of blood up, and pool around the hollow of her throat.

Their bright blue eyes burned with fury, face twisted in a vicious glare.

There was no chance given for her to try and talk them down. One moment they were still, haunches dropped low to the ground and tail thrashing, and the next their massive jaws closed around the Shadow Druid's head, and it was over, the velvety fur around their mouth splattered with gore.

Szeryn pulled their feline head back, neck flexing as the woman's head came with them. They shook themself, their thick, fluffy coat rippling. Broad dark stripes along their back blended together, broken by faint slivers of silver glowing like the points of stars when they paced through a sunbeam, moving toward him.

Astarion took an instinctual step back as he was fixed with ferocious eyes.

Muscular shoulders and spectacular forelegs flexed as they moved, powerful and graceful, and terrifying. They were an apex predator, and he was abruptly, uncomfortably aware that he was sickly, weak; ideal prey. The back of his neck prickled. He almost felt like he was being stalked. They prowled closer, steps muffled by thick pale fur and paw-pads.

He swallowed heavily, staring mutely as they stopped a foot in front of him. Holding his gaze for a moment, the tip of their tail swayed.

Then they ducked their head, gently depositing the druid woman's severed head at his feet, and dropped back on their haunches to sit before him with a lowing groan.

Astarion blinked dumbly. He stared down at the slack expression and sightless eyes. He looked back at Szeryn.

Beside him, Shadowheart tittered, quickly pressing her hand to her mouth to muffle the sound.

Szeryn began grooming themself, licking the blood from around their mouth with a wide pink tongue, and made a huffing noise. It was almost a growl, but at the same time it wasn't. It was hollow-sounding, rhythmic, coming from their throat. Their breath was hot and wet as it pushed his hair back, and their tail slid across the ground behind them. They stared at him, apparently waiting for something.

He frowned, clearing his throat, and gingerly toed at the severed head. “Darling, I don't know what you expect me to do with this. I drink blood – I don't eat flesh, or brains, for that matter. I'm not some ghoulish zombie.”

Szeryn seemed to think about that for a moment, blinking slowly, before they got to their feet, trotting back to where the rest of the enemy druid lay. They carefully picked up the corpse, cradling it like a kit in their mouth, and returned to set it at his feet. Astarion could do nothing but stare, rather perplexed by the way their tail began to wag. They rumbled again, their breath tousling his hair.

The body still leaked blood, but the flow had grown sluggish. It was hardly the most appetizing thing he had ever smelled. Still, it was warm, and even if it didn't taste like Szeryn’s blood, it was thinking-creature blood. He could appreciate a gift when it was dropped at his feet. They watched intently as he fed, their tail still flicking occasionally. Once he was done, they made that curious huff once more.

Astarion thought they looked quite pleased with themself.

Shadowheart was, apparently, much less apprehensive at being faced with a tiger than a wolf, even considering they were as tall at the shoulder as she was entirely. She stepped forward, raising her hand. Szeryn sniffed at it a moment, their black, triangular nose bigger than her palm. With more of the hollow huffing sounds, they headbutted her and began rubbing their face against her arm forcefully while rumbling. She just laughed softly, and began to scratch their head, ruffling the soft-looking dark fur between their ears.

“You took our little talk to heart, I see,” she teased, digging her hands in their cheek-fluff and shaking their head. Szeryn let her, making more huffs. Their ears swivelled, showing a pair of white spots on the back of them.

He wasn't jealous, he told himself, as he watched Szeryn’s eyes slide shut in contentment. Astarion was not jealous, and he definitely didn't want to sink his fingers into the plush silvery fur of their cheeks, or the mottled black and white fluff on their belly. He didn't want them to lick his hand, or headbutt him, or curl around him like an overly affectionate house cat, or lay their round, solid skull in his lap.

Szeryn pulled away from Shadowheart to blink at Astarion. Then their head slammed into his chest so hard they nearly knocked him over, proceeding to cover every inch of his chest in pale shed fur as they rubbed their face against him.

He complained, loudly, about how they were going to break his ribs with such brutish behavior. If he also gave them a few gentle scritches behind their charming fuzzy ears, no one else seemed to notice.

Gods damn it, he was starting to like them.

☙ ⛤ ❧

Szeryn had left Kagha to relay the situation to the rest of the grove. It was her mess, after all, and they had done enough helping for one day.

As soon as they had dropped their wildshape, they'd been pulled aside by Healer Nettie, who was determined to fuss over them. The gouges Olodan had torn into their arm and shoulder weren't that bad, but apparently she was worried about them completely losing the use of their arm. Because they were tired, and because they still reeled from the confrontation, they sat on a stone slab and let her.

The rest of the druids in the sanctum, the ones who remained, seemed to be waiting for whatever came next. Szeryn’s companions stood off to the side, blood-spattered and bruised, but alive. The grove druids gave them a wide berth, Astarion especially. They supposed that was fair, he had completely drained Olodan’s body, in plain view. They’d caught some mutterings of something relating to “undead filth,” as Healer Nettie had led them away, but a glare and sharp snarl from them was all it took to shut them up. Szeryn wasn’t worried. None of the druids here would try anything, not while they were nearby, with Olodan’s blood and sinew still stuck between their teeth. Astarion was their ally, under their protection — he was, if not safe, not in immediate danger here.

Besides that, it seemed most of the druids still in the Sanctum felt it was too soon after their chastisement to try anything. Given it took nearly all of Szeryn’s effort, at times, to stand upright and walk straight, that was fine by them. They’d given their warning, the Shadow Druids’ bodies lay soaking the floor in vindication, and justice had been dealt by their spilled blood. Szeryn had done what they set out to do, and there was nothing more to be discussed.

“Thank you, for what ya said,” Nettie murmured as she helped them out of their cuirass. “Kagha has always been a bit more… volatile. She took to the Treefather’s teachings like a fish to water, but she’s less experienced. Beyond this grove, she hasn’t seen much of the world.”

Szeryn blinked, turning to watch Nettie as she began to carefully wash their wounds. “What do you mean? That she’s barely more than a child?” Kagha hadn’t struck them as childish, misguided certainly, but she seemed to speak from some degree of experience. She wouldn’t be an Archdruid either, if she had only seen twenty summers and winters.

Healer Nettie corrected them with a laugh. “No, no. She’s grown. Just, not by elven standards. She hasn’t yet seen a century, that’s why she thinks she knows better than everyone.”

Ah, that they understood. She wasn’t a child, then, but still inexperienced. Naïve. She didn’t yet know the weight of death, or its true role, and didn't know the heavy feeling of ending a life with her own hands. If, as it seemed, she had only ever witnessed hardship as an outsider, the ease with which Olodan had convinced her to turn on her own convictions was more understandable.

“Elves are strange,” they said, without thinking. Immediately they tried to backtrack, stammering, “Not unlikeable or anything, I only meant–”

“Peace, child, I know what ye meant.”

For some reason, Szeryn didn’t feel chastised or looked down upon when Nettie called them ‘child’. It felt more like their aunt, or Edrin. A sudden sharp pain lanced through their chest as they thought of them. They decided to change the topic.

“That branch you tried to poison me with, do you still have it?”

Nettie paused, eyeing them warily. “Aye, I do, and I am truly sorry for that.”

Szeryn shrugged unthinkingly, and Nettie rapped them sharply on their knee.

“Be still,” she chided without heat.

“Right. Sorry. I was just wondering if there were any more poisonous things you could show me? It’s a bit of a personal interest.”

Nettie’s smile was warm as she hovered her hands over their arm, palms glowing with magic light. “Well, after all you’ve done for me and my home, I think that’s quite a reasonable exchange on my end.”

Szeryn spent as much time as they could following Nettie around, listening intently as she told them about some of the more rare specimens she had collected over the years. The vial of Wyvern poison, it seemed, had only been one of many, though she was reluctant to part from the rest. When Szeryn asked about how Nettie created an antidote for a particular poison, they were pleasantly surprised by the passion she spoke with. They absorbed every piece of information she shared, and even gave her some as well.

“I met a drow alchemist in a tavern,” they explained, when she asked how they had learned to make a poison that puts one to sleep. “He seemed happy to write the recipe down, and then talked about Underdark flora for another hour. I think he would have gone on longer, but it was nearing dawn, and I had to get back before my Circle noticed I had left.”

Nettie chuckled heartily, mixing together an anti-toxin. “Must have been exciting, not many people get the chance to meet drow and sit down for a chat.”

Szeryn snorted. “I know. I thought Astarion was part drow, at first. It was the walking-in-sunlight that threw me off. I don't think he would have been able to hide his nature for long anyway, even if starvation hadn't forced his hand.”

“Aye, a vampire walking in daylight is a rare sight indeed. It's a wonder no one was hurt, before the truth came out.”

Szeryn didn't respond with more than a nonchalant hum. They didn't care to correct her that, if he had gone on starving for much longer, someone much more important and valuable could have been lost. Instead, it had only been Szeryn, and while they were strong, and good at keeping fights from breaking out, irreplaceable was something they weren't. Shadowheart could heal, Gale could solve puzzles or reason his way through passable alchemy. Karlach could help Wyll, could aid him in coming to terms with his new features, and Lae'zel had a better idea than any of them about how to handle the tadpoles. All Szeryn was useful for was providing another barrier between tougher foes, and members of their party who were more squishy.

The sight of Astarion, shaking after the scrap with those gnolls, still made them feel like an owlbear protecting cubs. He could take care of himself, he had proved that more times than they could count, but still. Szeryn couldn't shake the impulse to secret him away, away from anything that could harm him. It troubled them, more than they cared to admit.

“Child, I don’t mean to pry, and Silvanus knows you’re probably aware already.” Nettie frowned up at them, giving them a careful look. “But vampires, the undead, aren’t the best company to keep.”

Szeryn sighed, crossing their arms and leaning their hips against the work-table. They looked out at the open bowl of the Sanctum, quickly finding Astarion standing as close as he dared to Karlach. They watched as the two traded words, Karlach throwing back her head with a bellowing laugh at something he’d said. Astarion grinned sharply, an elegant hand balanced on his hip jutting to the side, the other playfully twirling a dagger through his fingers. His lips were still stained with blood.

Rubbing their newly-healed arm, Szeryn turned away again.

“I know,” they said quietly. “But neither am I.”

“Be that as it may, yer no cursed creature,” she replied. Her voice was gentle, but her words made something in them prickle uncomfortably. “What you said about death: it's true, but there ain't nothing natural about the reversal of it.”

“‘Be that as it may,’” they parroted scathingly, “I won't condemn someone who had no choice in becoming what they are. For me to turn my back on him now, ignoring all that I know, would be the height of hypocrisy.”

Nettie was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was sad. “You remind me of Master Halsin. Some call him ‘coward’ or ‘fool’, but I see his same wisdom in you. You've had to fight for a very long time, I wager, and I am sorry that it was up to you to fix our mess.”

Szeryn stared, unseeing, at the stone floor, their eyes stinging suddenly. They hunched their shoulders, unable to run, and unable to deflect as they were pinned by Healer Nettie’s attention. “You're wrong,” they managed to croak around the lump in their throat, “I'm no wiser than anyone else. I'm not a leader, I just lied my way in and no one questioned it.”

Everything in them burned with shame as they gave voice to their actions. Truly, there had to be something wrong with them if they were so terrified of being alone that they would trick an entire group of strangers into staying with them.

Seeming to sense she'd said something to upset them, Nettie gingerly patted their hip in an awkward attempt at offering comfort. “Well, if it’s any consolation, you’re welcome back here to ask about poisons and antitoxins. Any time ye like,” she told them with a kind smile, handing them the brewed antidote. They took the out before she could think better of giving them one.

“I don’t think we’ll be back until the road is clear again. But thank you, all the same.”

Without another word they grabbed their cuirass and re-entered the bowl, making a bee-line for their companions. Before Szeryn could reach them, Kagha descended back into the Sanctum, looking contrite. They made a valiant attempt at simply putting their head down and walking past her, but it seemed she had more to say to them, and stepped into their path.

“Moon Druid,” she began softly.

“Just call me Szeryn,” they replied, cutting her off. “And if you are going to drop another pejorative at my feet, I will remind you that I still have the sinew of the last woman who pissed me off between my teeth.”

Kagha’s shoulders hunched, and she seemed to wilt. “Yes. That is, partly, why I wish to speak with you. If I may.” Their eye twitched as she still refused to move.

“Speak then. But don’t expect me to listen.” Szeryn stepped to the side, intending to walk around her, but once more she moved to block their way.

“Please! I have done much to wrong you, when you deserved none of it. I only want to apologize, and to thank you.”

Against their better judgment, they stopped trying to escape and fixed her with a vaguely curious look. “Why? All I’ve done since my arrival is destabilize your Circle, make them question your judgment, and, I'm assuming, bring down punishment on your head. You have no reason to be grateful.”

Kagha shook her head, eyes wide as her hands folded together in front of her chest. “I needed to be questioned! I threw away my teachings in favor of Olodan’s fear mongering. I knew it wasn’t right, somewhere, I think we all did. But no-one spoke up, not until it was too late. Only one druid spoke for the grove, only one acted as a druid should .”

Szeryn swallowed heavily, a leaden, heavy lump of dread sinking through their stomach as she praised them. “No, that’s not–”

Kagha raised her hands and drew them together, gold-green light beginning to shine between her palms. At her feet, a hole began to open in the ground, growing wider and deeper as she pulled her hands apart, eyes closed in concentration. From deep in the blackened shadows, something glimmered, reflecting the light radiating from her hands. Kagha turned her palms upward, raising them toward the root-covered ceiling, and from within the hole in the ground a glimmering, twisting staff began to rise.

Szeryn was aware of the activity within the Sanctum once more slowing to a stop, of the eyes of several druids turning their way. They felt the back of their neck prickle, an ugly, crawling sensation creeping up their spine. They swallowed heavily, trying to ignore it.

Finally, as Kagha finished drawing on the magic, the hole in the earth closed. She stood before them, holding a staff in her hands reverently. It was smooth, sleek and beautiful, made of wood that was so pale it almost shone white. The top ended in a twisting flare of tangled spires, almost like a lace fan some noblewoman might tote about at a fancy party. Beads of amber and small uncut emeralds sat amidst the flared branches, catching every bit of light and reflecting it.

A burst of warm wind emanated from the staff as Kagha held it out to Szeryn, shifting their plaited hair against their back. They stared with wide, horrified eyes as the young woman knelt, bowing her head and holding the staff aloft.

“For your service in protecting The Emerald Grove, I name you, Szeryn of the Circle of the Moon, as Faithwarden,” she announced, her voice echoing with magic and finality.

A cacophonous gasp echoed through the Sanctum. Szeryn could do nothing but take the staff, feeling rather numb, as Kagha all-but pressed it into their hands.

She spoke softly, her head still bowed, but even then her voice carried. “You were the only druid who put my people, and my home, first. You were an advocate and a voice of reason who refused to not be heard, and you have my eternal and solemn gratitude.” Kagha smiled as she stood, stepping back to an appropriate distance to regard them with a new respect. “You are the roar of the flame, and the shriek of the wind. Wherever you travel, Circles will hear your words and regard them like the warmth from the sun.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Szeryn stared at the ornate staff in their hands, pale as the moon and pristine, despite having passed through the earth to reach Kagha’s hands. They felt like they were drowning, a low buzz of panic radiating from the base of their skull.

Then, from behind them, a voice murmured, “Faithwarden,” and they turned to see Healer Nettie standing in the doorway to the infirmary; her head bowed, right hand loosely cupped to her sternum in a sign of deference. Suddenly the call rippled outward, a wave of the title and the proper respect it commanded. Druids that had glared at them suspiciously because of their horns, their tail, bowed their heads, pressed their hands to their breasts, and echoed the susurration of, “Faithwarden,” with the reverence of a prayer to the Treefather himself.

Discomfort made their palms itch. This shouldn't have been happening. They wanted to throw the staff to the ground in protest. They wanted to run, cry, scream that they had done nothing worthy of this, that they were nothing, had nothing worth respecting.

The thoughts swirled around their head as Kagha apologized, caustic hissing whispers of ‘liar, fraud, imposter, cheat,’ that nearly drowned out the rest of the world. They silently led the way back through the grove, every druid they encountered catching sight of the staff they carried, and quickly bowing their heads as a show of respect. It made Szeryn want to run, flee to the ends of Toril, and hide.

They clenched their hand tight around the smooth, unfamiliar wood of the staff — ‘Pale Oak’, Kagha had called it — and kept their eyes glued to the ground in front of them.

They missed the flame-scarred branch they had carried. It had never been important enough to need a name, it was just an extension of them. A tool they used. But it was splinters, shattered by Olodan’s snapping jaws, before they had torn her head from her body. Pale Oak felt large and unwieldy in comparison. It was meant for someone who was a leader, a druid who held such faith and conviction that they were able to guide others, someone that could be trusted. Szeryn was not that druid. They were irritable, contrarian, rebellious, and stubborn. They were not Faithwarden, they hardly had any faith at all. Gods and rules meant nothing to them, yet Kagha had Named them, and none of the other druids had protested.

Blind fools, all of them.

Szeryn led the others in a daze halfway back to the camp, feeling like a storm cloud had taken root in their chest, coalesced from all of their doubt and self-loathing. A roiling front of cumulus, hanging pregnant in the atmosphere of their mind, ready to release a deluge at a moment’s notice. They didn’t even realize Shadowheart had asked them a question until she swayed into them, knocking her hip sharply against their thigh.

“Szeryn.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been staring at the ground like it personally offended you for the past twenty minutes.” Shadowheart laughed softly, though her tone edged toward concern. “Are you alright?”

No. They weren’t alright. They had somehow tricked an entire Circle into believing them to be worthy of any sort of authority, or capable of carrying out any degree of responsibility. How could any of that be alright?!

“I’m fine,” they replied.

Shadowheart did not look convinced, but decided to let it go. Instead, she asked, “Well, now that that’s been dealt with, what do we do now?”

Astarion daintily cleared his throat before they could answer. “I, for one, would like to see what those Zhentarim have to offer. Who knows, they might have more valuable treasure we can use.”

Shadowheart frowned, looking sharply in his direction. “Zhentarim? You all met Zhentarim ? When?!”

“Back when Fangs, Lae, me and Szezzie fought those gnolls. The Zhents were cornered in a cave, and Szezzie stared them down until they gave us their loot,” Karlach explained. “Szez clocked them ‘fore I could. Recognized the name of their coin, I think.”

Shadowheart turned to Szeryn curiously. “How did you manage that?”

Szeryn shrugged listlessly. “Read it in a book,” they mumbled, and the rest of them seemed to take that as a sign to stop talking to them. Szeryn was grateful for it — they were exhausted, and trying to follow conversation when all they wanted to do was curl up in the dark and quiet and be left alone was almost painful. The guilt and shame of cheating their way into a title meant for someone more deserving hung heavy on their shoulders, but they would bear it. They had no choice but to; they didn’t have the luxury of falling apart over every little thing.

Camp was busy when they returned. Lae’zel and Wyll sat across from each other at the fire, drowning their good sense in ale with a speed Szeryn might have envied five years earlier. Lae’zel finished first, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and watching intently as Wyll coughed, sputtering as the drink spilled down his chin and chest. She leaped to her feet, grinning wildly as she crowed, “Victory! Once more, istik , once more!”

Wyll laughed good-naturedly as he tried to clean himself up. “You have won five times already, Lae’zel! I am beginning to wonder if you simply enjoy watching me make a fool of myself!”

“Failure is not foolish,” she hissed, “Merely a sign you must improve! On Crèche K’liir, such low constitution would be punished by your sa’varsh until you improve, or until you die. So go, istik ! Go, go, go!”

Szeryn blinked, watching the woman who had called him a “benevolent burden” goad him on until he was deep into his cups. They didn’t know what to make of it, nor did they have the energy to try and parse through what could have happened while they were gone. Instead, they ducked into their tent and tied the flaps closed, secluding themself as much as they could, without saying a word to anyone.

They held Pale Oak over their lap, hands clenched tight around it, and listlessly looked it over again. It was a pretty staff, well-made, meant more for ceremonial purposes than what their blood and soot-stained hands would use it for. Frustration made their fingers twitch. They contemplated breaking it, bringing it down over their knee and snapping it in half. Then, they pondered marching right back into the grove, cornering Kagha, and demanding she take the title and the damned staff back.

This, them appointed as Faithwarden, was glaringly wrong.

They had a list of all the things they had ever been called in their head, things that they knew deep inside their being to be truths about who they were. The Elders called them irresponsible every time they were caught sneaking out, or started a fight over something insignificant. Their aunt called them recalcitrant and meddlesome whenever they hid away for hours on end, only to be escorted roughly back to her home by the Flaming Fist. Rion called them bull-headed and irritable. Nameless strangers called them rude, oblivious, and uncouth. A particularly memorable man had called them “feral bitch” before they had slammed their forehead into his nose.

Szeryn wondered how anyone could see anything even approaching leadership in them.

Outside their tent there was a clatter and a thump, like something had wandered into their camp and was stumbling around.

Szeryn frowned, listening for Scratch to begin sounding an alarm, but he remained quiet. He had become quite useful for keeping watch, determined and eager to do a job, in return for the table-scraps Wyll kept tossing him when he thought no one was paying attention. It was likely one of their companions stumbling around, and not an intruder.

Sighing heavily, they set aside Pale Oak and got up to investigate.

They weren’t sure what they expected to see when they left their tent, but it wasn’t what they found. Astarion swayed around the abandoned center of camp, humming to himself. The cooking pot and ladle had been knocked to the side, presumably by him, and he sang softly as he righted them, giving the pot a little pat. His usual grace had left him, his steps clumsy and balance skewed as he stood, stumbling a meandering trail toward his tent.

Astarion looked, for lack of better words, completely sloshed. Szeryn must have shifted, or made some kind of noise, because the next moment he had turned, unfocused eyes searching in their direction, before he seemed to finally see them clearly. A wide, toothsome grin spread over his face, and they realized he must be really drunk if he looked that excited to see them.

He took a couple stumbling steps toward them, gleefully exclaiming, “There you are!” before he wobbled. Astarion’s foot dragged along the dusty ground a bit too much and he began to topple with a yelp, arms flailing.

Szeryn ran forward, catching his arm and steadying him with a hand against his waist. Up close, they could see his blouse had clearly been torn, a long gash on his chest just barely visible, and there were several minor cuts along his arms that bled sluggishly. They frowned at a particularly ragged scratch on his cheek. “Were you attacked? What happened?”

He waved them off with an airy noise, swaying into them.

“Are you drunk,” they asked, unable to help the concern that filled their voice.

Astarion made a valiant attempt at standing straight and staring at them haughtily, though it came off a little more like he was pouting. “I have drunk. Not wine, mind you – a bear .” Pure, unguarded excitement curled his mouth into a full smile that made Szeryn stop, in an attempt to memorize the expression. It was proud, and full of joy they hadn’t seen from him before. If they were to guess at the source of it, they would say he felt free.

“He took a little of my blood,” Astarion continued, “But I took all of his.” He fluttered his eyelashes, listing forward until it was likely that they were the only thing keeping him upright.

Szeryn smiled, feeling lighter for just a moment in the face of his accomplishment. “Bears are dangerous meals, I think we’ll make a hunter of you yet, Astarion.” That seemed to make him happy. They led him to the haphazard circle of logs around the dead fire, offering to help him with the wounds from his hunt.

“Well, so is any meal worth having.” Astarion sat heavily, loose-limbed and quiet as he watched them carefully take stock of his injuries. “Of course, it’s not as good as– er, other things I could be dining on, but it is leagues better than the rats and bugs Cazador served me before.”

Szeryn couldn’t help making a face. “Sounds delicious.”

“Oh, it was exactly as appetizing as you would think.” His almost carefree expression soured. “Still, that was the past. I’ll never have to grovel for him again.”

They smiled, inspecting the gash on his chest carefully. “That’s right, you have options. You can be better than what he made you.”

“Exactly,” he laughed, “I can be better than him! I can be stronger , more powerful , more–” he cut himself off as they gave him a look. “Oh. I see, you meant ‘be kinder’. Pet bunnies, that sort of thing. Help refugees,” Astarion scoffed. “I have no objections to being nice, of course, once I have the power to bend others to my will.”

Szeryn frowned. They remembered the conversation they’d had the day before, and the bitter look that had passed over his face. At the time, they hadn’t thought much of it. “It’s like I explained to you: they’re vulnerable, and no one else was doing anything,” they said. “If I have the power to do something, I can’t just sit idly by and watch as people suffer.”

“Why not? If you really wanted to help, why not just kill the druid woman and take over that grove yourself?” An uncomfortable, squirming feeling bubbled in their gut as he kept going. “You could wipe them all out, if you wanted. You could do anything you wanted, and everyone else would just have to go along with you.”

“You think that power lets you do anything, free of consequence,” they asked with a brittle rasp, their voice sounding unrecognizable. They clenched their jaw so hard they swore they could feel their teeth start to crack.

Astarion laughed. “Well, yes ! You can’t look at the world and tell me I’m wrong.”

Szeryn couldn’t look at him. Another puzzle piece clicked into place, one that made them almost sick with the sudden surge of contempt. Astarion could be cruel, he could be snippy and proud, but they had never thought of him as power-hungry before. They wanted to believe that he didn’t mean it. That Astarion didn’t really think so callously of the world, but they couldn’t find any evidence to prove it.

What was worse was that deep down, they believed it too. The world was cruel, the powerful went unchecked, and suffering could be endless. But even in the depths of their anger and fear, they had never wanted to become that which had twisted them unnaturally into a thing to be used. They had never yearned for the ability to use others like tools, as they had been.

“You’re not wrong,” they admitted softly, drawing back to fold their hands together in their lap.

“Ha! So you agree–”

“That doesn’t mean I agree with you,” they cut him off sharply, glaring. “Even if I can’t control the rest of the world, or what other people do, at least now I can control myself. Even if the rest of the world is cruel and acts with malice, I don’t have to.” A feeling of deep discomfort made a lump form in their throat that they struggled to speak around. “It isn’t that I couldn’t kill Kagha; I wouldn’t . No matter how much I wanted to for everything she said, I wanted to give her a chance to stop on her own. Being powerful doesn't free me from consequences, it burdens me with a responsibility to protect.”

Astarion rolled his eyes, scoffing, and turned away. He was silent for a long moment, looking at the dead fire. “No one did anything to protect me, not once in two centuries,” he said finally. “No one rescued me, or saw someone vulnerable suffering. I didn’t have some noble hero as my salvation – I had a ship full of Mind Flayers. Monsters saved me.”

Guilt washed over them like freezing water. “I’m sorry,” they murmured. There wasn’t anything else they could say, not to that.

They were sorry; sorry he had gone through any of what had been done to him, sorry that no one had helped, sorry that there wasn’t more they could do for him now. But hearing their regret and remorse wouldn’t fix anything, wouldn’t make any of it better. Szeryn knew that. They didn’t say anything else, putting the choice of whether to stay or leave in his hands. He stayed, sitting silently beside them, and their shoulders slumped with relief.

“I’m sorry I told that man who you were.”

Astarion made a questioning noise, turning to look at them.

“The monster-hunter,” they clarified. “I was upset, and spiteful, but I should have just walked away. I’m sorry I didn’t take your concern seriously.”

When he didn’t say anything, they chanced a glance in his direction and caught him staring at them in confusion. “Why are you apologizing,” he asked, like he wasn’t sure if they were joking or not.

“He frightened you,” they replied, “And I didn’t listen until you started shouting at me. That’s not something a good leader does, I don’t think.”

Again, Astarion didn’t seem to know what to do with that, frowning and blinking rapidly. Instead of saying anything else, Szeryn went back to his injuries. None of his wounds were dire enough that they needed to use a spell, but they still felt they should do something about them, all the same. They summoned a mage hand, sending it to go retrieve a healing salve from inside their tent. While they waited, they took the time to actually clean the gash on his chest. Astarion automatically loosened the lacing of his blouse, letting them push the fabric aside so they could see it better.

The fabric of his shirt was soft, worn and smooth. It almost felt like silk, despite the fact that it probably wasn’t. They absently rubbed his collar between their fingers.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

Szeryn hummed distractedly.

“Musing on… you. Your you-ness,” he continued. “And your neck. You have a lovely neck, did you know?”

“I didn’t.”

Astarion seemed to think for a moment, staring at their fingers gently prodding the gash on his chest. “It’s a very strong neck. Sleek, and warm, and incredibly nice-smelling. Like your hair, just not as soft.”

Only half-listening, Szeryn took the bottle from the spectral hand as it returned, holding it with their tail. They pulled the cork with their fangs and scooped out some of the salve, spreading it over his chest, using the sides of their fingers so their claws wouldn’t catch on his skin. “Mm. That’s nice.”

“Of course, the rest of you isn’t half-bad either.”

“Mm-hm.”

“So…”

When he didn’t continue after that, Szeryn paused, looking up. “So?”

Astarion had tilted his head, staring at them hazily through his eyelashes. He carefully raised his arm, reaching out, trailing his fingers teasingly up their throat until his hand cupped their jaw. “Why don’t we take an evening, get to know each other a little better?”

Szeryn swallowed heavily, unable to look away. His eyes were dark, catching the dancing light their tattoos gave off. His thumb stroked the hinge of their jaw, moving down until he could press against their pulse. He leaned closer.

“What do you mean?”

Astarion blinked, looking slightly taken aback. “Sex, obviously.”

Szeryn just stared at him. “What?”

His surprise flitted away, banished as he leaned in. Cool breath ghosted across their lips. “Come now, don’t be coy, your body has already given you away. I felt it, as I was getting lost in your neck. Your little shakes of excitement. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

Their hand was frozen, tense, pressed against his chest. It was the only thing stopping him from leaning further, they realized. Something strange was happening, something they didn’t understand. Astarion looked at them like he was trying to persuade them into giving him their blood, but they got the feeling it really wasn’t their blood that he wanted.

They tried to laugh, but it came out more strangled. “If you’ll remember, you did kill me.”

“Then let me make it up to you,” he coaxed, sweet as honeycomb.

Szeryn blinked. Nausea rolled in their stomach, and a cold wave of pinpricks ran down their spine. Their skin suddenly felt tight and restrictive. They felt stuck, frozen in place and turning to stone.

“You’re serious,” they whispered, horrified. They waited, hoping desperately that it was a mean joke, that he would lean away, laughing at them. He didn’t.

Szeryn hadn't thought he had been serious. They felt like bugs were crawling under their skin, feeling cold and hot, frozen and electrified, like the earth had opened under them and they were falling. Their pulse thundered in their throat like the pounding of a war drum, keeping time to the steady march of death coming closer and closer. This couldn’t happen, this couldn’t be happening.

They stood abruptly and Astarion fell back, blinking in surprise. Szeryn spared him an apologetic look, unable to catch their breath, stammered a quick, “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” then took off into the trees. Mid-stride they grew fur, form shifting and shrinking, and then they were dashing away on small black paws, heartbeat still pounding, their ears pinned flat to the back of their head. Their claws sank into the bark of a tall tree as they began to climb, and they didn’t stop until they were high in the air, invisible from the ground.

They clung to the branch they crouched on, fur standing on end and tail like a bottle brush. Their breaths came in heavy pants, chest heaving. Their claws sank so far into the branch that it became painful, but they couldn't calm themself.

They hadn't read anything wrong, they weren't seeing things, or being made fun of. He liked them. Astarion hadn't been teasing, not really; he had been flirting.

Szeryn didn’t understand. He had seen more of them than anyone else ever had, except possibly their siblings. Why would he still want them, when he had felt the sting of their spite, and other, less hurt men had discarded them for less? They had to leave. Before he made the grave mistake of caring, before he convinced them that there was something worth liking in them.

Before they tricked him into giving them his trust, and he found out just what kind of monster they were.

☙ ⛤ ❧

Astarion didn't understand what had just happened. The druid had been calm, playing right into his hands, and then they’d turned to stone. Then they ran.

He watched them turn into a cat that was dark as the night, then watched them continue to run into the forest until he could no longer see them. He didn't know what he had done wrong, but clearly it had been something.

Thinking about what he knew of Szeryn turned up worryingly little. They had no fondness for Gale, seemingly because he was arrogant and full of himself. Though, Wyll could also be rather arrogant, and they clearly held a degree of fondness for him. (Admittedly, it was hard not to, the man was altogether too charming.) They were private and serious, though not serious enough that it began to verge into not having a sense of humor. They were quick-witted, and had the good sense to deduce that Raphael was playing with them, but they had also openly antagonized the devil. Szeryn had expressed anger, multiple times, toward the elven druid woman. For nearly killing the child thief, for ‘corrupting’ some kind of natural balance, and for the way she spoke to them, but when the opportunity to end her had presented itself… They hadn’t taken it.

Szeryn had said they didn’t like people touching them. But it had never been a problem before, so Astarion had just assumed that they meant other people, not him. He had thought they seemed rather fond of him, in their own way.

Until they leaped to their feet, like they couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

It was rather perplexing, if he were honest. One moment they were leaning into him, their tail flicking so close to his foot he could almost feel it, and then they were gone. Astarion would never acknowledge it, or even admit it, but his pride was bruised; it hurt. For the first time since the beginning of his torment, he halfway liked someone, and as soon as he started liking them, they didn’t like him .

It was their loss, he tried to convince himself as he moved back towards his tent. That didn't stop the bitter thoughts, the disgust, or self-loathing.

Twice that day the druid had apologized for pulling away from him. He was beginning to think that, despite what they told him, all of the platitudes they had tried to distract him with, Szeryn really didn't have the faintest idea that they could say ‘no’ to him. The thought was absurd, really, because they had said no. Many times, in fact, and firmly.

But, in a way, they really hadn’t, had they. They had just left each time, like they were trying to remove some sort of temptation. From him. Which was either incredibly insulting, implying he didn’t have a scrap of self-control, or it was terribly familiar. He tried not to think about the latter option.

How was he meant to go about this, then? As much as he needed protection, they weren’t his only option — they were just the option he despised least. Everything was getting so complicated, though. He needed them to trust him, really trust him. There was nothing else he could do to achieve that, short of buying their pity with some grisly sob story, but he had already tried that, hadn’t he. So what else was there? Earnestness?!

Simply ridiculous, really. He had been luring strangers back to his master for near-200 years! Astarion had gained their trust, kept it, until he handed them over and he wasn't useful anymore.

One cagey tiefling with a passion for alchemy should not be this difficult! They were lonely! He was there! Everything was set up perfectly, but no , they just had to run away.

Was he really that repulsive?

Gods below, he really was hopeless.

Grumbling to himself, Astarion left his tent, and sought out someone who could handle the situation with more delicate hands. Even if he wasn’t able to charm them, he knew he was still safer with them physically in the camp, and not hidden somewhere in the woods.

☙ ⛤ ❧

Szeryn didn’t know how long they stayed up in the tree, clawing the bark for dear life and waiting for their heartbeat to slow. They only registered time passing by the sudden call of a familiar name, something that sounded similar to theirs, but not the same.

“Rynnie?”

Unbidden, a warning growl crawled up their throat. Wyll stopped at the trunk of the tree they’d hidden in. He squinted, looking up, carefully avoiding catching his horns on the lower branches. His newly red eye didn’t shine in the dark, casting light over his face, like theirs did. He barely stood out at all, in the dark shadows, even with their feline eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was cautious and searching.

“Szeryn? If that is you, and not simply a beast native to this area, would you come down?”

They hissed.

“Alright.” Silence, only broken by the sound of crickets and the flowing of the river. They felt a hollow ache sink in their chest at the thought of being alone again. Then, “I suppose I shall just have to join you,” he said, and hauled himself into the tree.

Szeryn hissed again, but allowed him to climb up to join them. It was only as he began to reach for them that their heart leaped into their throat, and they swiped out, claws catching on his hand. Wyll jerked sharply back, wincing in pain as blood began to bead on his skin. They growled louder, hunching close to the branch, their hair standing on end.

He frowned, the corners of his mouth creasing with concern. “Rynnie, what happened? Astarion woke me, he said you ran into the woods. It was quite the fright.”

Shame made their ears flatten even more, their tail twitching agitatedly. They lowered their head, but didn’t look away.

“I don’t mean to chastise you,” he continued, “I only want to understand. What happened to frighten you so?” When they didn’t answer, his expression crumpled, deep sorrow pressed into every gorgeous inch. “Please. Let me help you, Rynnie.”

Their chest ached as they shed their fur, paws growing and changing into hands, their horns splitting their skin as they erupted from their head like coiling spires of rock. They wrapped their tail around the trunk of the tree for balance, still squeezing the branch they perched on like it would keep them from erupting into flames.

Out of the corner of their eye, they saw Wyll smile. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Their jaw cracked as they opened their mouth, but no sound came out. Szeryn sniffled, feeling very small and pathetic in a way they truly hadn’t in many years. They tried again, managing to croak out, “Don’t know,” before it felt like their throat closed up.

Wyll sighed, looking out over the canopy lit by moonlight. “That’s alright. If my company can be a soothing balm to your troubles, I am content to sit with you as long as you like.”

“Don’t deserve it,” they pushed out in a strangled breath, watching as Wyll’s shoulders seemed to droop under an invisible weight.

“I believe you do,” he replied gently.

“Fool,” they hissed back.

Wyll smiled ruefully. “Maybe. But even if I am to be a fool, I will say with certainty that you, of everyone I have ever met, deserve kindness.”

Szeryn’s eyes stung, and they curled their knee to their chest. They looked down, glaring at the ground that disappeared into a haze of red, and then darkness.

“I am not who you think I am,” they whispered, after what felt like an eternity of silence.

Wyll said nothing for a long moment, before he carefully shifted to sit more comfortably, folding his arms over a branch as he faced them. “And who is it that I think you are?”

“Someone good,” they choked out, more words leaping to follow them like their bout of muteness had allowed them to build up on the back of their tongue. “A leader, a friend, someone worthy of respect and admiration, and trust . I’m not nice. I’m nothing.”

The quiet felt like a physical weight crushing their bones into dust, wringing their lungs free of breath. Szeryn waited for Wyll to slip away, to leave them on their own to lick their own wounds. Instead he stayed on his branch, gazing at them sadly. They tensed, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, Wyll sighed. “I am unsure of why you are so certain that you are some great monster, for I cannot see it. By my measure, you are one of the bravest people I have ever known, and one of the kindest as well.”

The tension in them snapped and they snarled. “Didn’t you listen?! I’m not nice! I’m angry, and wild, and violent! I wanted to kill Kagha from the second I met her! I wanted to feel her skull between my teeth , and I wanted to feel it crumple as the life left her body. I burn everything I touch, all I do is ruin things!”

“You let Astarion stay, when the rest of us were less than sure it was wise,” he cut in softly. “You always wander around camp, trying to make yourself useful in any way you can. You noticed Shadowheart was in pain, and made sure to check on her. You came to my tent after meeting my patron, not to lecture me, but offer comfort. You talked sense into me when we found Karlach, and you are always giving the rest of us little gifts you’ve bought or scavenged.”

“I'm a fake, and a liar,” they shouted over him, panic building in their chest. “It's what I do! I trick everyone into thinking I'm something they want, and then I walk away! I'm awful, a burden, and a coward! All I do is run away!”

Wyll gazed at them, his expression creeping away from mere sorrow and more toward absolute devastation. Szeryn squeezed their eyes shut, ignoring the sizzling tears on their cheeks, and turned away so they could hide.

“I am not who you think I am,” they repeated brokenly as their shoulders began to shake.

Wyll was silent for a long time. They waited for him to say something, anything. They waited for the sounds of him climbing down the tree, abandoning them.

“Do you know the tale of the mage and the Duke's son,” he asked at last, voice endlessly soft and lilting. Szeryn turned back toward him, finally opening their eyes and looking at him.

Wyll sat with his ankles crossed, bathed in silver light that caught on the faint ridges of his horns, the scars trailing down his cheek, and his good eye. He rested his chin on his arms, folded and resting on another branch. As soon as they looked back at him, his lips curled, and he smiled. The smile reached his eyes, making the corners crinkle.

Szeryn cleared their throat. “No. I don't know that one.”

His smile fell, just slightly, before he quickly picked it up again. It no longer reached his eyes. “Ah, that explains some things,” he murmured, looking away.

They were missing something, again. Szeryn was beginning to grow quite tired of the feeling.

“Would you tell it to me,” they asked.

Wyll's smile reached his eyes again, though it was still weighed down by sorrow. He turned back to them. “If you would like.”

The story he told was a sad one, of two star-crossed friends, and dark portent. He spoke of a mage who tried his best to entertain the Duke's son, teach the boy, and truly make him think. The mage was brilliant, full of passion, but anger, too. The mage told the Duke's son of the injustice he had witnessed, and the helplessness of being unable to stop it.

Wyll told them the story of a bond that formed between the two, only separated by a handful of years in age, and the way that the son of the Duke had grown to care for the mage as they both grew. Then he told them of the change. How the meetings they'd had grew infrequent, how the mage might suddenly be struck with pain originating from nowhere, and quickly flee.

The change didn't happen all at once, it seemed. The mage would still laugh, would still make the Duke's son think, he would still chase him around the park. The stories, however, gradually lessened until none were left at all. The tales the mage would tell the Duke's son of a mountain wreathed in flame, of rivers of fire and a place that winter never came to, stopped. The tales the boy had loved, of a family with fire in their veins instead of blood, and the girl who lived there, a girl with flame for hair and magma burning beneath her skin. The stories of a town, protected by the family, that made their home on the side of the mountain.

As the tales stopped, so too did the passion within the mage. The Duke's son didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. The friends fought, the boy attempting to convince the mage that he was in danger. The mage refused to listen, and told the Duke's son that he just didn't understand.

The friends only met one time after, before the mage seemingly disappeared for good. The Duke's son apologized, and begged the mage to forgive him for harsh words that had been spoken in pride and fear. But the mage didn't know what he meant. The mage did not remember the words, nor having argued at all. The Duke's son detected no word of a lie. The mage had simply forgotten the entire encounter.

They parted, promising to meet again and get to the bottom of this mystery, but when the Duke's son next went to their meeting place, the mage didn't come. He waited for hours, sitting there alone until it grew dark.

But the mage did not come.

The Duke's son waited for months, but never saw the mage again.

By the time Wyll finished the tale, the moon had climbed to her peak, and begun to descend again. Szeryn sat, processing it all.

They didn't see the point in him telling them all that. There was no connection between what they had told him and the story, if they overlooked the mage's abrupt forgetfulness. But Wyll did not know of the girl-child, their Before, or their patchy memory.

Szeryn sighed, “While tragic, I don't see what this has to do with me being a fraud of a leader and a liar, Wyll,” and stared out across the forest.

They heard him take a shaking breath. “It has less to do with that, and more my own perception of you,” he admitted. “You say you are not who I think you are, but have not once given me a rebuttal that is based upon my own observations.”

Szeryn frowned. “That's not true, I have–”

“Everything you said was your opinion, not mine,” he interrupted. “And I would challenge you to define what ‘good’ means, before you hasten to say that you are not.”

Szeryn, for the first time in a long while, felt stunned speechless. A rush of indignation rose, filling the aching hollow of their ribcage, and they could do nothing but sit back and think. After a long moment of contemplation, they turned back toward Wyll and said, “You may be more right than I want you to be. I am, I suppose, not quite as unbiased as I thought.” 

Wyll smiled wryly. “Not at all, more like. I may not have the advantage of knowing everything that has happened to you, or every deed you have done. However, you do not strike me as malicious.”

“Why? How can you be so sure I’m not some terrible omen?”

Wyll reached toward them, holding open his hand for them to take. Szeryn hesitated for a moment, before placing their hand in his. He grinned, warm and sweet, and Szeryn felt like they had been basking in a sunbeam.

“Shall I recount all the good I have witnessed from you during my time in your presence? Truth be told, I do not agree with everything you have done, but I can understand most of it. As I said, you let Astarion stay, and prompted me to come to my senses regarding Karlach. I cannot think of a reason you would have done either, other than compassion.”

Szeryn frowned again, squeezing his hand. “Karlach and Astarion are strong fighters, both in their own way. They each have strengths the rest of us lack. Having them join us is a net positive. But what am I good for? Gale has years of study at his disposal, and could likely fumble his way through alchemy well enough. Shadowheart is wise, and dislike of Selûne aside, practical enough to keep everyone on task. You make a better leader than I do, and you would do it a damn sight better. I'm not needed.”

“I do need you,” Wyll corrected softly. “We all do, I think. What is this really about? What aren’t you saying?”

With a shaking breath Szeryn pulled away, curling up in an attempt to make themself as small as possible. “If I tell you, are you going to leave me alone,” they asked, voice pitiful and small to their own ears. They shuddered to think of how it must have sounded to Wyll.

He reached out again, taking their hand and holding it firmly between both of his. “Not if you don’t want me to leave,” he reassured, bringing the back of their hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of their hand.

Szeryn still didn’t feel assured, but Wyll had never struck them as a liar. They trusted he would keep his word, even if he did not like them very much after. Their voice trembled, barely rising above a whisper, but they told him of the beast. Unable to meet his eye, their body shaking with terror, they told him about the hateful creature that lived underneath their mask of personhood, and of the horrible guilt that never stopped plaguing them.

They didn’t share their missing memories, but they did tell him a bit about the man they had called teacher, and the curse he had cast upon them. They told him how their aunt had broken it, and cleared their mind.

When they finished Wyll said nothing, looking out over the forest with a somber expression. Szeryn continued to look at him, if only because looking away made the fear worse. They wondered what he would say, when he finally spoke. Would he think they were a monster, or merely be ashamed at how easily they had fooled him with their act?

“You are not the first to meet Mizora,” Wyll told them after a while, still looking out over the forest. “I have not had many occasions to travel with companionship, on the Sword Coast, but whenever I have, she makes her presence known before too long. Not many are too keen on traveling with someone with a Devil on his shoulder, and less are comfortable with the games she tries to pull everyone into.”

Szeryn kept quiet, letting him get to his point in his own time. They figured it was the least they could do, for how he had listened to them without immediate judgment.

“You are neither the first to suggest I break my pact, nor the first to express discomfort from her presence. Over the last seven years, I have had friends, almost-lovers, all manner of connections, tell me that they wouldn’t travel with me any longer. Because of her, and the hold she has over me.” He turned to look at them, wearing a bitter smile. “I have been called her pet, and treated like a misbehaving pup by her, for so long I think I began to believe it myself. You say you are a feral beast wearing the clothes of a person, you say you are some terrible monster, undeserving of trust? With the Devil on my shoulder and holding a leash around me, I am by far less trustworthy than you. Would you like to know what I see, when I look at you?”

Szeryn swallowed the lump in their throat. “No. But tell me anyway.”

Wyll smiled a little softer, reaching out to cradle their cheek in his palm. Szeryn felt like they were going to burst into tears.

“I see my friend, Rynnie. I see you,” he said, before continuing. “Furious as a storm on the sea, but tender, too. I see a mind as quick and sharp as my blade, a sense of justice fierce as an inferno, both twice as precise. I see a generous heart, one you are so quick to give to everyone but yourself, and I see resilience. You seem able to weather anything, like a tall oak with roots stretching deep, and determined to aid everyone else at the same time.”

Their voice shook as they asked, “How can you see all of that in me?”

Wyll only smiled, his claw scratching against their cheekbone as he stroked their skin. “By watching you, Rynnie. You’ve shown us all who you are, and I cannot say I dislike what I have seen. Even if you think you do not deserve it, you have my trust. That is no small thing.”

“I will abuse it,” they sobbed, tears pooling against his hand as they escaped their eyes. “Don’t give me that power, I beg you.”

“Why do you think that you would?”

Szeryn opened their mouth to respond, knowing that whatever answer they had would be logical, and found themself at a loss. Why did they think they would abuse the trust put in them? They hadn’t, in all their memory they didn’t find any instances where they had. Nevertheless, the fear remained, burrowed into their bones.

“I– I don’t know,” they whispered. “It’s just… I know I would. I don’t want to, I know I don’t, but it will happen. I should not be trusted. I cannot control it.”

Wyll looked a little lost, but still seemed determined to comfort them. “Then let us help you. You are not alone, Rynnie, please let me help you.”

His lips trembled as he pleaded with them. In the end, Szeryn wasn’t strong enough to turn him away.