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Rule number one of being an adventurer: be a light sleeper. This was a behavior Wyll had learned to develop quickly out on the frontiers. The things that go bump in the night won't wait for you to awaken before they strike. Even a night as peaceful as this one can have its haunts. Wyll blinks his eyes open and sits up, scanning the surrounding camp for what his instincts told him was there. You don't travel the continent fighting monsters without developing decent instincts. They prove correct when he hears a sound, but it's far from what he was expecting. It was no creature in the night, but rather his own companion, Zenith. It makes sense he would be so attuned to them, given how closely they've bonded.
He looks over the sleeping half-drow, his eyes still scanning for anything amiss. He notes their heavy breathing, the sweat gathering along their brow, the tight fists they're making, and their distressed whimpers that fill the air around them. Zenith's own troubled past helps them fit right in with the rest of the party, but theirs is unique given they don't remember most of it. Wyll is graceful as he steps towards their bedroll and kneels by their side. He can see their eyes darting from side to side under their eyelids. He's careful as he places a hand on their arm and calls their name, soft as the night's breeze.
---
For such a small being, especially compared to the tall, buff paladin, Skeleritas Fel had a special way of haunting every corner of Zenith's dreams. His voice, his commands made every shadow darker, colder, and infinite. He painted the edges of their vision red and poisoned their thoughts with malice. Zenith knew in their waking life he saw everything they did. Every missed opportunity, every life spared, and every villainous act denied. But here, in their very own mind, denial is a pleasure they're stripped of. The butler's voice would be almost bright and encouraging were it not accompanied with murderous intentions that would make a demon shiver.
"It's disappointing to see you missing these opportunities, Master. To see you deny your own soul the vile debauchery it so keenly craves. But worry not, Oh Terrible One, for I am here to ensure you indulge in it. You will see what glorious horrors you could be committing, with undivided attention."
Time doesn't exist in a dream, nor does the feeling of it, making their own mind a never ending prison of blood. Zenith has no control as they saunter forward, feeling a sickly devilish grin on their face, and crushes the skull of an innocent beneath their boot. They blink and they're in a new setting, a new stranger at their mercy, which the Urge grants none. This time they watch their hands grasp a dagger and drag it through the thick meat of someone's thigh. As eternity goes on the scenes get more and more gruesome, and more personal.
Where the victims were complete strangers, they become increasingly more familiar: Rolan, Dammon, Alfira, Isobel, Jahira, Halsin, Gale, Astarion, Shadowheart. Each is twisted and curated scene just for Zenith, and just for the companion they see murdered by their hands. They're sent into the next scene where they're standing in a beautifully adorned room. They look to their left towards a balcony overlooking a golden sunset. Cast in ethereal light is their next victim, the love of their life, Wyll Ravenguard. The edge of their vision grows more red with each step towards their unsuspecting lover. He turns around to meet them with a soft smile, and they meet him with violent hands around his throat.
---
"Zenith."
Wyll's voice is soothing, if not laced with concern. He gently shakes their shoulder, their skin unnaturally cold and clammy. He flinched back as their movements intensify. Each thrash of their body and each pained sound from his partner sends his heart aching more.
"Zenith!"
He shouts with desperation and shakes them with vigor. Zenith - after their own endless hell - finally startles awake, jolting up, a scream tearing from their throat.
"Hey, hey, hey! Easy! Easy now, Zenith. I've got you, I promise."
As though calming a wild beast, Wyll is immediate in his comfort. He steadies them by their broad shoulders and looks right into their pale purple eyes. He feels how incredibly tense their muscles are and how much they're shaking. His eyes search theirs, and Zenith's search his, but with much more haste. Their heart pounds like a war drum in their chest, their breath comes in desperate gasps, their eyes scan his whole being for so much as a scratch. They raise a hand towards his cheek in an automatic gesture, but the image of their own hand reaching for their lover is too similar to the scene they just escaped. With a startled yelp they rip themselves from his embrace and scramble back. The mutilated dream image of Wyll lines up too perfectly with how he is now. Zenith's eyes burn with streaming tears.
"Get away from me, please."
Wyll's brow furrows and his jaw clenches; his heart breaks more, like a pick to stone.
"No one is going to hurt you, I promise."
"But I'll hurt you."
"What?"
The breeze cuts through the pair, carrying Skeleritas' laugh with it. Zenith shudders at the presence, even in the waking world. They pull themselves into a ball.
"He'll make me. All the people I care about, everyone. He'll make me kill them all." Their eyes widen with a far away look. They speak in a whisper, as though talking to a ghost. "Like how I killed Alfira."
A new kind of panic washes over Wyll. One where he feared causing his lover pain has become one of complexity far, far greater than him. His face drops as he's sent back into the memory: waking in camp at the warm first light, the peaceful scene tainted with that sanguine tinge. The entire party was shaken with a mix of emotions - paranoia, fear, anger, sadness - and the paladin, their leader, addressed it. While they never explicitly claimed to have been Alfira's murderer, they very adamantly refused their own innocence. Wyll was one of the few who didn't place blame upon Zenith, earned or not, whether it was from the sheer lack of evidence or his own self righteousness. That feeling of the past now contends with the new revelations of the present in shades of crimson and lilac.
The far away look in their lovers eyes pushes Zenith even further into themself. They squeeze themself tighter, as if they become small enough they'd shrink out of existence, and their villainy gone with them. Before that chance comes they're startled again, unable to escape this time - Wyll holds them fast in his ever loving embrace, his arms firm around their shoulders.
"I won't let you. I won't let him. I swear on my life."
He warms the chill that's run through their veins. He banishes the shadows that taint their vision. He cleanses the bloody fantasies from their mind, leaving only this moment bathed in moonlight. Zenith gapes for a moment, and as though sensing their hesitation still, Wyll tightens his embrace. That small piece of reassurance is enough for them to crumble. Their shoulders slump as they fall forward into him, hands clutching desperately at his lean shoulders. Their tears no longer flow because of terror, but rather comfort and relief. Wyll holds them to his chest, brushing their hair with his fingers and occasionally decorating it with soft kisses. Zenith eventually pulls back. He can hear their heart break more with each word.
"I don't think I should love you, Wyll."
His heart seizes in his chest for a moment. His brows draw together in gentle skepticism.
"Should, or could?"
"My love makes you a target. I love you, Wyll, but that could kill you. The world is better with The Blade in it."
Wyll cups their face and pulls their lips into his. His skin is always warmer, his lips are always sweeter, and he always moves with more confidence. He pulls back, but keeps his gentle touch on Zenith's lilac skin.
"Your love may make me a target, but I am not The Blade without it. I want your love, Zenith, and I want to give you all of mine."
In the silence that falls between them, they do battle as they gaze into one another's eyes. Zenith's eyes hold fear as they try ever so hard to withdraw into themself, but Wyll's gaze is an unrelenting torrent of reassurance. In his warm, homely brown eyes, they can almost convince themself they're deserving of his love the way he says they are. In the way he cradles their face between calloused hands, they can almost imagine a future with the man before them. A future unshackled by violence, and defined by tenderness. They close their eyes and release a heavy sigh, surrendering to his affections. He smiles as he watches the tension leave their shoulders and their muscles relax. When they finally meet his gaze once more, he can see the forgiveness for themself in the moonlight that dances over their irises. He can't help but melt at the sight. He closes his eyes, and presses his forehead to theirs.
"I will always love you, no matter what may plague you. I swear it."