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thesimulationswarm · 1 year ago

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Balsam Prelude and Chapter 1: Some Kind of Noble Calling

This is a story about trauma. What trauma does to a person, and what trauma does to a community. And how, in the midst of it, people find their way to joy, delight— even love.

Pairing: Joel Miller x original female character Summary: After the events of tlou, Joel and Ellie try to establish a “normal life” in Jackson, but neither of them are any good at normal. A town doctor tries to care for residents who have experienced unspeakable trauma, and struggles to overcome her own past at the same time. Joel finds himself drawn to her, as their lives become increasingly intertwined. Meanwhile, outside Jackson, troubling things are happening... Rating: explicit 18+ MDNI Word count: 6k Warnings: slow burn, I promise there will be smut but not yet, f/m relationship, not a reader insert, canon-typical violence, descriptions of medical situations, descriptions of trauma and PTSD, Ellie and Joel figuring out how to be family, Tommy and Joel figuring out how to be family, angst, fluff, based on show Jackson because I haven't played tlou part ii, this is the first fic I've been brave enough to put out in the world so be kind.

Series Masterlist

PRELUDE

The boy struggled to work the crowbar; his fingers were so cold he couldn’t really feel them and his grip kept slipping. Finally, though, the old wood splintered around the bolt latch and gave way. He pushed through the door of the shed and fell to the ground inside, spent.

The cold hurt. He was so tired. He’d gone past ordinary hunger, to that desperate place beyond. So now that he was out of the cutting wind, all he wanted was to go to sleep.

Coco had followed him in. She sniffed at the boy’s face, and he felt the warm breath on his skin for a brief, lovely moment. Then she padded away toward the back wall of the small room.

“Come back here, girl,” the boy called out. But she didn’t come back. Was she leaving him now, too? He just wanted to burry his face in her fur and smell her smell as he drifted off. If his father couldn’t be here with him, at least the dog he’d loved could.

He heard a brief, sharp bark. He lifted his head. Coco was sitting by a metal rack on the wall, pointing her nose at something on the second shelf.

“What is it, Coco?” She barked again, still pointing.

He moved slowly, regretfully, as he pulled his aching body up again. She was pointing at an old shoebox, and didn’t stir as he approached.

He brushed the cobwebs away and lifted the lid. It was full of small, dark brown packages. He lifted one close to his face, to examine it in the light coming through the open door.

MEAL, READY TO EAT, INDIVIDUAL, it read. CHICKEN A LA KING.

CHAPTER 1: Some Kind of Noble Calling

“You need to take her to Dr. Conner,” Maria said brusquely, as soon as she’d walked in the room. Ellie was curled listlessly on the couch, face flushed and mottled and hair slicked down with sweat.

“Dr. Conner? Where is he?” Joel asked.

“She is on 2nd street, top of the hill.”

He nodded and looked away from Maria’s icy face. Just what he needed, for her to add sexism to his list of sins. He squatted down to lift Ellie in his arms, held back a groan as his knees popped, and headed toward the door. He was always surprised at how little she weighed, given her sheer force of nature.

“I can walk. I’m not dead yet,” she whined at him hoarsely, squirming against his hold. It was half-hearted, and he kept his grip.

“Not happening.”

Dr. Connor’s was a narrow, two-story building, and the windows were covered with dark curtains. The sign above the door was painted simply with a red cross on a white background. He knocked but didn’t wait, yanking the doorknob and shouldering through the entryway.

Inside was bare, with a row of wooden chairs and a hand-written sign instructing visitors to take a seat. Two doors stood closed, and Joel was eyeing them to determine which he should open next when a breezy voice called from behind one.

“If you’re breathing and not bleeding out, hang on and I’ll be there in five.”

He sighed and set Ellie on a chair before dropping down beside her.

“Nicer than the FEDRA clinics at least,” Ellie deadpanned, her voice creaky and strained.

He looked around the little waiting room. It wasn’t exactly impressive, but if you’d only ever seen a QZ medical facility it must've seemed like the height of luxury.

“There used to be places like this. You got to see the doctor in a room by yourself instead of a big ward with half the neighborhood lined up.” He paused. “It was nice. Especially if you had somethin’ going on you didn’t want to share with everybody you knew.”

She quirked a sweaty eyebrow at him. “Like what?”

“Pass.”

They looked up in unison as a door creaked open and a woman strode in, dressed in jeans and a canvas apron. She was small, tawny-skinned and dark-haired. Younger than he’d expected, although not young-young on second inspection—the start of lines spreading out from the corners of her eyes, a resigned slope of her shoulders. In her 30s, maybe: the last generation to remember life before.

“Please, follow me.” The woman gestured into a small room with a bright overhead light. She pointed Ellie to a cot covered with a faded, flowered sheet and Joel to a stool beside it.

“I’m Nina, I work as a healer,” she said, extending a hand first to Ellie—who limply grasped it—and then to Joel.

He kept his arms down by his side.

“I thought you were an actual doctor,” he said sharply.

He didn’t come here for one of Maria’s communist friends to do some crystal healing, align Ellie’s chakras or some shit.

She gave him a small smile. “People call me that because I’m the closest Jackson has, and I’ve been treating people for years. But no, I’m not old enough to have finished medical school 20 years ago.” Her voice was mild, even friendly, but her eyes asked a question: Are you going to be a problem for me?

He set his jaw but sat back on the stool. He’d at least see if she could help.

“It’s Ellie, isn’t it?” Nina moved closer to Ellie and smiled brightly at her miserable face, looking her up and down. She pulled an old glass thermometer out of a pocket and held it up for Ellie to see before popping it in her mouth. While she waited for it to take a measurement, she slid her other hand down to grasp Ellie’s wrist and held it lightly, watching the numbers on her watch as she felt for a pulse.

“When did she start feeling bad?” She nodded her head slightly in Joel’s direction—Ellie had her mouth full—but kept her eyes on her patient.

“Two days ago. Hit her like a ton of bricks. She’s had fever and chills, and won’t eat anything. Barely takin’ sips of water when I beg her to.”

“Sore throat?”

“Says it feels like knives.” Ellie nodded bleakly to confirm.

The doctor—or the healer, or whatever the hell she was—pulled the thermometer out and nodded at it. She raised both hands to Ellie’s neck, but paused before touching her.

“I’m just going to feel here for your lymph nodes, Ellie.”

She waited to see confirmation in Ellie’s face before continuing, running her hands carefully down below her jawline.

The exam went on, through the familiar steps: Open your mouth as wide as you can, that’s good, now I’m going to check your ears.

He had a sudden, clear memory of sitting in the pediatrician’s office. Watching Sarah as she sat on a paper-covered table.

He could smell the disinfectant and powdered latex, and see the silhouette of her doctor standing there. He was a gray-haired man, always friendly in a fake-feeling way, who whore a crisp white coat over a shirt and tie. Made him feel self-conscious, looking down at his dirt-caked boots and browned forearms.

Sarah used to sit on that exam table and cry when she had to get shots. Not all hysterical or fighting to get away like some kids—just silent tears that slipped out of the corner of her eyes.

He remembered how, when she was five years old, she’d swallowed a penny and he’d rushed her over to the clinic. It wasn’t like her to do something like that: she was thoughtful and sweet even at that age, a rule-follower to a fault. His heart had jackhammered in his chest as he had visions of her intestines puncturing or her being rushed to emergency surgery.

The doc explained patiently that these things usually “passed” on their own. With a little chuckle he gave him a plastic bowl that fit inside the toilet and instructions to check it for the next week to make sure the penny came out the other end.

He recalled the rush of relief and the flush of embarrassment. Watching the doc laugh and feeling like a moron for having gotten himself so worked up.

“Earth to Joel,” Ellie croaked. He turned to see two pairs of eyes on his: Ellie’s red-rimmed and liquid brown, the doctor’s—he was now noticing— so dark they were almost black.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Most likely it’s strep throat, although there’s no way to tell for sure without tests I don’t have,” the doctor said. “I’ll give you some antibiotics, and if it is strep, it will start to get better right away.”

“What if it’s not strep?” Joel asked, heart in his throat.

She smiled. “Then it’s a virus, and she’ll get better on her own.” Her tone was reassuringly confident. Joel watched her disappear briefly out the door, then return with a paper packet she pressed into his hand.

“Take these twice a day. Even if she starts to feel better, do not stop the medicine until it’s all gone. I know we’re all used to stretching supplies, but it doesn’t work that way with antibiotics—she’ll get sick again, and worse.” She looked to him for acknowledgement, and he nodded.

“Keep pushing her to drink fluids.” She turned to Ellie now, who was hunched over and looked about ready to pass out. “You’re dehydrated, kiddo. It’s part of why you feel so bad right now. If you don’t drink, it’s only going to get worse.” She spoke pointedly but gently, and Ellie shrugged an assent. “And if you aren’t feeling better in two days, come back and see me.”

It was late when Tommy got home. Pretty much every part of his body hurt after the day’s work— fixing freeze damage to their well system— and he had been dreaming of crawling into bed with Maria.

Not the way he sometimes dreamed of crawling into bed with her, even now with her looking like she’d swallowed a watermelon. Maybe he’d have the energy for that in the morning, but tonight he just wanted to feel her in his arms and time his deep slow breaths with hers.

She was already fast asleep, so he moved as carefully as he could, lifting up the covers and sidling in behind her. She was curled on her left side and he tucked his body tightly against hers, his arm snaking gently around her bare belly. When he was lucky he could feel the baby kicking against his hand in this position, although right now both baby and mama were at rest.

He lay there, willing himself to relax into sleep. But there was too damn much on his mind these days.

This winter had been brutal, even for Wyoming. The town had held together with a lot of hard work and ingenuity. But out there in the countryside, others had not been so successful. He’d heard awful stories: starvation, cannibalism, raiding parties far and wide. The patrols kept running into trouble, and although so far the groups had been small enough to handle, who was to say they’d stay that way?

Tommy knew that people in Jackson looked to him and Maria to keep them safe. It was more responsibility than he’d ever had before in his life, really. He was proud of himself— and scared shitless.

He breathed in Maria’s smell, nose pressed against the nape of her neck. He tried to count all the blessings in his life, savoring each one. It was a trick he used sometimes, to make his thoughts shut up. This incredible woman who had saved his life. The baby she was growing for them. This town. A full stomach. A warm bed. Joel doing so good, for once, with that kid of his.

Although Joel was maybe not the best topic to think about, if he wanted to sleep tonight. Not that he wasn’t grateful, or happy to have him nearby and safe. But his feelings were complicated. Sometimes he hated to admit how much of a hold his big brother still had on him. Made him feel like a little boy, hungry for approval. And at the same time reminded him of the lowest points in his life.

If he was honest with himself, he’d felt a lot of relief along with the guilt and sadness when he’d left Boston. He’d felt the same when he cut off radio contact.

Something had changed with Joel though, lately. He was still a bitter man, tightly wound and full of pain. But Tommy had seen moments of tenderness from him that he thought he’d never see again. Even moments of joy.

He felt the prickle of tears in his tired eyes. He knew he was being naive, that a little bit of good couldn’t undo all the darkness that they’d been through. But he clung to the hope still, as he started to drift off to sleep: him with his baby, Joel with his girl—maybe they would all be okay.

“Tommy!”

He turned with a smile as the doc walked up, clapping a hand against his back. “Hey Dr. Connor! How’s it been?”

“I’m going on your next southwest patrol,” she said. Announcing, not asking, as she had a frustrating tendency to do.

He took a sharp breath through his nose. “Nina—“

“It’s time to harvest willow bark. I need enough for the next year, for all of Jackson.”

“I understand, I really do. But this winter has been rough and people are desperate. We’ve had some kind of trouble almost every patrol. It’s just too dangerous to stop and hang around out there.” He used the most authoritative tone he could muster, trying to stare the small woman down.

“And people won’t be any less desperate until we’re well into April. By then the trees will be in full leaf and we’ll be out of the window for harvesting. And I’ll have half a dozen angry locals wanting to know why I don’t have the tea for their arthritis or their heart condition.”

She fixed him with a dark stare, and he fiddled with the frayed edge of his jacket cuff.

She knew how Jackson worked, and if he said no she could and would bring it up at the council meeting. Where she would no doubt whip up the town’s crotchetiest and most infirm—who had nothing better to do than sit in on every meeting of every committee—into a rage over herbal tea. Shit.

He nodded curtly. “Friday at dawn. If there are any signs of trouble before we hit the riverbank, we’ll have to turn back.”

“I really appreciate it Tommy,” she said with what she surely thought was a winning smile. Which he did not return: he was not in the mood.

Marisa stirred the stockpot of oatmeal gently between customers, to keep crust from forming on top. She stared out at the dining room and watched the clusters of people. Some were deep in conversation; some wolfed down their breakfasts so they could hurry on with their days; others looked half-asleep still.

A group of teenagers were tucked way back in the corner, as far as they could get from the adults, clearly enjoying their morning bullshit session. She remembered doing that just a few years ago, with Anya and Jamal, when her dad wasn’t around to see her goofing off. He believed that if teenagers had energy to run their jaws, they had energy to work.

The new folks came in with a blast of cold air.

They were an odd pair. The girl was rude and mouthed off too much, but she had a lot of energy and seemed like fun. The kind of kid Marisa had always been fascinated by, when she was that age. Wishing she could move in the world with that kind of confidence.

The man, though, gave her the willies. He was intense and stern, like her dad. He never smiled, although he did at least say please and thank you. She couldn’t hardly believe he was Tommy’s brother. Tommy was his exact opposite, gentle and friendly.

She used to think Tommy was cute. She still did, really, but she didn’t think about him much lately. She was too busy daydreaming about her Beloved.

She called him that after an old romance book she’d found in an empty house and hidden under her mattress. The book took place during the Civil War, and the buxom narrator fell in love with a dashing soldier. She wrote letters to him every day, addressed to My Beloved. The soldier in the book had beautiful blue eyes, just like Marisa’s Beloved.

Tommy was out there now, talking with Dr. Connor. He looked unhappy. Dr. Connor could do that to people. She was always so nice when you were sick or hurt and went to see her. But out in the real world she could be mean as a snake. Or maybe she was more like a fox: someone sly, someone you had to watch.

Brandy Burkholder had started working with her last summer, after a several month campaign. Nina had eventually determined that she was serious about learning to practice medicine, despite the fact that she wasn’t terribly serious about anything else. She was an outgoing sixteen-year-old with a pretty smile and a flare for the dramatic, and she came by on Tuesdays and Thursdays to help Nina with various tasks.

Today it was supply inventory. Every other week she went through what she had, checked her levels on common medications and herbs, and looked through her equipment for signs of damage or wear.

Nina enjoyed inventory, even if what she had to inventory was often pathetic. There was something calming about lining up all the bottles, looking over her orderly shelves, and counting all the pills and needles and rolls of gauze.

And there was some extra excitement this afternoon: they were going through a bag of random medicines and gear to see what could be salvaged. Anya and Clemons had found in an empty house on a hunting trip earlier that week.

Brandy held up an orange plastic bottle of pills from the haul. “Dox—y—cy—cline,” she sounded out carefully. “That’s an antibiotic, right? So it goes in the cabinet above the sink?”

“Hold up. What’s the date on the bottle?”

“Um, let me see.” She squinted to read the fading print. “Damn. It’s from 1999. This is an antique!”

Nina shook her head. “Toss it. Expired tetracyclines can be toxic.” It was a shame— she really could have used it.

She pulled out a bottle of Benadryl tablets, and pried open the lid. Some of the pills had swollen with absorbed moisture and cracked, but they were mostly intact and there was no mold. She added it to the keep pile.

Brandy showed her a box of individually packaged 22 gauge needles. The plastic wrappers were warped and brittle and had cracked open along the seams. But the needles inside were straight and sharp. She would sanitize them in the autoclave and they’d be good as new. Another keep.

A bottle of cough syrup had hardened to a shiny paste— toss. Two inhalers were empty—toss again. Half a tub of vaseline went in the keep pile. Then she found something really good at the bottom of the bag: an almost-full bottle of Valium.

“Isn’t this the stuff that bored housewives used to get high on?” Brandy asked, smirking.

“Yes, and that’s why it goes in the locked cabinet,” Nina said pointedly. She didn’t need Brandy getting any ideas. “But more importantly, it’s the best treatment when someone’s actively having a seizure. It’s also very helpful for setting bones.”

“Sweet! There was some good loot in that bag.”

Nina looked over the shelves appraisingly. “Yes, but it’s not enough. This all has to last until Mo comes by in April.”

“Are you going out to meet him?” Brandy’s eyes sparkled at the mention of the smuggler. Nina knew how people talked about him: the dashing Robin Hood who stole from FEDRA and gave to the people. But it’s not like he gave them anything: they paid him, in valuable farm goods like butter and honey, for every last thing.

Nina didn’t say anything about that to Brandy, though; let the kid have her fantasies. She also didn’t mention the fear that kept her up at night— that next time she went out to meet Mo, he wouldn’t show. She knew it was only a matter of time before his line of work caught up with him, and that when it happened they would be shit out of luck. Jackson did a lot of things well, but manufacturing antibiotics wasn’t one of them.

“Yep, April ninth. Three weeks after the equinox,” was all she said.

The sun was melting into the horizon, bathing the street in golden light and purple shadows. Joel was walking to the saddler when he saw the woman up ahead and quickened his pace.

“Hey! Dr. Connor!”

She turned as he approached and raised an eyebrow. “So I’m enough of a doctor for you now? How’s Ellie?”

“Well, she’s a hundred percent better. Givin’ me shit and drivin’ me crazy.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” The doctor seemed genuinely pleased. “I’m sure you deserve whatever shit she’s giving you,” she added.

“Look,” he said, furrowing his brow. “I wasn’t very fair to you the other day. And you helped us out anyway. I appreciate that.”

She looked at him, meeting his eyes with an intensity that startled him. There were those deep brown irises he’d noticed in her office, framed by thick black lashes.

Then she smiled, holding out her hand to him. Her grip was surprisingly firm as they shook. “You’re not the first person to doubt my expertise. I appreciate you putting your daughter in my care.”

He looked over her shoulder, at the reddish sky reflecting in the window of a supply depot, and took a breath. “I know people don’t pay for things here or anything, but I feel like—I mean, I would like to give you something at least. For the medicine.”

She waved dismissively. “I’ve seen you go out on patrol. You keep Jackson safe, I keep Jackson alive. We all do our part.”

She laid a hand on his stiff shoulder and gave him a pat. Then she turned and headed back in the direction she’d been walking, before he could figure out how he ought to respond. He watched her for a moment, her dark curls swinging over a denim jacket, his shoulder tingling with a phantom pressure where her hand had been a moment ago.

Jackson made him real fucking uncomfortable, sometimes.

He didn’t like owing people favors, and he didn’t feel like he belonged in a town where everyone was so nice all the time. The doctor was case in point— he’d been mean to her when they’d first met, and that hadn’t been right. But he’d tried to be nice to her too now, and it still felt weird as hell. Maybe he’d entirely forgotten how to be nice.

He walked on, hands shoved in his pockets. If he was honest, he didn’t want to be living here. In the house across from his little brother, like some kind of post-apocalyptic sitcom. It brought back all kinds of things he didn’t want to think about.

He was going on patrol Friday and he was looking forward to it. At least out there he knew what to do with himself. Stay alert, keep moving, assess the situation, maintain control— with force if needed.

Ellie looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then quickly opened the door below the red cross and slipped inside. She sighed with relief to see no one inside the waiting room, and sat down with her backpack clutched to her chest.

Dr. Connor stepped into the room, thankfully alone, and smiled warmly as she pointed Ellie toward a door. Ellie darted in and jumped up on the cot, then looked down at her sneakers. One had a bit of rubber starting to come loose around the toe, and she gently wiggled it with her other foot. She heard Dr. Connor close the door behind her, and then the expectant silence.

“How can I help you today, Ellie?”

Her cheeks burned, and she found she couldn’t look up. Why did the town doctor have to be beautiful? For an old person, but still. She kept studying her feet, as she heard the scrape of a chair being pulled over and the soft thump of Dr. Connor sitting down a few feet away.

When the doctor spoke again, her voice was soft. “I’ll ask you a few questions. All you have to do is say yes or no. You don’t even have to speak, just shake your head. Okay?” Ellie exhaled, then nodded.

“Did someone hurt you?” Ellie shook her head no emphatically.

“Are you having a problem with a private part of your body?” Ellie paused, then nodded once.

“Is it your related to your period?” Head shake. “Are you having pain?” Head shake. “Itchiness?” Nod. “Discharge?” Ellie felt like her cheeks were going to catch on fire as she nodded again.

“Are you sexually active?”

“No!” Ellie shouted, looking up at Dr. Connor with a startled stare.

“It would be okay if you were. You wouldn’t be in trouble. And I wouldn’t tell anyone—not even Joel.” Her voice was even and conversational, as if she were talking about the weather and not about fucking.

“Well, I’m not,” she snapped. “I don’t know why this is happening. It’s never done this before.”

“Have you ever taken antibiotics before?”

She thought for a moment. At FEDRA school they gave you pills sometimes if you were sick, but they never even told you what they were. Some of the kids said they were sugar pills, and some of the kids said they were tranquilizers designed to make you behave. She shrugged. “I don’t actually know.”

“Did your symptoms start after you began taking the pills?” Ellie nodded.

“I’ll want to do a quick exam to be sure, but yeast infections can be a side effect of antibiotics. Your vulva actually has a lot of bacteria living in it—good bacteria.” Ellie raised her eyebrows and fixed the doctor with a horrified look, but she ignored her and went on speaking.

“It’s like a garden with lots of different plants growing side by side. The plants are healthy, and there are enough of them that they fill up the space and keep the weeds out. The antibiotic got rid of the bad bacteria in your throat, but it also wiped out the good bacteria in your vulva. It’s like we picked all the good stuff from that garden, and now there’s good soil and plenty of space for bad stuff to grow. That’s allowed the yeast to take over—it’s actually a fungus.”

“Like cordyceps?” Ellie asked, eyes widening.

“Yes, like cordyceps. But it’s a different species, and unlike cordyceps we have medication that will kill the yeast. You’ll be back to normal in no time.” Ellie felt relief wash over her.

Wednesday morning was for house calls. As she left the dining hall, her supply bag bouncing heavily against her left hip, she ran into Ellie and Joel on their way in. The girl smiled sheepishly and looked away; the man twitched a corner of his mouth and held the door for her. Which for gruff types like that, new to civilization, was as good as a pledge of everlasting fealty.

She watched her breath fog through the cold March morning as she walked, feeling vaguely anxious.

Miss Nora’s house was on the corner, a low redbrick ranch. She let herself in, knowing Miss Nora’s son was out prepping the fields for planting, and headed into the living room that doubled as Miss Nora’s bedroom these days. She was sitting up in her bed, carefully knitting a big orange sweater. “Dr. Connor! So good of you to come by.”

Nina leaned in, letting Miss Nora plant a papery kiss on her cheek. “You know you can call me Nina,” she said, pulling her stethoscope out of her bag and sitting on the edge of the mattress.

She gave her brightest smile, trying to hide any trace of the dismay she felt every time she walked in there. Miss Nora was 67, and until last fall had looked a decade younger than that. Now every week she seems to age another 5 years, her face growing gaunter, her hair thinner, her skin more sallow.

Her son Jamal, ever diligent, tried to tempt her with all her favorite foods, but she would push the plate away after a bite or two. He fought with her over it, convinced that if she would just force herself to eat she would regain her strength.

Nina, on the other hand, was not so optimistic. She thought Miss Nora’s body was shutting down: the lack of appetite was only a symptom of something much more serious.

She suspected cancer, but couldn’t say for sure what kind. Obviously, it was affecting the liver or the common bile duct, based on her yellowing eyes and skin. But that could be a metastasis from a solid tumor somewhere else. She once again felt the woman’s abdomen gently, palpating for a mass. Still nothing. Not that it mattered, ultimately—even if she could magically intuit that it was, say, pancreatic cancer, she wouldn’t be any closer to being able to treat it.

At least her lungs still sounded clear. Nina pulled the stethoscope from her ears and slung it around her neck. “Are you ready for your breathing treatment?”

The woman nodded enthusiastically as Nina carefully packed the pipe she’d brought with dried leaves.

It was old, crumbly, and low quality, and it was hell to get ahold of. But like the opium she kept carefully hidden away in her locked cabinet, marijuana was one of the more potent herbal medicines in her arsenal.

She had nothing else to offer Miss Nora.

She saved Maria for her last stop of the morning. Maria could have easily come to her clinic, even 7 months along, but Nina wanted to confer with her anyways. And she loved Maria’s house—with the late morning light pouring through the windows she could almost believe she was in the suburbs of her childhood.

Maria was making tea when she arrived, and they sat in the living room with a mug each. The steam felt good against her face—while they were out of the worst of the winter, the wind was still brutal on these mornings as she walked from house to house.

After a little small talk she eased Maria backwards on the couch and pulled out her Pinard horn, rolling it between her palms for warmth. Nina had carved it herself out of maple wood, shaping the little trumpet painstakingly to match the illustrations in an old midwifery book.

She could still remember the sense of triumph when, years ago, she first pressed it into a woman’s belly and heard the fetal heartbeat buried inside. People thought medicine was some kind of noble calling—and there were moments when it felt that way to her, too. But more often she was driven by that magic feeling of the body yielding up its secrets to her.

Everything looked good on the exam, despite Maria’s “advanced maternal age.” The same as it had been every week of her pregnancy so far.

Still, Nina worried.

There was a lot that could go wrong bringing a baby into the world, for both baby and mother. Maria was her friend, and she knew how devastated she would be if she lost the child. She also knew how much Maria meant to Jackson, and she worried about the impact of losing Maria even more.

“I’d like your thoughts on something.”

Maria fixed her with one of her looks. “It’s usually not something good when you say that.”

Nina sighed. “I had a patient come in yesterday with what was almost certainly the clap. I treated him, but the man in question was married, and I have reason to believe he didn’t get it from his wife.”

Maria’s brow shot up. “Jesus, Nina. That’s not something I want to know about.”

“I would rather not have to know about it either. But we need to know about it. Both women he’s sleeping with could have infections.”

Maria’s expression hardened as she listened.

“And if the women have other partners, who knows how many people in Jackson are affected? Gonorrhea isn’t just a drippy dick. People could have pelvic inflammatory disease, ectopic pregnancies, miscarriages. Babies can be born with infections.”

“Do you know who the other woman is? You could treat her, too,” Maria offered.

“I… have my suspicions. But I’m not 100%. And he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

She thought about Derek Starkey sitting in her clinic, head buried in his hands. Starkey’s wife, Jenna, had given birth to their first kid last summer. They’d always made a beautiful couple: Starkey was a big guy, tall and broad, with ruddy cheeks and icy blue eyes. Jenna was tough and sweet, with a blonde ponytail and freckles across the bridge of her nose. The son they doted on took after them both, depending on the day.

She was inclined to hate Starkey’s guts.

A guy who couldn’t take it when his wife wasn’t dressing up as prettily as she used to or wasn’t as available as she once was to him, because she was busy caring for his infant child. Marisa Robinson, who worked with Starkey in the kitchens when he wasn’t on patrol, was younger and needy and made puppy dog eyes at him while he kneaded dough with his big strong arms. It was a tale as old as time: another shitty man behaves badly.

She struggled to hold onto her resolve, though, as they spoke. Starkey’d been barely sleeping since the kid was born. Every night in bed he was flooded with images of terrible deaths. He saw his child infected, shot, decapitated, drowned. All those monstrous things he’d seen over the years and had been powerless to stop, and which he now felt powerless to protect his beautiful boy from. Life in Jackson had given him a measure of peace, which had seemed like enough when it was just him and Jenna. But it felt too horribly tenuous now to trust. And Jenna didn’t get it. She slept like a rock between feedings. She told him to get over himself, had no time to talk him down from his panic attacks. Someone else had been willing to hold him while he shook with fear.

“Then we have to tell the wife, at least.”

Nina shook her head. “I keep going back and forth on it. It might break up a marriage, and that could have reverberations throughout the community. And the other woman, there could be consequences for her, too.” She thought of Marisa’s controlling father, who always creeped her out.

“But also the next time someone has symptoms like this they might not come to me, because I wouldn’t be a safe person to tell. Then this stuff would spread around town and we wouldn’t even know.”

Maria gave her an exasperated look.

Nina wasn’t sure what she had expected. It would feel so nice to off-load this problem onto Maria. But her friend was maybe too absolutist to navigate this one. Or else there just was no way to resolve things that would feel right.

“I’m going to have to think on it some more,” she said, as she packed her supplies. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

#tlou fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x original character #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #Ellie Williams #Tommy Miller #Maria Miller #soft!joel miller #series #tlou fluff #tlou show #tlou

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envysnest · 7 months ago

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Pity the Mayfly (ch. 6/?) - an Astarion/Tav fic

AO3 Link Here

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6

You had come to the Gate to forget your past, discard your elven name, and pursue alchemy against your family's wishes. On a visit to your old keep, you're found by the Nautiloid, and everything tilts sideways.

TW's for this chapter: Gore (mentions of corpses), Raphael ™, mentions of infertility, brief body horror.

————

Crumpled at the bottom of your pack is a small letter:

To one Tavvendish Carver of Horst’s Apothecary, We, the Baldur’s Gate Alchemical Society, are delighted to inform you that you have been selected for the Baldur’s Gate Alchemical Prize for this year 1484 DR. This decision has been made based on your submission, “Greater Vipers of the Sword Coast and Their Bites.” We would especially like to compliment you on your use of patient interviews and live tests on necrotic subjects. As you have already been made aware, the prize encompasses ten years of funding for further research on selected topics—

“Look at that!” Gale says. “Congratulations are in order.”

You press the letter to your chest. “Oh, it’s a few years old, now. Forgot it was in this bag, really.”

“Still a reason to celebrate, eh?” Gale looks up from the dirt path with a smile. The two of you are climbing a steep hill, where a copse of trees huddles close and blocks the sunlight. Even in the shade, both of you sweat. Your spit tastes faintly of blood. “Nearly got the Waterdeep Mage-a-thon a few years back.” Gale lifts his robes out of the way of a puddle. “That year happened to be when the returning champion came back from Candlekeep for a victory round—”

Not for the first time, you wish the other party members hadn’t left you two to scout. You rub your neck as Gale talks, but your fingers bump into Shadowheart’s careful bandaging. You smooth it down absentmindedly, focusing on the greenery around you. Certainly plenty of balsam and Rogue’s Morsel, but your ragtag little party had no need of those just yet. Heavens knew you had plenty of Dragon Egg. You count the species as you go: mugwort…

“—towards a quick shift into Hold Person, which, as you know, requires a ninety-degree twist of the right hand—”

…more Dragon Egg…

“—and I’m not, perhaps, as skilled as you are at all things necromantic, I try to keep it more traditional—”

…Acorn Truffle…

“Ha!” shouts Lae’zel ahead of you.

Gale startles. You shout back: “What is it, Lae’zel?”

She’s stopped at the top of the hill. She beckons to you and Gale. “See for yourselves.”

You press ahead of Gale. The smell of woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air. As you crest the hill, the trees part, and you finally see it: a ruined village, razed nearly to the ground. A trail of blood leads from the path to several downed goblins and gnolls, leading past a crumbled stone archway into a deserted town square. Something inside of it is on fire: gray smoke curls daintily against the sky.

Gale reaches the top of the hill behind you, and he mutters an, “Oh!”

“Such carnage!” Lae’zel shakes a fist with excitement. “Never before have I seen the like.” She descends the hill, armor clanking away.

You take your hat off and fan yourself with it. “Someone’s taken their revenge,” you say to Gale.

“Indeed.” Gale strokes his beard. “It looks as if this was a makeshift goblin outpost." He points at something. "Though I can’t for the life of me tell what symbol that is supposed to be.”

Draped over the village wall are ugly brown banners; if you had to guess, they were likely made of rotting potato sacks that had been hastily stitched together. A skull— or what you think is a skull— stares out in blood-red ink. Actually, now that you considered it, it could be blood, and you didn’t know what was worse.

Your boots catch a little on the dusty path as you follow Lae’zel; the wooden heel slides, and you hold your hands out to either side of you for balance. The smoke just covers the metallic, rotten smell of corpses, but just barely. Gale steps right into a pool of gnoll’s blood. “Gods,” he spits with disgust, shaking entrails off of his boot. “Messy.”

You put your hat back on as you study the moldering brown banners. “Can’t place this symbol either,” you murmur. While you think, you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek and tap your boot.

“Well,” says Gale as he passes you, “if I can’t, I’m not sure you’d be able to.” It’s matter-of-fact. You stiffen.

“Come off it, Gale,” you snap.

Gale freezes. “I beg your pardon?” he asks, all sweet and wide-eyed, and you despise how meek it is.

“You’re not the only wizard in this group.” You step over a gnoll to join him. “Some of us couldn’t afford university, so come off it.”

Gale stutters behind you. “I’m terribly sorry, Tav—”

“You should be,” you say over your shoulder, but in the town square, you stop short.

The square is surrounded by ruins. Thatched roofs have been blown in, wooden doors ripped off their hinges. Even some low stone walls have been bashed in; by what, you absolutely didn’t want to know. The smell of gore and wood smoke is overpowering, and you press your nose to your sleeve. “By Silvanus,” you swear into the cloth.

Lae’zel kneels next to a human warrior, lifting his hand to the sun to examine his rings. A few doors away, Shadowheart weaves between houses. Bodies pile haphazardly over each other, races and species of all kinds, but most impressive of all, just behind Lae’zel, is a circle of—

Goblins. Bugbears, too. All of them are very, very much dead. In the center of the circle stands Astarion, soaked in blood from head-to-shoe, idly picking something out of his teeth.

You stop in the path. Astarion is humming an off-key tune to himself, so quietly you have to strain to hear. He stands like a man waiting in line for bread: vaguely bored, arms crossed, a sideways slope to his shoulders, weight leaned against one leg. In the sunlight, Astarion’s white hair glints vaguely silver.

“A veritable bloodbath,” says Gale behind you. “Fitting for a vampire.”

You touch the bandaging at your neck.

“Any gith’yanki would be proud.” Lae’zel stands with a grunt. She rests her hands on her hips and scans the village. “Revenge for the civilians slain here, certainly.”

“A-hem.” Astarion examines his nails.

Lae’zel glares up at him. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh no, my deadly beauty.” Astarion leans down, dangerously in Lae’zel’s face. “I was just wondering where my ‘thank you’ was.”

“Chk.” Lae’zel tosses her hair, but there’s a sly quirk to her mouth. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. “You can thank me after I’ve taken your precious fangs from your mouth.”

You can’t help it: you make a pained noise. Both of them look to you. Lae’zel raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps Tavvendish would like the privilege.”

Astarion draws up to his full height, hands planted firmly on his hips. “A privilege now, is it?” He sniffs indignantly and turns away from you two.

You hold up both hands in defeat, laughing nervously. “No one is defanging anyone here.”

“What a relief,” Astarion sneers at a gnoll corpse.

“A shame,” Lae’zel says to his back. “I didn’t think Astarion would cower so easily.”

That gets Astarion to turn on his heel. “Who’s cowering? How about you get your sharp little gith teeth pulled, hmm? Who’d be a coward then?”

“You would submit to a defanging without any protest?” Lae’zel’s eyes travel up and down Astarion’s form. “Are all istik so fragile?”

“Lae’zel,” you say.

Lae’zel tosses her hair over her shoulder again. “I speak plain. I know no other way.”

Astarion snorts. “Some people are into that sort of defanging thing, I’ll have you know.” He ajusts his cuffs and stares down his nose at Lae’zel. “Tavvendish, for example.”

You choke. “I’m not—”

Lae’zel huffs and turns from you, but not before you see her smile. Astarion, meanwhile, waves a hand. “Go on, woodling. This is a safe space.”

You look, defeated, to Gale. The other wizard holds up his hands and turns away. “I don’t want to know,” he mutters.

You give Lae’zel your best pleading look. “Can we get off of this topic, please?”

“Peace, Tavvendish.” She holds up a hand. “We’ll shelve the offer,” and here she glances sidelong at Astarion, “if only for the pale one’s pride.”

“You’ll have to fight me off with a bloody broom.” Astarion bares his fangs and hisses at Lae’zel, only for Lae’zel to bare her teeth and snarl back. That begets more complaining from Astarion, and in the ensuing argument, you back slowly away.

You feel roaring heat at your back. “Hey-ho.” It’s Karlach, with her sword slung over her shoulder. “What’re you kids up to?”

“Children’s games,” you sigh, watching Astarion and Lae’zel bicker. “Have you found anything interesting?”

“You’ll never believe this, Tav.” Karlach swipes at you, as if she’s slapping your arm midair. “We found a gnome tied to a windmill. You’d never fucking believe! Shadowheart and Wyll start running over to stop it, and the poor guy’s screaming his head off, like—” Karlach cups a hand around her mouth: “‘AaaaAAAAAGH, lemme out of here!’ And I’m like, trying to catch the windmill, you know, but it’s hitting me hard, and I don’t want to burn the poor little guy, but Wyll finds the Slow lever by pure accident. Nearly trips over it, the madman! And so we get him down,” Karlach mimes pulling down a rope from the sky, “and it turns out the poor fucker’s a deep gnome. Long way, innit? And Wyll’s being nice and all, helping him up, and get. This.” Karlach leans in, her eyes wide. “Baldurian.”

Another lost soul from your city. Was there even a Baldur’s Gate left to return home to? “Hells.” You shake your head at the ground. “Another one.”

Lae’zel lets out a chk and leaves, shoving Astarion aside with one shoulder. Astarion yells out something after her. Lae’zel shouts something back. You’re not sure if they’re flirting or fighting.

You watch Lae'zel go; she glances at you as she passes, and you pretend to be very fascinated by a nearby human corpse.

Karlach counts on one hand. “So between us, it’s you, Fangs, Shadowheart, Zevlor, a bunch of others at the camp…”

“What did you call me?” Astarion asks from behind you, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Karlach smiles at Astarion over your shoulder.

“Fangs! Everyone gets a nickname.” Karlach points at you. “Tav’s Tavvy, you’re Fangs, I’m Mama K…” After a small pause, the tiefling shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got so far.”

You look over your shoulder at Astarion with raised brows. “Fangs, eh? Not bad.”

Astarion’s lip curls with disdain as he looks down his nose at you. “Don’t you get in the habit, darling.”

Karlach laughs. “Ah, lighten up, Fangs.” She sheathes her sword. “Could be worse.”

Shadowheart approaches your group with her pack open. “Tavvendish, is any of this of use to you? Have a look.”

You support the pack on your thigh and peer inside. Shadowheart points out various pouches and jars: “This one’s all copper shavings, but there’s some mugwort in there. A couple of cloud giant fingers as well…”

“A suspension of…” You open a bottle and smell. “An orchid of some kind, but I can’t place which.” You pass the bottle to Shadowheart. “Weavemoss bloody everywhere as well. Looks like some Pixie’s Hair mixed in…” Pale fingers reach from over your shoulder and begin rustling through the bottles alongside you. You bat Astarion’s hand away. “Stop that,” you snap at him. “If there’s anything interesting, I’ll tell you.”

Astarion whines. “And then you’d hog it all to yourself.” You feel his chin rest on your shoulder as you begin separating Weavemoss from Pixie’s Hair. “Oh go on, Tavvendish,” and he’s all dead weight on your back. “Share.”

Shadowheart tilts her head as she examines one of the bottles. “Did you hear something, Tavvendish?”

“Not a sound,” you reply, without looking up from the Weavemoss.

Karlach gasps and cups a hand to her ear. “Ah, wait— nope.” She shakes her head, frowning. “Nothing. Must’ve been the wind.”

Astarion wails from beside you. He straightens up. “Oh, however will I live without all of your approval? It’s like I’m Gale or something.”

“Ha-ha,” says Gale flatly. He glares at Astarion from over his spellbook. “That’s the second ‘pick-on-Gale’ joke I’ve heard today.”

“Hey, Astarion,” says Karlach, jerking her thumb towards Gale. “What nickname do you reckon for Gale?”

“Mm.” Astarion leans sideways, towards Karlach, and touches a finger to his lips. “Let’s see…”

The two stare at Gale in silence; this seems to unnerve Gale further. He shakes his finger at him. “Some have called me ‘The Wizard of Waterdeep,' I’ll have you know!”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you stuff the Pixie’s Hair into one of the many pouches at your belt. “That’s all of it,” you say to Shadowheart.

“Good, then.” Shadowheart pulls her pack back to her and sets to fastening its leather buckles. “We’ll sell the rest.”

“Bookworm,” says Karlach.

Astarion rubs his chin. “I don’t think so. Too obvious.”

Gale hides his face behind his spellbook. “I’ll allow it!”

Wyll enters the square, Lae’zel close beside him. There’s a stern look on his face. He stops beside Shadowheart and addresses the group in a low voice: “There’s a Gur ahead looking for a vampire spawn. We’d best be cautious.”

You look up at Astarion. He’s now very, very still, and very much not smiling. Shadowheart coughs; Gale lowers his spellbook.

Karlach takes a step towards Wyll. Her voice is soft. “You didn’t—”

“Gods, no,” Wyll says, holding up both hands in supplication. “We bade him luck and sent him off.”

“Fool,” snaps Astarion. Everyone in the group turns to him. “You should’ve killed the Gur where he stood and saved me the trouble.”

“Astarion.” Wyll’s voice is a warning. He touches his chest. “On my honor, I will not see you hurt.”

“A fat load of good your honor will do, darling." Astarion crosses his arms tightly across his chest. "Any other tired little lines you’d like to feed me?”

Lae’zel steps forward, staring hard at Astarion. “I’ll not have a Gur best me,” she says.

“Me either,” Karlach says. “We’re with you.”

Gale shuts his spellbook with a snap. “We’re a team.” He looks hard at Astarion, gesturing with the spine of his book. “We stay together, no one has to get hurt.”

Astarion eyes the group. Briefly, his gaze shifts to yours. For a moment, he looks unsure of himself, unsure of the people around him. You’re unsure why he’s looking to you, until you realize everyone is. You touch your neck again. Astarion’s fingers twitch. His foot shifts in the dirt, prepared to run—

“Teammates,” you say to Astarion. “No Gur or monster hunter will have you.”

Astarion’s expression sours. He glares at Wyll again. “Such rousing sentiment,” he drawls, but he sounds less afraid, less unsure, than he did a moment before.

Wyll, however, is unfazed. He lifts his chin and stares Astarion down. “On my life, then.”

The two men eye each other. Karlach frowns deeply; something about this unsettles her. She looks to Shadowheart, then you.

Lae’zel, however, seems unfazed. She speaks up beside Wyll. “There is good news yet. The Gur spoke of a hag in the bog below.”

Wyll glances at you. “A hag by the name of Ethel.”

Everything slides into place at once: the gifts, the promise to rid you of your impossible pain, your bag closing by itself, that damned smile. You groan in aggravation and press the heels of your hands to your eyes. Hells, but you were stupid. You should know better than to fall for a hag.

“You’re joking?” Karlach squeaks. "Tavvy?"

“I wish I was.” Wyll sounds a little ill himself, wincing at your defeated expression. “How rare, exactly, is this Yellow Gnoll’s Ear?”

You fiddle with your earrings as you think. “Hardly,” you say, after a long pause. “But it’s amenable to bogs and other wetlands. At the very least, we can sweep the area to check.”

“Could be helpful,” Shadowheart says.

Karlach turns to Wyll. “Isn’t slaying fiends your whole thing, Wyll?” She draws a circle around your group. “We can handle it.”

“Making deals with a hag, are we?” says a voice. “That desperate already?”

The world around you goes intensely, preternaturally still. No birds sing, no insects chirr; even the peepers by the brook have gone completely silent. It was as if Faerun held its breath. You can hear your own heartbeat, and you stay as still as possible, feeling the magic-heavy air sink onto your shoulders. Shadowheart shoulders past you, looking at the path as if something large and repulsive had died there.

Lae’zel, briefly, catches your eye. She looks at you with a question in her face. Seeing such brief gentleness on her is unbearable. Lae’zel must seem to think the same, because her eyes suddenly flick towards the voice. Her expression hardens. When you turn to follow her focus, you notice that the rest of your party is already bristling, on high alert for whatever is on the path.

Who they are on high alert for, however, briefly throws you. Yes, you had expected something horrible: a spare bugbear or two, the Gurs come to take Astarion. Hells, at least you knew what to do with a wildcat or a boar or a Gur. Less obvious was what you did with a man: human, shorter than you, and dressed for an Upper City gala. The group must think the same, because you hear a few swords unsheath.

“Hail,” says Wyll beside you, but he’s toying with that leather braid he keeps on his belt. He hasn’t drawn his weapon, not yet— but his fingers twitch around the keepsake, just inches from his rapier.

The man raises an eyebrow. He’s amused. “Hail, good saer. Always nice to see a friendly face.”

Odd response. Wyll’s head turns the slightest fraction in the corner of your eye. The entire group has become a tight little clump. Karlach’s body heat makes sweat bead under your hat, though Wyll stands between you two. From this angle, you can’t quite see Lae’zel anymore, dwarfed as she is by Karlach. Shadowheart, directly in front of you, stands ramrod-straight. Astarion shivers, once, and then he gulps. The stranger’s eyes snap to his and— as you watch— he leers slightly at Astarion, almost knowingly.

Wyll steps just forward, placing himself at Astarion’s left. “To whom might we be speaking?”

“Oh?” The man presses his hand to his chest. “Me?”

With every step the stranger takes towards your party, the grass wilts and singes. Flowers droop in his path, almost bowing to this man, who— for all intents and purposes— looks like another misplaced Baldurian. In the corner of your eye, Astarion takes a step back, closer to you. The flies seethe around the bodies, buzzing so loudly it’s hard to focus on much else. Gods, but that heat is unbearable.

“I’m no one in particular,” says the stranger. He stops a short distance away from your group, and he bows slightly, though his eyes don’t leave Wyll’s. “You might call me an admirer.”

Someone’s sleeve brushes yours: Gale, smelling like clean cotton and grass, his spellbook held against his chest. His middle finger hooks between pages. Your right hand goes to an Alchemist’s Fire tucked into your belt. Beyond the smoking village, beyond the blood under your shoes, there’s another unfamiliar smell: Burnt. Rotten.

Shadowheart tucks one hand behind her back: it’s already in the beginning position for an incantation. “We’re flattered,” she says primly. “But we don’t mean any harm. We’d like to continue on our way without any bloodshed.”

You look to Wyll’s hands, then Astarion’s. Maybe, if you can just slip this Alchemist’s Fire to someone…

The man laughs. The sound makes the hair on your arms prickle up. His voice is a purr. “I wouldn’t dream of harming you. In fact…” The magic in the air tilts drunkenly, and then it’s pressing down on your shoulders even harder than before. “One might say I’ve sought you out.”

He looks at you over Shadowheart’s shoulder. Directly at you.

A deep breath, an offered hand, and then the man recites:

“Snakes and beetles and low crawling things, Wonder and terror and death they may bring, But the viper, with her powerful bite, Must always keep the falcon in sight—“

The stranger snaps his fingers. “A moment's lapse; the bird strikes true!” His expression becomes morose. “Alas,” he drawls, “the viper is off to her doom.”

An admirer? You narrow your eyes. Had this man ever entered the shop? Is this just another lost Baldurian? “Okay,” you reply.

The stranger tilts his head back and laughs again: charming, musical. “My, but Miss Carver! You truly wound me. I wrote that one just for you.”

You try to back away, but your heels sink directly into an open skull. Bone and viscerae squelch under your boot. You can’t breathe. The rotting smell grows worse.

“What is this,” you ask the stranger, your voice like glass. “How do you know my name?”

“Oh, fuck no,” Karlach says suddenly. “I don’t like this.” She thunks her sword on her shield: a metallic clang of metal-on-wood that feels deafening in that unnatural stillness, and you wince. She’s deceptively quiet when she speaks again: “Just tell us why you’re here.”

The stranger’s mouth twists. He looks at Karlach, almost bored, though the flames have leapt up from her face to surround her head. “Afraid, are we?” He scans your party. His eyes, you think: there’s nothing there. He may as well be looking at objects on a shelf. “I don’t blame you: these are hardly idyllic conditions for a friendly chat."

Karlach growls. “Tell. Us.”

“Speak now,” Lae’zel snaps from her side. “We have no time for idle games and children’s rhymes.”

“Now, now.” The stranger holds up both hands. “There’s no need for hostility, remember? I’m here,” he says, teeth all white and gleaming, “to offer a solution to your…collective problem.”

It’s when Gale says Mystra protect us under his breath that you know he’s come to the same conclusion you have. No wonder Wyll is nervous; no wonder Karlach is upset.

You remove your hand from the Alchemist’s Fire. It wouldn't do you good-- not here.

The stranger leans back on his heels. “Ah— lest I forget our bucolic environment. Let’s discuss somewhere more comfortable.”

He snaps his fingers. Suddenly, the ground underneath you disappears.

You gasp, struggling to pull in the icy air that now surrounds you. It feels as if your lungs are collapsing. Everything goes blurry and blinding-white. You can’t make out your companions— you can't make out anything— that strange magic is all around you, pushing you, squeezing your body, pulling, yanking, and you begin to scream—

Your boots touch marble. Something sets you down gently on your feet, as if you were a doll. Soft taps resound all around you, and you turn to look: your companions have landed near you. A heavy banquet table separates you from the rest of the group. You hear a whump, followed by Astarion’s muttered, “Ugh!” Unlike everyone else, he has landed chest-first, splayed ass-end-over on the elaborate floor. That heat is everywhere now, stifling and unbearable, as heavy as the magic that now drones and pops in the air around you. You remove your hat and swipe your sleeve over your forehead.

“What the fuck?” Karlach mutters. Her breathing becomes shallow. She wrings her hands. “No,” she murmurs in horror, “no—”

“Welcome,” booms the stranger, with outstretched arms, “to the House of Hope!”

The Hells? You were in the Hells? And was this man— taller? Was that just you?

Gale braces himself on a wooden chair behind you and says, “Mystra protect us,” again, much louder. Karlach has her hands over her face, muttering no no no no in a small voice as she rocks on her feet; Wyll hovers helplessly nearby, hands outstretched over her shoulders. Lae’zel steps between Karlach and the interloper with her sword brandished. Shadowheart makes up the difference, now reaching for her staff with her free hand. You realize you should do the same, but you are at the front of the group: nothing between you and the stranger, who looks perfectly content standing before a roaring fireplace. Despite the heat, there isn’t a bead of sweat to be found on his perfect face. You look, desperately, to Astarion, who— oh, no, he isn’t beside you anymore. He’s slunk away around the table, closer to Gale now. Your stomach sinks.

The stranger looks directly at you, smiling wide, looking like a sated cat. “We haven’t been properly acquainted, have we?” He bows, this time enthusiastically, and far deeper than he bowed to Wyll. “I am Raphael. A pleasure to make acquaintance with you and your party, Miss Carver.”

“Me?” you bleat, pointing to your chest with your hat. “Why me?”

Raphael straightens and claps his hands together. “Why, indeed!” He gestures to the space around you. “We shan’t rush into things. Please, make yourselves comfortable. My home is a refuge, you see—”

Now, for the first time, you can properly see your surroundings. The dining hall you’re in is huge and expensive-looking, far finer than anything you would’ve encountered in Fox’s Keep or the Lower City. The lighting is dim: only a few candelabras decorate the crimson walls. Several portraits, each one larger than two men standing end-to-end, decorate the empty space. As you examine them, you realize that one portrait shows the same person as the other— and that portrait shows the same person again— and you spin on your heel, looking up at them one-by-one. All of the paintings are of the same cambion: here he is driving a sword through a screaming knight. Here he is toasting a victory. The tadpole coos; you feel a driving pain behind your left eye, exactly where the parasite squirms, and the room spins. You look down instead.

On the banquet table behind you is food. So much food: jellies and caviar and stews and pig’s heads and filleted rabbit and fruit and cheese, enough to send your stomach growling after camp meals for days on end. There’s a wild urge within you— perhaps an illithid one— to shovel all of it into your pack and smuggle it home. Some of it is still steaming. Astarion is very still across the table from you; one hand rests against the wood. His middle finger taps that same uneven, rapid staccato from last night; his eyes are locked on Raphael. You’re scheming, you muse, watching his jaw tick ever-so-slightly. But what about?

Raphael is still talking and gesticulating in front of the fireplace. “…would give you the grand tour, but this shouldn’t take long. Perhaps there will be time afterwards, should you heed my offer.”

And underneath the smell of the food is that damned smell.

“Tav,” warns Gale somewhere behind you. The two of you meet eyes across a suckling pig on a silver platter. Gale still has one finger notched in his spellbook, ready to open it at a moment’s notice. “Proceed with caution,” he whispers to you. “I implore you.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” you mutter back.

“Something the matter?” Raphael asks.

“Nothing, saer,” you say, turning back to him. You held your hat to your chest, worrying your fingers along the brim. You use the politest tone of voice you can muster: “I’m only wondering which of my problems you think needs solving.”

Raphael’s eyes flash, but his smile remains calm and composed. “Right to business, is it? Very well.”

His body does a funny shake, then, as if he’s trying to get something off of his back. The magic in the air squeaks; you think of learning violin as a little girl, the screechy little rasp your bow made when it hit the string all wrong. Between one of your breaths and the next, Raphael changes form.

Your breath catches.

“Gods,” mutters Astarion somewhere behind you. “Fuck,” mutters Karlach. “Tsk’va,” mutters Lae’zel, followed by more Tir phrases. Shadowheart mutters a prayer. So does Gale. Wyll simply turns away and exhales.

“Such a dour crowd,” sighs Raphael, folding his wings behind him. “I addressed Miss Carver for convenience, but this deal is for all seven of you. It’s not as if you’re missing out.”

You’re loathe to admit it, but there’s something terrifyingly beautiful about seeing a devil in-person for the first time. The swooping sensation is something like when you first held a Spitting Moccasin at your workbench. You had seen your own reflection in the snake’s eyes. You knew it could stop your heart instantly, and yet, you felt hypnotized by it. Reality must do strange things in the Hells, because Raphael is definitely taller than you now, the fire definitely roars higher, and the portraits loom above you. Perhaps you had shrunk.

Raphael’s eyes— now that dark, deep color you’ve seen in Wyll’s good eye— slide to you. “I appreciate an efficient woman,” he says, “so I won’t keep you waiting. I understand you have an unexpected visitor,” and here he taps his forehead, “in that lovely skull of yours.”

You shake your head. “I’m not interested,” you say automatically.

Raphael raises a brow. “Oh? You’d rather have an illithid worm feasting on your brain matter for the rest of your short life?” He addresses the room now: “It’s to be mind-flayers for all, then?”

Lae’zel snarls. “Hold your tongue, devil, lest I cut it out for you.”

Raphael tucks his hands behind his back, expression plaintive. “For the good of Vlaakith and Creche K’liir, my sweetling? I’m sure your people would have much to say about a gith’yanki turned illithid traitor.”

Lae’zel’s face falls— for the slightest of moments, she looks truly afraid—

Wyll puts a hand on Lae’zel’s shoulder and steps forward. He lifts his chin, gazes down his nose at Raphael. “We are under existing contracts, devil. I would have to consult with my sponsor.” He’s smiling; you can’t imagine how or why. “Or you may consult with my blade.”

Raphael snorts. “Oh, please. I’m not interested in fighting any of Mizora’s or Zariel’s brats.”

Wyll audibly chokes on his next words.

Raphael occupies himself with a loose button on his cuff. “Not for fear of them, you see— it’s just that answering to your master is…” He sneers at Karlach and Wyll, who now looks as lost as Lae’zel. “More trouble than you’re worth.”

“Fucking bastard,” Karlach roars from between her fingers, and Wyll draws his rapier—

“Ah-ah.” Raphael shakes a finger. “No weapons in the house.”

He snaps his fingers; the rapier vanishes. Wyll rocks forward, flailing for something that isn’t there. His boots make a loud scuffing noise against the marble as he catches himself. The Blade presses his lips together and wrings his sword hand in pain, as if he’s pricked it on something particularly sharp. Lae’zel bares her teeth again and lifts her sword, but Raphael waves his hand, and that is gone, too. You look down at your hat: your hands are shaking.

“Anyone else?” Raphael asks.

Karlach, evidently, knows better, because she doesn’t bother reaching for her weapon. Her shield arm hangs limply at her side. She won’t look up from the floor. Shadowheart’s hands are locked around her staff, as if clinging to it will keep Raphael from spiriting it away. She’s mumbling to herself: more prayers, maybe?

Gale clears his throat behind you. “What exactly are your terms?”

“Gale,” snaps Lae’zel, but whatever’s in his face makes her pause. She scowls and exchanges glances with Wyll.

“I’m glad you asked, Mister Dekarios!” Raphael rustles his wings as he presses his fingertips together. “I can rid you of the parasite upon signing. That’s more than anyone else can say thus far.”

“No deal,” you grit out.

Raphael chuckles. Cold sweat pools on the back of your neck.

“Not yet, at least.” He waves a hand dismissively and turns to the fire. “I’m sure you’ll come begging soon enough. Have yourselves a little adventure looking for alternatives. Why—” He turns on his heel, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps you’ll turn mindflayer the moment you leave! Who’s to say?” He shrugs. “If you’re comfortable with that risk, who am I to stop you?”

You…aren't comfortable with that risk. But you had been told stories about devils and fae, back in Fox’s Keep; you had told the same stories to your siblings as they grew. Never accept a bargain, went the old wives’s tale, lest you grow horns for all to see.

But the worm…

You swallow. You are horribly thirsty. No one says anything.

Raphael makes a small noise. “I suppose not, then?”

Karlach says something small: something like we can’t.

Shadowheart steps forward. “No deal.”

Gale speaks behind you: “No deal.”

Wyll is next: “No deal.”

“Never,” says Lae’zel.

Astarion says nothing.

Raphael sighs and looks to the ceiling, tapping a finger on his chin. “Oh dear. Life is full of disappointments, is it not? Very well.” He stretches his wings. You can see the firelight dancing away through the diaphonous skin between the bones. “I’ll be here when you’ve had your fill of them. Off you go.”

“Wait—” says Wyll, but Raphael snaps his fingers anyway. There’s a pull in the fabric of reality, like you’re being yanked somewhere cold and airless, and you hold your breath in anticipation, squeeze your eyes shut—

And when you open them, you are…

Right back in Raphael’s home. You haven’t moved. Everyone else is gone; you frantically scan the room, but there aren’t any familiar faces to turn to.

“Not you, Miss Carver,” drawls Raphael behind you. “Stay with me a moment, won’t you?”

The portraits seem to leer down at you. Suddenly, the food in front of you, the sheer excess of it, makes your stomach turn. The fruit is too sweet; the meat glistens in the candelight. A fly meanders over the feast on the table, lingers over a loaf of bread, and, as you watch, lands on its crust. The fly rubs its legs together, preens itself. Raphael’s wings beat with a leathery whisper, and the insect rolls off helplessly into the caviar.

“Not terribly hungry, are we?" he asks. "Please, eat! You look like you’ve had a row with something that bites.”

You wince, hand flying up to shield your neck from his view. “What do you want from me?” you say to the table.

“I have a little bargain I’ve saved just for you.” When you don’t respond, he scoffs. “Don’t you want to hear what it is?”

The fly writhes, legs kicking helplessly in the air as it drowns. You turn to Raphael and brace yourself against the table. The cambion is thoughtful, almost contemplative, as he considers you. He taps his claws against his chin. You’ve sensed something dark and powerful more than once— it’s impossible not to when studying necromancy— but not like this. Never like this.

“I don’t need help from a devil.” Your voice shakes.

“Most do not. But you,” Raphael said, and his eyes travel down your torso, “may want help,” he points at your lower belly, “with that.”

He might as well have reached out and struck you across the face. You try to inhale, find you can’t. Your vision blurs; you push off the table and walk across the room, trying to put distance between you and him. (You are not sure why: there’s nowhere you can go.) Raphael doesn’t follow; when you turn back, he’s merely watching you closely, as one watches an interesting, exotic animal. The fire turns his wings a translucent, glowing orange.

“Am I right?” Raphael asks, infuriatingly sympathetic. “The pain radiates from you.”

“I don’t—” You try swallowing again, but your throat is too dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Raphel tsks. “No need to play tough, little witch. It’s just us here.”

You can’t move. You want to run away. Humiliation burns brightly in your face. Raphael watches you, smile wide and indulgent.

When he speaks again, his voice is gentle, soothing: “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

You say nothing.

“I imagine it’s agonizing,” he coos. “Feeling your flesh sew itself together. And it gets worse all the time.” He walks a slow circle around you as he talks, gesturing at you. “Sometimes you can’t walk, or speak, or eat, or make love. And you know how wood elves like to do that.”

“I don’t want—” Hot tears brim at the edges of your eyes. You try to step away from him, away from the table and its too-perfect food. “I don’t want a deal.”

In your periphery, you see Raphael give you a once-over. “Is that all your life is destined to be?” he sighs. A few more steps, and he moves out of your view. “A short life of pain before bleeding from the inside-out? No children?”

You jump as you feel warm hands on your shoulder. “No lover?”

You wrench yourself out of his grip, stumbling forward. “The answer’s no.”

“You don’t even want to hear my bargain.” When you turn to face him, he crosses his arms, looking unbearably smug. You move to draw your staff, but your fist only meets empty air behind you.

“I don’t care what the bargain is,” you say, and you hate how your voice shakes. You drop your hand. “You’re going to do something awful to me.”

He twirls a wrist in the air and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Why, Tavvendish,” and here he presses a hand to his chest and looks at you with wide eyes, “I’m once more hurt by your words. Aren’t you at least a little curious?”

You had to admit: you were. Your heart races in your chest.

“Not even a little,” you say.

Raphael rests his index finger on his cheek and stares at you thoughtfully. “What if I told you it’s a price you’d be willing to pay?” He leans towards you, all the way forward, on his toes. “That fulfilling this contract would be a joy for you?”

You look away, and Raphael adds, “That it would use your skillset in the most satisfying way possible?”

When you look up again, Raphael puts his hands behind his back, waiting patiently.

Damn.

“Let me hear it,” you sigh.

“I want you…” Raphael trails off, staring at you intently.

You raise your eyebrows.

“…to make me…” Raphael trails off again.

You gesture for him to hurry up. “To make you…?”

He claps his hands together in front of him. “A custom perfume!"

You stare.

And stare.

Raphael’s smile widens, as if he’s told you the secret to making gold from lead.

“Raphael,” you say. “What.”

“Not just any perfume, mind.” He holds up a finger. “This perfume— and you may choose your medium, so long as it’s to be applied topically— must contain no less than five milligrams of Golden Asp venom.”

The golden asp; the very first snake you had milked successfully. They were native to the woods east of Fox’s Keep. One snake would yield more than enough.

“There’s a catch,” you say softly.

He chuckles. “Smart girl. Here it is.” His smile disappears; his voice pitches low. “Your challenge is to make this scent both harmless,” he counts on his fingers, “and long-lasting. It must be enough to cover the smell of both sulfur and Infernal magic.”

Ah, you think, that’s what that rotting smell is.

Raphael continues: “If it doesn’t satisfy my requirements, I’m afraid the deal is off.” He clasps his hands in front of him, smirking. “But aside from hard feelings, there will be no punishment for failure. I'm a fair one.”

You stare at the fire, feeling like a trapped rabbit. You were no perfumier; you balk at the idea that Raphael thought otherwise, that Raphael thought your work could be reduced to a frivolous hobby. Golden Asp venom smelled strongly of alcohol; it would be challenging to neutralize its toxicity, let alone make it smell appetizing on the skin.

But if you used it as a solvent…

You shake your head. “No.”

When you look up at Raphael, he’s grinning, like you already took the deal. His teeth look extremely sharp.

“No need to make any rash decisions,” he purrs. “Take your time. Mull it over.”

“It’s impossible,” you lie. “I don’t even know how to mask sulfur.”

Raphael’s eyes go wide. He puts a hand to his heart with mock innocence. “Oh, neither do I. But,” he adds, “wouldn’t it be delightfully fun to find out?”

And the promise of your pain taken away…

You sink into a nearby chair. It’s soft and smells of dust. “My soul is part of the deal, I assume?”

“Not necessarily.” Raphael crosses his arms. “We can save that for another arrangement.”

You snarl up at him. “There will be no other arrangement.”

“Just the one, then?”

You open your mouth. Shut it.

With a wave of his hand, Raphael conjures a magic scroll in the air beside you. Its text, all Infernal, burns red-hot; you shield your eyes against the glare. A phoenix-feather quill burns next to it.

You squint at the Infernal contract. “That wasn’t a yes.”

“Oh, Miss Carver, but it could be.” Raphael takes the quill. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he unfurls your fist, sets the quill in your palm. His skin is blazing hot. This close, you can smell his current cologne: enticing, even seductive, but still not enough to cover the stink of magic.

“A lifetime free of pain,” he murmurs, and he closes your fist around the quill. “Pleasure, fertility, children, a family; all that you want, given as just compensation for your time.”

Your hands tremble in his. Raphael leans forward, just so, and you can feel his hot breath against your ear: “Sign whichever name you prefer.”

You can’t stop staring at the contract; something about it pulls you in, and you lurch towards it, as if something beckons you from within it—

You blink away tears. You shake your head. “No,” you say. You look up at Raphael, whose face is now so terrifyingly near to yours. “I can’t.”

“Not ready yet?” he asks.

You could go home. You could be normal again. You could settle into a boring life inside your keep: raising children, cooking, hanging the laundry in the front yard.

The thought makes you sick with want.

“I…I just. I can’t.” You proffer the quill. “I won’t.”

To your surprise, Raphael smiles as he takes the quill from you. “It’s no trouble, woodling.” With a boom, the contract bursts into flames in front of you; you jump. “Take your time,” he says. “Think on it. Mull it over.”

Within minutes, the contract is cinders, spread all over the feast like a fine, grey powder.

“But,” Raphael says, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up as he leans ever-closer, breath reeking of sulfur and decay, “you’ll come begging soon enough.”

He snaps his fingers— there, again, that sickly lurch, the icy vacuum—

You stand in the middle of the ruined village, your hat still in one hand. Gravel crunches under your boots. The familiar smell of rot and burning wood fills your nose, but all you can smell is how dead everything was on that horrible, yawning table.

“She’s back!” someone says, and then, all at once, there are people around you, grabbing, touching—

“No,” you mumble. Someone tugs on your sleeve; you jerk your arm away. “No,” you say again: clearer this time.

“Tav!” someone shouts, then, “Tav,” then, “Tavvendish!” and everyone’s voices become a loud, droning sameness: Tav Tavvendish Tav are you alright Tavvendish Tavvendish say something Tav. You close your eyes against the blinding sun. You swallow and speak around your slightly-raised hands. “Not— please—”

“What did you see?” Wyll asks over Gale’s shoulder, “What did he do to you?” Shadowheart asks, “Are you well?” and she’s barely gotten the words out before Lae’zel says, “Tsk’va, look how she shakes,” and Gale says, “Tav, breathe—” and Karlach shouts, “Give her some air!” and—

“LET ME GO!”

Your exclamation was met with wide, confused, open stares. One by one, at least, people back away from you. Somewhere around Shadowheart and Karlach, you realize Astarion is not there at all. Your eyes flick over Lae’zel’s head, and, some ways away, there he stands. Astarion meets your eyes; his face is blank. It makes you so angry.

“How long was I gone?” you snap at him. Astarion doesn’t move. His eyes drift away from yours.

“Several minutes,” says Wyll, “Around ten,” says Gale, “Give her room,” snaps Lae’zel, and most of the group, save Shadowheart, backs away even further. The half-elf merely stares at you thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, as if she’s trying to place something.

Someone takes your hand: Wyll. You stare at him. He says, very slowly (as if you’re very stupid, does everyone think you’re stupid), “Tav, you’ve got to tell us what happened.”

“Do not touch me.” Your voice is icy; you don’t recognize it. Wyll winces and lets go immediately. Hurt wells in you like fresh blood, and you shove it down in favor of glaring at him. “None of you touch me.” When no one has anything to say, you stomp your heel into the dirt. Your hat flutters with the motion of your arm. “Why does everyone keep touching me? I don’t like being touched!"

Wyll holds up both hands in defeat. “Alright, Tav.” You hate his slow, measured tone, the wariness in his gaze. “No one will touch you.”

“Tavvy.” It’s Karlach. “We didn’t—” She exchanges glances with Wyll, looking defeated. “You didn’t— agree to the deal, did you?”

“Of course not!” you snap. “I know wood elves are— are a novelty to some of you, but I do know better!”

The tadpole whispers: unlike Wyll unlike Karlach unlike them you are special you are—

“Then what was it, love?” Karlach clenches her fists to her chest emphatically. “What did he do to you?”

“It was—” You’re tearing up, much to your mortification. You turn away from the group and blink the tears away. “He offered me a bargain. I refused.” You turn back to them. “That’s all.”

Everyone exchanges glances with one another.

“Stop acting like I’m not here,” you say. “Just—” You dig one trembling hand into your scalp.“Please. Let’s forget it ever happened and continue on.”

There’s a long, awful silence. You can’t bring yourself to look up at them; you know they’re judging you, looking between each other with silent pity. This always happens, wherever you go, no matter how hard you try. You hunch in on yourself and whine. They won't stop looking at you.

Something pushes curiously against your brain. The tadpole chirrs, pleased, as if greeting the new visitor to your consciousness, and you wrap your arms around your head and shout, “NO.”

The intrusion withdraws.

“I think you’re done for today, Tav,” Wyll says quietly. “You’d better rest.”

Your boots swim and blur, and you watch numbly as a tear plops onto the dirt.

“I’ll help you break camp, my friend.” Wyll’s boots stop in front of yours. “Tomorrow, we renew our search for Ethel.”

“I concur,” Gale says. “I’ll cover for you, Tav.”

“No.” You shy away from Wyll’s comforting hand; pain creases his face. “Please, Wyll. Let’s just move along.”

“Tavvendish,” Shadowheart says, and you hold both your hands up in front of your face, as if to shield yourself from her.

“Let’s just move along,” you say to your hands, a little too loudly, and you feel everyone’s eyes on you. Don’t look at me, you think desperately, and you’re not sure if it’s the tadpole or you thinking, don’t look at me don’t look at me don’t you DARE, and it takes another moment to realize you’re whispering it aloud: “Don’t you dare, stop looking at me, please, stop looking, don’t,” words tumbling from your lips like a clown’s handkerchief, and you can taste silver on your tongue, everyone is watching you—

“How about we all take a break?” someone chirps, uncharacteristically cheery. “Infernal magic always makes me a bit queasy. Let’s give Tavvendish her space and regroup in a half-hour.”

“Please don’t fuck around, Astarion,” Karlach pleads. “Not now.”

“I agree with the spawn,” says Lae’zel. “A break will allow Tavvendish to compose herself. A distracted mage is a weakened mage.”

Don’t talk about me like I’m not there, you try to say, but all that comes out is a gentle whine.

“Tavvendish.” It’s Shadowheart again, and her hands clasp both your shoulders. “Come with me.” She forces you to walk to a ruined building, and you stumble helplessly along. The group’s chatter grows distant, and then quiet, before sputtering out entirely with the sound of a slammed door. This house still has its roof, but Shadowheart steers you into a room that's been blown open to the elements on one side. There’s cold, stale tea sitting in a porcelain cup next to the fireplace.

Shadowheart releases you. “I need you to answer me a few questions, Tavvendish, and then I will leave you well alone." She moves to stand in front of you. "But if you’re injured, I must know.”

You stare at the abandoned tea. Shadowheart continues anyway:

“Are you in any pain?”

“No,” you say.

“Have you been injured? Was there a fight of any kind?”

“No,” you say.

“Was there…?” Shadowheart trails off. “Were you violated?”

Not this time. You shake your head. “No.”

“My lady preserve us,” sighs Shadowheart under her breath. She sounds relieved. “Would you consent to a physical examination, Tavvendish?”

You grab at your forearms and squeeze tightly. “No.”

“Alright. May I at least look at your face for bruises or lacerations?”

Shadowheart is hardly phased by your refusal. She stands there, arms crossed, staring at you calmly. You wince at her even expression.

Eventually, you look back to the tea and sigh. “If you must.”

“Very good.” You feel Shadowheart’s cold fingers on your chin, and then she’s tilting your face towards hers. You stare, blankly, at the scar across her nose: so like your Witch Bolt. Where could she have gotten it from?

Shadowheart makes a low noise as she scans your face. “Pretty eyes,” she muses. “Makeup only a little smudged.” She pinches her fingers together to indicate little.

“Glad I still look presentable.” It’s a reedy little joke, barely audible even to yourself, but the corner of Shadowheart’s mouth quirks upwards anyways. She fishes around in her belt pouch and produces a small white handkerchief, which she offers to you. It smells of orchids: reminiscent of your Nana’s perfume, if you’re honest with yourself. You turn away from her and dab at your cheeks.

“Do you have a sedative?” she asks behind you. “I would avoid the pipeweed. I need you calm.”

You think back on all the items Ethel shoved into your bag. Damn it all, but she was a hag; could you trust her? Your thoughts swim; you visualize her smile, how her eyes were that dead and blank like Raphael’s were— and then you think of the Golden Asp venom and the perfume and something sweet like cherries, and you feel your lungs collapsing again—

Small hands steady your shoulders. “Tavvendish, think,” Shadowheart says. “A sedative. You have one, don't you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. In your mind’s eye, you visualize your beaten leather pack. Your fingers twitch at your sides, as if you’re carding through the bag yourself: antivenom, healing potions, Malice…

With every item, your mind grows calmer. Dragon’s Egg, basalm, Pixie's Hair, Alchemist’s Fire— Raphael’s smile washes up again, and you yank your thoughts forcefully away from it— pipeweed, Faesblood—

That was right: Ethel had handed you a Faesblood Poppy tea before you asked her for the Yellow Knoll’s Ear. It was looking at the tea that prompted you to ask for the mushroom in the first place.

You look to Shadowheart. “Faesblood. I have Faesblood.”

She nods. “Only a little. And strict rest in your tent until your nerves are well again."

“Wait,” you blurt, holding a hand to your forehead, “It was from the hag.” You sigh. “I’ll have to check if it’s—”

“I’ll do that for you, Tavvendish.” Shadowheart’s curt, businesslike tone is not soothing, but that fact soothes you all the same. “Have someone help you with your tent.”

“I don’t—” You bite it down. Plenty of customers had said the same to you in the shop: I’m not sick. I don’t need help. Their symptoms seemed obvious to you at first sight. They’d be insane not to take what you were recommending.

You swallow the response and clear your throat. “I’ll do so. Thank you, sister.”

Shadowheart lifts her chin and harrumphs. “Once again,” she says, “do not use your wood elf customs on me. I was not raised with them.”

————

You stare blankly at the inside of your tent for the rest of the day. The Faesblood makes your head feel as if it’s stuffed with cotton. All of your thoughts come one-at-a-time and from far away: Shadowheart’s tone going warm for the briefest of moments; the fear in Lae’zel’s eyes at Raphael’s insinuation; the hurt in Wyll’s face when you yelled at him. You want to wince; you want to feel guilt. The tea holds your body very still instead. You lie in your bedroll, staring at your copy of Ten Easy Charms.

You reach under the furs and find your left hip. Slowly, you press your fingers into the softness of your belly. Pain lances through your side in answer.

You groan and pull the furs tighter to your chin.

Taking Raphael’s deal would be insanity; you know that. The stakes for his cure are deceptively easy. You wrack your brain for possible loopholes, but either the Faesblood tea is confounding you, or you truly can’t see how Raphael would use the deal to his advantage. Surely a devil had greater ambitions than smelling pleasant.

There are voices outside of the tent: your party must have returned. Karlach and Wyll are laughing about something. You envy how easily they release their pain, when yours seems to live, permanently, inside of you.

But not for long, if you could only figure out how—

The tent flap lifts, and the campfire illuminates a silhouette through your blanket. “Bugger off!” you shout at it.

“Oh, my.” Astarion. “Such big feelings.”

You press your forehead to your knees. “I’m not in the mood. Go away.”

“For all you knew, darling, I could have a large sum of gold for you! Or jewels.” He ties off the flap, leaving your tent open. “Or rare spiders.”

“I said go away, Astarion,” you mumble. It’s half-hearted.

He settles at the foot of your bedroll. “Maybe not the spiders, then.” He hums thoughtfully. “Mm…I really thought the spiders would work. Let’s see, now. Are we a fan of priceless and ancient artifacts, by chance?”

You yank the blankets off of your head. Astarion jumps when you glare at him.

“Oh, aren’t you a fright? Hold on.” He reaches towards you, and you recoil with instinctive disgust, snarling like an animal.

Astarion merely sighs. “You’ve got—” He brushes at his own forehead in demonstration. “—fluff in your hair. It’s bothering me.”

You reach up and comb at your own bangs, mirroring his movements. Your hand comes away with a white down feather. Embarrassment crawls over your skin as you look down at it.

“Much better!” Astarion chirps.

Hot tears fill your eyes again, but you are still. You just let them roll down your face, helpless as emotion finally shoves its way into your too-tight throat and lodges there. Your stomach roils, threatening a night of pain. You pull your blankets over yourself and flop back against your bedroll; the action turns you away from him.

“Leave me alone, Astarion,” you rasp into the pillow.

“If that’s what you want,” he says. You stare at the tent walls for a long, long time, but Astarion doesn’t move. He merely sits there quietly, near the entrance to your tent, like he’s halfway to leaving.

You watch the sun slide down over the canvas wall. He shifts and coughs, once. You ignore him. The sun moves further still. The birdsong outside wanes, giving way to a lone mourning dove, cooing in the early twilight. You smell Gale and Wyll cooking dinner: rabbit again.

When the light in your tent turns from gold to a soft purple, you clear your throat. “You want blood, don’t you?” you ask the tent wall. “That’s why you’re still here.”

“Not at the moment, darling, though bless you for remembering.”

“It was this morning. How exactly could I forget?”

Astarion scoffs. “I don’t know what your memory’s like.”

“Better than that, certainly.”

“Is that so?” He shifts again. “Name every poisonous spider from here to the Sea of Fallen Stars.”

You close your eyes tightly. “Zero, because no one eats��spiders. I told you that yesterday.” You sit up again. “Or don’t you remember?”

But Astarion isn’t looking at you. He’s looking out of your tent, out into the rest of the camp as it comes alive for the evening. Karlach laughs at something, as does Wyll. Magic lilts and chimes in the air; Gale speaks, and Lae’zel replies in turn.

“Whatever he has to offer you,” Astarion says, “It isn’t worth it.”

Oh, but it was. All you owed in return was one measly bottle of perfume, made from the species you knew best: your favorite one, in fact. For that small bottle, Raphael would trade you your life back. You look down at your lap. You can almost see that Infernal script glowing on the backs of your hands. Surely you could—

“Tavvendish,” says Astarion, and you jolt from your stupor. With the sun now set, you can’t read his expression. There is something low and wary in his tone. “People like that never truly give you what you want. You’re only there for a bit of fun before they take everything you have.” He inclines his head. His voice drops impossibly lower. “Don’t ask how I know.”

You lie back down. “I never said he offered me anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Astarion pushes himself up with a grunt and finally takes the tent flap back in hand. “Enjoy your sulk.”

With a whisper of canvas, he’s gone and out of your tent. The flap whispers behind him. Your nails dig little crescent moons into your thigh under the blanket.

You run your tongue over your teeth, and it’s then that you realize: something salty is in your mouth. Something foul.

Rotten.

You snatch up your handkerchief and spit into it. The small, fuzzy object in the center of your palm is hard to make out, suspended as it is in saliva and some dark, maroon fluid. You narrow your eyes and lean closer. It’s the fly from the caviar: dead now, and tangled in clotted blood.

#tavstarion #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #bg3 tav #astarion #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #momofics #pity the mayfly

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