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gingeart · 7 months ago

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The Price of Her Love

dnd pc backstory smut / 6,957 words / oops! sometimes your court gets caught and you are killed while traveling, and the ways you choose to pay your patron back are with your body— all of it. / cws for character death, dysphoria, s/m, bloodplay, manipulation, gore / everyone who's not fen belongs in part to @mercilessperciless !

The thing was, his hasty plan had worked the way he’d mapped it out. The displacer beast had seen someone with no armor and leapt straight for him, allowing him to release the fireball he’d prepared and watch the Blaze bloom all around him for just a moment as he scorched deeply into its flesh. He just… hadn’t managed to dodge the beast fast enough to avoid the heavy claws that came down his chest and knocked him to the ground.

There was still adrenaline flooding through his veins, though he knew that wouldn’t last long. He didn’t know if she could hear him, but it was worth a shot. “Moth—” Blurry edges framed his vision as the adrenaline began to fade from his body, leaving him to ride a wave of pain that left him breathless. To finish asking for help was no longer an option; now it was just him clinging to the raw and bloody pain of being torn open (so different from the burns he knew and loved) to keep some sort of consciousness. Not that it was easy— this pain pulsed a deep red with the beat of his heart (not good, that was him bleeding out), a visceral ebb and flow that was much more fickle than the exponential-increase-until-peak that he’d grown to understand from burns. No, this was more like when the Viscereine raked her claws down his skin in bed, on a far larger, deadlier scale. It made it difficult to cling to the shreds of his consciousness, each flickering thought moving too quickly (was this it, no, this couldn’t be it, She was still alive and as long as that was true he couldn’t die, fuck, he could hardly breathe, the black edges threatening his vision—)

Hands, featherlight, brought him back to himself enough to recognize the Prince’s Moth, kneeling over him. Calm as ever, she spared his face no second glance as she assessed the wound, hands beginning to glow with her hot white light. Obviously he needed healing, but he had no idea how he was going to stay conscious through all of it (fuck that hurt) as the sear of magic began to burn throughout his body. He did his best to stay still, but there was little he could do to stop himself shaking wildly under her practiced hands. Everything had its price, and her price was pain.

His vision flickered in and out. The Viscereine was there when she hadn’t been before, closely studying the flesh that lay beyond his skin. “Oh, Herald,” she looked at him with her same beautiful, unreadable face, “that was very brave.” It did not sound like she thought that was brave, but he was a little too focused on not dying to figure out what it did sound like.

“Get him talking,” he heard the Moth murmur.

He saw something shift across the Viscereine’s face, and she said something he couldn’t hear. Then she was kneeling next to him as well, fingers hovering over his open chest in a way that made him wonder for a moment if she was about to undo all the Moth’s work so far (she wouldn’t right? right?). Instead, she began to trace imaginary lines over him, starting at his neck and working her way down. “Would you mind if I took a look inside you, Herald? Your stomach is exposed already. I’d have to crack open your ribcage to get to anything good up top, but we could see how your lungs are faring after your time here. And of course,” her smile was knife-sharp, “I’d love to pull out your heart so we could look at it together.”

There was a small part of him that knew this was simply her trying to follow the Moth’s orders. There was another small part of him that knew how deeply creatures with organs and insides intrigued her, and that this was (probably?) a compliment of some sort. The largest part of him, however, was most concerned with not dying at the hands of the woman he not a good time to think about that right now not dying at her hands. “Maybe don’t—” he grit his teeth and clenched his fists as a new wave of pain washed over him, “— don’t pull out the organs the Moth is—” fuck, don’t pass out, “— working so hard to keep in me.”

Whatever the Viscereine might have said was lost to him as the Moth put her hand into the (still very raw and bleeding) flesh that made up his chest, and he nearly bit off his tongue as he clenched his teeth in an effort not to scream. Again, his vision flickered, in and out, in and out, darkness creeping inward from the edges. Panic was quickly beginning to set in as it hit him full-force: no matter how hard he fought, no matter how much he struggled to stay awake, he might still die anyway. Already-unsteady breaths were growing faster, shallower, as fear took hold of him and he began to ramble— something, anything, to keep the black at bay.

“H-hey Moth, any chance you could get rid of my tits while you’re working in the area? They’ve been a, uh, haha, weight on my chest for a long time and—” (Her head shook no.) “— no? Might need a new binder then, don’t think I’ll be getting this one back—” The tears that had begun to drip down his face evaporated in the heavy heat before they could get far. “— please, please I can’t die yet, I have to find Her, I have to make things right—”

He heard the sigh before he saw the Viscereine’s eyes drop to his face (when did she stand?), lips pursed ever so slightly. “So don’t die.”

What was once the fear of dying was shifting into a gripping, desperate fear at the thought of disappointing her. If he died— he couldn’t afford the thought. He wouldn’t die. End of story.

It seemed that in the time he’d come to that decision, she’d gotten bored and left.

His scattered mind could hardly hold thoughts, but the feeling of her loss was real. His possible death wasn’t even interesting enough for her to stick around, which was its own fun little hell to live in as the Moth slowly finished healing him. Across his (bare! bad!) chest was now a set of claw scars running from his shoulder to his waist on the other side, angry and tender, but closed. She carefully helped him up to sitting, where he resisted the urge to cross his arms and cover his chest (and touch his wounds in the process). When she pulled a roll of bandages from her bag, he audibly sighed in relief.

The Moth was methodical with her wrapping, not slow, but not fast either. Logically, he’d fucked everyone in the court, it shouldn’t really matter all that much if they saw his tits; they knew he wasn’t a girl, and that should have been what mattered, right? Except that in the Blaze, he was able to keep his chest bound, able to control on some level what they saw of him. There, he had no choice, every ugly inch of him finally laid bare; and the Moth’s eyes on him were a necessity for her to finish bandaging him. He’d have to grit his teeth and wait it out, if he could keep consciousness that long. Bandages meant he was stable, right? Wouldn’t die if he blacked out (which was quickly becoming likely)?

He didn’t get a say in the matter as he finally passed out, going limp in the Moth’s arms.

It took three days before he was allowed to travel again. If he’d been given a choice, they would have been moving again the next day; but the Moth had taken his staff and made it clear that he was not ready to move, and that if he tried, she would not hesitate to knock him back out. While he wasn’t scared of her, he knew he was still unsteady on his feet, and that she’d likely have little problem carrying out her threat. Plus, the Keeper had brought up a good point when they’d brought him lunch: if they encountered trouble again while he could barely walk, he’d be dead weight. There was little he could do to argue with that, so he had three whole days to do nothing but trance and reflect on his failure.

And boy, did he reflect. Every angle examined, every decision, every spell, what could have been done better. Not that he had much idea what the displacer beast could do, seeing as he was busy trying not to die for a good chunk of that fight; but it still ate at him, knowing that he’d become a burden, even if it wasn’t for long. Knowing how much he’d have to do to make up for it all.

It took another week after that before he was cleared to participate in every aspect of the Blaze (he was welcomed back thoroughly by everyone, which, while much-needed and much-appreciated, left him with some trouble walking). Only after this, the next evening, did the Viscereine approach him one-on-one, eyes sparkling with delight. “Hello, Herald.”

It was hard not to be suspicious of her when she approached him like that. He squinted at her, crossing his arms. “What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?”

Fuck, he hated playing these guessing games with her. Just once, it’d be nice to have a clear fucking answer. But no; instead, he got to deal with her unclear language and come to his own conclusions (and if he came to the wrong conclusion? That was on him). Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, filtering his frustration through a layer of manners to get to an acceptable set of words. “I don’t know, my lady. That’s why I asked.”

Rather than any sort of answer, she asked, “You’ve just had your first Blaze in a little while. How are you feeling?”

It took a moment of gritting his teeth (why did she have to be so difficult) before he could reply in a tone that didn’t beg for trouble. “Sore, but otherwise fine.”

She let a moment of eyeing him pass, as if deciding for herself whether or not he was lying to her. Apparently, she was satisfied he was not, because her lips curled into a smile, revealing brilliant white teeth. Oh, she was beautiful alright, but she was cunning and slippery and scheming too, and that sort of smile put him on edge with no real information. “I’m glad to hear that.”

It took a lot of willpower not to snap and demand what she wanted again. Instead, he took another deep breath, focusing on the ache of his sore muscles and using the feeling to ground himself again. She’d asked how he felt after the Blaze. An inquiry into his well-being, his recovery, as well as how he was handling after a long night of wild sex. Which meant she was trying to steer his thought process in one, or both, of those directions. She was here alone, which obviously meant she wanted something— oh, of course. She wanted time to fuck, just the two of them. But that was him drawing conclusions very quickly, and he was uncertain this one was the correct one. Better to ask and be certain. “Sorry, is this you wanting to fuck?”

Her laugh was soft, light, and clearly amused by the bluntness of his statement. “So crass, Herald! But not incorrect.” (Oh thank gods, he was right.) “Would you care to accompany me to somewhere a little more private?”

He knew better than to think that was a request. “Of course.”

It was to her personal tent he was led, a sight of beauty every time— a brilliant, deep crimson with flames that licked at the bottom. Ducking into the tent, he was not surprised to see a bed set up with fine silk sheets. On top of it, near the end, lay his strap and some lube, ready for him to get straight to business if she so desired.

“Well, Herald,” the Viscereine sat gracefully on the bed, crossed her legs one knee over the other, and snapped her fingers. The candles around the perimeter of the tent lit one by one in quick succession, small flames that were clearly meant to set the mood. “Are you going to leave me waiting?”

Somewhere in his mind, a switch flipped. He moved forward with intent, hungry for the feel of her skin against his, for every second he could have alone with her. The bed sank under his weight as he dropped onto it to kiss her deeply, hands already sliding the straps of her dress from her shoulders. She was clearly pleased, if the noise she made against his mouth was anything to go by. That was one thing she liked about him: slow was a word that rarely applied.

When she pulled away, it was only enough to make sure he knew that she was tugging at the neck of his tunic. “This,” she murmured, breath warm on his ear, “needs to come off.”

It took a total of less than a minute for all of his clothes to be shed— maybe he was a little too eager, but she seemed to enjoy the haste with which he moved, watching with lazy delight as he slid into the harness that waited for him and turned to her once more. When she beckoned him back towards her, he came less to her side and more practically on top of her, a paragon of reckless abandon as he grabbed for whatever he could— her waist, one perfect breast, and then her face as he pulled her into another heady, hot kiss that left him breathless. It was here that he first clocked something as off about the situation; but she seemed fine, no hesitation in her reciprocation, and he was fine, so he put it to the back of his mind.

Most of all, he wanted her out of that dress. He reached around to her low back where a clasp ought to sit, fingers unbothered by the flames that waited where her skin, her back, ended. Getting singed was just a part of fucking at least half the people here, so he’d learned to lean into and embrace it; his fingers, calloused from metalwork anyway, only felt the heat if he let them stay in it. One by one, each clasp came undone, and he watched the dress loosen with hungry eyes until he could slide the straps all the way down her arms, tug the skirt out from under her, and toss it onto the floor below them.

There was never going to be a time where he didn’t find himself stunned by her body, a masterpiece of curves and angles he could map with his eyes, his hands, his mouth, for forever (or at least for as long as she’d let him). His left hand splayed across her lower back, index finger just edging into the fire that lay inside, leaving his right hand free to tangle into her hair as he— well, to say he kissed her would have been an understatement. He pulled her body flush to his and felt the impact of their lips in his teeth; she bit his bottom lip, tugging at the cracked skin until it split, and slid her tongue over the now-bloody mess, into his mouth. The blossom of pain, the taste of iron, the feeling of his finger beginning to burn, pulled an unholy noise from him that made her smile against his lips.

Pushing her back onto the bed, he trailed red-stained kisses down her stomach, two fingers sliding inside her easy as anything. The sounds of her irregular breathing, her soft moans, sent a spike of heat deep through his core. “I missed you so much,” he murmured, glancing up at her through his eyelashes as his fingers moved. She writhed under him as he sucked on the nipple of the breast he had yet left unattended; her hips moved to meet his hand, and he felt her grab for his back, sinking her nails deep into him. He was relentless, falling into the clarity of that pain and chasing her orgasm. He liked seeing her like that, unwound, knowing exactly what she was feeling and that he was the cause for it. It felt nice, being useful. Being wanted.

She was a vision of beauty, glistening with sweat and radiant in the glow from her own fire as she came undone in his hand. Her nails dragged down his back, down his hips, scoring hot red lines into his skin that made his nerves sing, alight with pain; and then she was letting go, soft and loose under him, looking at him like he was actually worth something to her. He was careful, tender as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, ignoring the way his heart twisted inside his chest. There was no happiness that didn’t end up hand in hand with fear. The more he shoved that shit back, accepted what they were and didn’t dive into the details, the better for both of them.

“Surely that’s not all you have for me?” Her vibrant crimson eyes were now speckled with yellow, twinkling in anticipation as her angles, her edges, returned.

For all intents and purposes, that was a challenge, and he was not there to disappoint or lose.

Again he leaned down to kiss her, to lift her to sitting, feeling his heart beat in his bruised lips as heat continued to pool deep in his core (he was wet behind the strap, aching for some sort of relief, but he could wait). This time, it was she who grabbed a fistful of hair, her sharp tug pulling a gasp from him as she forcibly separated him from her. There was no kindness in the way she shoved him back onto the bed, wind knocked out of him as he hit the silk beneath, and he stared up at her breathlessly with keen delight (gods she was a sight to behold). Running her thumb over his ragged lips, she seemed to contemplate the situation she’d put them both in for only a moment before a wicked smile cut its way across her visage. “Time to put that mouth to good use, Harbinger.”

He barely had time to suck in that missing breath before she spread her legs to kneel over his face. He grabbed the soft flesh of her hips, supporting her weightless form as she lowered herself to his waiting lips— she was divine and he was, despite everything, blessed enough to drink from her cup, time and time again. If his body was a temple, this was his prayer: some sort of communion no one at home would ever approve of— to taste a god and know that this was how she let him go on in spite of his sins, to dream of what peace was like in the sharp cradle of her thighs, to feel how hungry he was for some scrap of relief that would rid him of the needling red ache of desire burning inside him. He was intent, desperate, as he took everything she had to offer him— his pain was as much his own pleasure as it was hers, so when her claws drew fresh blood where she gripped his wrists, he faltered for the whine that he could not keep trapped in his throat.

“Do not stop,” her growl, low and guttural out of her chest, paired with the hot, thick red liquid rolling down his skin, only grew the feverish need lighting every inch of him. That was an order he could hold himself to, working fast, relentless circles with his tongue until she was shaking overtop him, thighs clenched around his face. He held her hips steady as she came, scalding his mouth, and drank down every drop he could (he could not begin to describe her taste, only knew that despite her lack of internal organs, he still had something to swallow, and it burned, and he loved it).

As determined as he was to take her apart again, he was also desperately trying to keep his head on straight through the fire pulsing out from his center. When her grip on him loosened, when he could breathe again, he gasped and moved her easily off his face, to his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows to stare up at her. His wrists ached pleasantly where her claws had pierced him, bleeding sluggishly onto the sheets below (much like his back), but that alone was not enough. “Please fuck me,” he begged, watching his words clock in her face, her head tilt as she considered the option. “Please, I want you, I want you to touch me, to hurt me—”

“Do you think you have the right to ask me that?”

Her voice cut cold and clear through the haze in his mind, and the feeling of something being off that had caught him earlier was finally something he could understand: she’d been rather hands-off considering how they usually fucked, allowing him to do the work while she indulged in the benefits. If she wanted him to keep begging, she’d make that clear; no, she was dead serious about this question.

“I— I thought so,” he said, though it was uncertain enough that it sounded like a question to him. He racked his brain for what he might have done to piss her off this time, struggling through the anxiety bubbling up in his chest— fuck, all he’d done since nearly dying was rest, and that was not exactly by choice, if she was mad at him for that then what the hell was he supposed to do? “I-I’m sorry, I don’t— what did I do wrong?”

“If you think that my saving your life is without price, I would advise you to think again.”

Of course. Of fucking course. This wasn’t a ‘Welcome back, glad you’re not dead’ fuck like the Blaze had been; this was a ‘You owe me’ fuck, a reminder that nothing was without cost, that he was subject to her whims, and that his own needs were an afterthought. She’d gotten what she wanted; why would he matter?

Between the binder, the position he sat in, and her sitting on top of him, the deep breath he took was strained. “Okay. Rethought. My— my bad. Are we— are we done here? Or do you—”

“My Harbinger,” her eyes, cold and knowing, did not match her smile, “you will know when we are done.”

No release and no relief. Sure. Okay. He could swallow back his protests like a good boy, because arguing wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he knew better than to think he could change her mind on something like this. All things considered, this was a small price to pay for his life, right? He was still here getting to fuck her, which would not be possible if he were dead. This was her version of mercy; there was no point in being bitter about it. Time to turn off the brain and follow orders.

“Yes, my lady.”

She did not tell him to leave when she was finished with him, a pleasant surprise that he accepted without question (trancing with her fire near gave him a sense of security that he could never find alone). Even more of a surprise the next morning was her pulling him up and out of his trance and telling him to dress, because they were going for a walk. Uncaffeinated and unfed but uncertain of what was happening, he did not protest: if she wanted an early-morning fuck somewhere scenic, he certainly wasn’t going to say no. He might even get to reap some pleasure of his own this time.

A soft blue mist hugged the ground where the sun had not yet risen to burn it off; the path they followed led to a secluded little clearing in the middle of the kaleidoscope pine forest they were traveling through. There was no bed, just the two of them off the bank of a small stream, which, sure, alright, he could work with the ground and the trees. When she paused to turn back and look at him, he was ready with a sweet kiss, pulling her in close to tangle his hand through her long, auburn hair. The noise of soft, surprised delight that she made against his lips was enough to make his heart jump, to finally fully wake him; unable to keep the smile off his face, or his hand from wandering from the back of her neck, he traced the edge of the hollow of her back until it was resting on her hip. “May I?”

To his confusion, she put a hand over his to stop him. He blinked once as his mind began to race with what he might have done wrong— had he been too hasty here? Misinterpreted her invitation? Been unsatisfactory last night? Had she finally gotten fed up with all of his bullshit? Every possibility was worse than the last, and they wouldn’t stop coming.

The anxiety must have shown, because she put a finger to his lips to shush him before he’d said a word. “That’s not what I asked you here for, Herald.” That did not make it any better. “Come, let’s sit.”

She led him over to the stream where he followed instinctually, sitting beside the bank as she did too. It felt very strange and mildly uncomfortable to be so close to the water, small as it was, though she seemed to have no such qualms as she studied him intently. The silence sat heavy between them, laced with the anxiety he was trying so hard to tamp down, until she finally spoke again. “Do you recall, while the Moth was healing you, when I asked you if I could take a look inside you?”

That was enough to put a skidding halt to all of his thoughts. “I do,” he said cautiously, playing with some of the multicolored needles that littered the forest floor around them. It was no fire, and it was no metal, but it was something to keep his fingers busy.

Her smile was not kind, but he could tell she was pleased with that answer. “I would still like to do that.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The sentence slipped from his mouth before he could think, hand tightening into a fist around needles that jabbed into his palm. “You want to— what, take a look at my organs?” That was a lot. That was a lot, even for him. “You realize that would kill me, right? The very thing I just got done paying you back to avoid?”

“Your debt remains unsettled,” she countered, a statement of fact that would have rung false if not for the fact that he knew she could not lie. “I did not name my satisfaction as my price, and we did not agree to it as payment.”

Oh. So that was the game she was playing— when she’d forced him to find a conclusion from her empty words, when he’d fucked her senseless and received nothing for it, he’d foolishly assumed that that was his payment. He was as frustrated with himself for making that assumption as he was about the fact that the sinking feeling in his gut told him she would be getting her way, one way or another. “Okay. So your price is tearing me open and looking at my entrails. Do I have that right?”

“You do,” she tilted her head slightly, waiting for his inevitable followup.

“How, exactly, do you plan to do that without killing me when the Moth’s back at camp?”

Her smile returned, sharper than before. “My Harbinger, do you remember pleading for your life before myself and the Moth?” (A shake of his head no. Much of that exchange was blurry; he only remembered the Viscereine asking to look inside him because of how graphic she’d been.) “You told us that you couldn’t die yet, that you hadn’t yet achieved what you needed to, in essence. So I told you not to die.” (That part, he did remember now: that gripping terror of disappointing her hadn’t left, simply tucked itself away to rear its ugly head again later.) “That was more than a request. You cannot, will not, die within the next twenty days,” she placed one clawed finger to the scar tissue at the center of his chest, sending sparks through his skin at the point of impact, “and I have waited patiently to see how beautiful you are inside. So I ask you: is this an issue for you? Or are you prepared to accept this cost?”

It couldn’t be an issue for him. This was her price: if he refused, if he asked to wait, it would only get steeper. She would be sour, disappointed, which was the last thing he wanted. Besides, if he’d handled almost dying and the Moth’s healing, surely he could handle this, which was just the almost dying part. Plus, if this was happening one way or another, there was no point in putting it off: it would be a waste of time to keep healing while knowing that the injury was simply going to be reopened later. He took a deep breath and shook his head no, exhaling slowly as he tried to keep himself calm. “No. It’s fine. Just— I need to take all of this off,” his fingers had moved from pine needles to the edge of his tunic, “there’s no point in ruining it.”

Her crescent-moon smile didn’t change, and her eyes didn’t move off him as he stood once more. He undid his belt, tossing it about ten feet away, where hopefully everything would stay free of blood. With the tunic and the leggings tossed away too, he was left in just his bandages and underwear. Those, he supposed, should probably go too. By no means was it his first time naked in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, but most of the time, there was the Blaze going to keep him well and warm; the only fire here was what smoldered in the Viscereine’s back.

The air was cool, and the ground was prickly against his skin as he sat once more, closer to her this time. Stripped entirely bare, of his own volition. (Just don’t look down. Just don’t think about it.) Certainly, she took her time drinking in the sight of him, raking her eyes thoroughly over every inch of him. It would be nice to know what was going on in that head of hers, but that simply wasn’t how she operated; so instead, he sat there under her gaze in silence, listening to the babble of the stream, trying not to think about the inevitable. Which was kind of a tough feat, all things considered, especially when one factored in the inevitability of his curse until She was dead. There was so much he knew could be coming, but he never had any idea when, or in what manner, his curse would act out. The precautions he took, were they to become the arbiters of Her will? How much of his fear was reasonable? He didn’t know how strong it actually was in the grand scheme of things—

A touch to his shoulder was enough to snap his attention back to the Viscereine, who had moved to be directly in front of him. “I’d recommend lying back,” her hand crept down and inwards, towards the scars, lazily pressing him towards the ground. He let her, following her pace as he leaned back, trembling with the effort (her chuckle did not go unnoticed). He made it to the ground regardless, where he was grateful for the support below him.

She gave him no time to let the anxiety sink back in: in the blink of an eye, the tips of her fingers were embedded in his chest. A gasp proved to be a poor idea, letting him feel where each sharp claw now rested inside him; blood began to pool, slow and steady, around her fingers. The adrenaline now coursing through him was a shock of clarity, leaving no room for thoughts that weren’t about foreign object in my chest. So far, tolerable.

That changed when she began to rip open his scars, and he screamed so loud he thought the entire forest must be able to hear it. She must have been enjoying it, because she was slow in pulling him apart, scar tissue stretching and tearing like his flesh was nothing but a shell in the way of her prize. His writhing under her fingers was seemingly of little consequence: she simply put her knees to his shoulders to pin him down, and continued to pull and pry his chest open, little by little. Ribs cracked around her hands; all he could see was her face, spattered with his blood, and the unbridled joy she wore. How ironic that after so much time spent wondering what she was thinking, it was here, now, that he could tell.

With him lying back, gravity was doing its job; his screams cut off as he choked on the blood that had begun to seep into his throat, coughing violently (a terrible mistake). Apparently, this was of note to the Viscereine, because she smiled at him so sweetly that it was hard to reconcile the fact that she was the one doing this to him. His mind was beginning to falter as she sat him up (more pain fuck fuck fuck), supporting him easily with one arm. “Ready for the main event?”

She must have taken his swaying as a yes, because he felt her hand wrap around his quickly-beating heart in his chest. With one swift motion, she pulled it free of the cavity it resided in, and held it between them for the two of them to see.

Under any normal circumstances, that would have been more than enough to make him black out. Under any normal circumstances, having your heart ripped out meant you were dead. And he sure did black out, but not for long: from numbness, from a body that had lost so much blood already, came a spark of fear that ignited through every limb: the panic, the terror, of disappointing her and dying. That magic coursed through his veins, keeping his eyes open, his heart beating, despite its place in her hands. A thread of fire running through it connected it back to him, and, honestly? The burn was the most comforting feeling he had. He was grateful for its anchor as his body screamed in agony.

Still dizzy and reeling, supported only by her arm, he watched as the Viscereine lifted his heart to her lips and kissed it tenderly, almost reverently. It was… the kindest he’d ever seen her look, and it sent him spinning with desperation in all sorts of ways. What would he do, what would he give, to see that expression directed towards him again? It didn’t bear thinking about in this state. His vision was going black again; another deep pulse of magic, this time one he could only just see as the fire flared around his heart, kept him there still. “Fascinating,” she breathed, captivated by the sight.

She let the tension hang in the air between them, studying his heart, his face, the way the magic was keeping him alive. There was a part of him, distant and sleepy, that was fascinated by the magic too. How often did he get to see something like this in action, up close? If he’d been able to study himself, he would have in a heartbeat. What was the magic? What were its limitations? Was its ability to defy death innate? She seemed convinced he wouldn’t die, so how far was she going to push that?

The answer, as it turned out, was very far. One by one, she took her time removing and examining every organ she could get her hands on, until he was numb to the sensation. What was her pulling out his stomach when she’d already wrenched out his heart, lungs, diaphragm, and liver? What was the same exact kind of pain in a new spot when he should have died dozens of times already? There was nothing left in him to spend anymore, just a literal hollow in his chest and the same flickering threads of magic that tethered him to the corpse body he inhabited.

It wasn’t until she began to put everything back that he slowly came to himself again. There was… no describing the way it felt to have his internal organs returned to where they belonged. Missing puzzle pieces didn’t even begin to come close: how could he try to put to words the feeling of blood beginning to flow again, of burning magic reconnecting that which had been separated? It was everything at once flooding into him: the magic reignited feeling in every limb, every inch of his body, a beautiful, awful reminder of what being alive felt like (it felt like so fucking much).

He remembered the trip back in fragmented bits and pieces: the shock of the cold water against his open wounds. Dressing. Following the Viscereine blindly forward. Physically holding his guts in as he stumbled back to the camp. Realizing through the haze that he’d ruined his clothes. Until then he was at the Moth’s tent, and the Viscereine was cupping his cheek and telling him, “I had a wonderful time. Thank you, my Harbinger.”

She placed a quick, stinging kiss to his lips, and left him alone at the entrance.

His duck into the tent was uncomfortable (agonizing) as he tried (and failed) not to shift any of the viscera. When he sat in front of her, it was closer to a collapse than any sort of controlled descent. The Moth watched him silently, waiting for some sort of word of affirmation from him for the obvious task at hand. “Please heal me,” he forced out, trying to focus on her face as his vision blurred again.

She moved the instant he was done speaking, carefully grabbing his shoulders and laying him down. Her only hesitation was at the tunic, looking to him again for confirmation that she was allowed to remove it (this came in the form of a weak thumbs up). Rather than try to jostle him more, she simply cut the fabric down the center and pulled it apart to get at him. Whatever her reaction to the injury was, her face didn’t change; her hands simply began to glow with that familiar white light while he braced himself.

This time, there was no screaming, no thrashing, no flailing. That would have required far more energy than he possessed: this time, he just let himself stare silently at the Moth, slipping in and out of consciousness as she exacted her price for his healing. At least he knew it was coming. At least he was familiar with this kind of pain.

When her white light had faded to a soft glow, a last pass over everything to make sure he would be fine if she left, he spoke. “I’m sorry all your hard work was undone,” he murmured, keeping his gaze to the side. How to even put to words what had happened in the forest? He had to try, to let the Moth know this wasn’t just him being careless. “Um. The Viscereine took me out, and... wanted to play.” Too vague. “With my insides.” Still sounded sexual. “By taking them out and looking at them.” That’d do.

He looked up to see her nod solemnly as the last glow of magic faded from her hands. She wasn’t upset, or disappointed, and honestly? That was all he needed. Pushing himself over onto one forearm, he began to sit up, only to see the Moth’s mandibles clicking softly in displeasure: a warning. Right. He wasn’t supposed to push himself when he was injured like this. He lay back down, staring up at the ceiling. Another three days of doing nothing but reflecting.

He was tired of being blindsided, and angry with himself that it had taken this long, this much of a toll, for him to come to this conclusion. He’d have to start asking people for their prices up front before accepting anything, no matter what it was. Meals from the Hearthkeeper and clothes from Imölia came with the price of service to the Court, he was pretty sure, but he was uncertain of even that now. How much time had he spent indebting himself to the Court? Too much, if he had to question it like that.

Well, fine. Lesson fucking learned. Nothing was ever free. Not for him. Not from anyone. The end. This was his life, and until the curses were broken, he’d pay the cost to keep it, no matter what it might do to him.

(It would do awful things to him, but he would swallow them all down regardless; and they would twist and burn deep within him until they were inseparable from who he was.)

#gingewriting #oc #dnd #fenberos dartagnon #the embered viscereine #the prince's moth

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gingeart · 2 years ago

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Out of the Ash

dnd pc pre-campaign set-up / 8,021 words / sometimes you, a wizard with a shaky grasp on your identity, stumble out of the feywilds poor, starving, and alone, and are met with countless kindnesses you are sure you do not deserve. this is your story. / content warnings for self-loathing, weed, and ptsd flashblacks (fire, injury, abandonment) / everyone but fen belongs to @mercilessperciless!

He’s not sure when he walked out of the Feywilds and back into the Material Plane. Somewhere along the line, he must have, because he can see a city, a defined one, in the distance. Fey architecture doesn’t look like architecture— it’s more of a harmonization of nature and magic, making the best out of what is yet to be as it grows. It doesn’t matter. He’s not in the Feywilds anymore, and he needs a new arcane focus. Just focus on that. Nothing else matters.

He can see where the fire began to die out as he walks, the areas where the greenery was too lush for it to take. The sound of animals around him is... marginally better than silence. Means he’s headed in the right direction, at least. He just needs to get to town and get this arcane focus. Then he can keep going.

He tries to ignore the hollow inside of him that aches for the touch of flame, some sort of feeling to tell him he’s alive and real. “Was the hand not enough for you?” He mutters to himself, staring at his own poor bandage job before he drops his hand again. His voice is dry, raspy; who knows how long it’s been since he’s had water? Better not to speak. Conserve what energy he has for walking.

He can’t tell if the blur of his memories is from exhaustion, or hunger, or something else entirely. All he knows is that he has to make it down the mountain, into that town, and get an arcane focus. After that, he can figure things out.

He walks for two days without stopping. For two days, he walks down the side of this unknown mountain, towards the city he saw first through bare, dead branches. Through some sort of campground, where he ignores the blatant stares of the people around him. Someone starts to approach, to ask if he’s okay; but he doesn’t see them, hardly hears them. He doesn’t have time for this, he has to get this focus. Though his vision swims, he pushes forward. One foot in front of the other, come on. If you can’t walk up to a shop, how are you going to kill a fey?

He scans the streets for anyone with some sort of staff visible (a wand would work too, but they’re not as easy to spot). People are giving him strange looks; but they don’t have staffs, they won’t be of any help. He has to keep moving until he finds someone with a staff, and they have to be local, because otherwise they won’t be of any help.

The road opens up into something wide and full of intersections, and he stops as he scans the area. Bigger area, more places to look, more people, this is going to take forever, focus, it doesn’t matter—

A staff.

He narrows in on the staff first, sizing it up— a big hunk of something on the end, definitely a magical staff— before his gaze inevitably makes its way towards the person it’s attached to. “Are you local?” He asks bluntly.

“Yeah, I’m—” She pauses, face changing, “Oh geez, you okay?”

“Where’s the nearest magic shop?” He moves his eyes from her to the buildings around them, taking each in as his gaze snaps from place to place. None of the ones he can see are a magic shop.

“Uh. This way,” she stands, grabbing the staff from her back (he tenses, beginning to reach for his own before he remembers its nonexistence) and placing it on the ground. When no spells come to life around him as she begins to walk with its aid, he follows in her wake, eyes glued to her feet. His vision is still fuzzy at the edges, but at least this way, he has something to focus on. Her boots look well-worn, and he can’t help but admire the craftsmanship as he pushes onward.

They turn onto several streets before she pushes open a door, holding it open for him. He doesn’t acknowledge it, making straight for the counter. When he lifts his gaze from the floor to meet the man in front of him, he’s greeted with an owlish blink before a “What can I do for you?” emerges from his lips.

“I need a new arcane focus.” There is so much weight behind that single sentence. It’s only added to by a deep layer of gravel in his voice, from where breathing in smoke and embers, where not speaking for at least two and a half days, have begun to have detrimental effects on his throat.

“Ah. You might be in luck,” he begins to turn, “let me get the Wandsmith.” He only goes a couple of steps before he turns again, “Sorry, do you want like a Prestidigitation or something?”

“No, I want an arcane focus,” he replies immediately. Did he not make that clear enough? How can he get clearer than stating it immediately?

“Oooookay!” The man disappears into the back. Good, no need to repeat himself again.

The world around him swims in this moment of stillness; he grips the counter with both hands, focusing on the deep pain in his right palm, and grits his teeth. It keeps him grounded, at least enough that he stays standing.

He watches the door until it opens again to reveal a tall crane-person and the man from earlier. His eyes follow them both as they approach him, and he simply stares at the crane, who stares back. He’s not going to read into it: he just wants to get his focus.

He holds eye contact for a long moment (maybe several) before the crane speaks, “You look like a staff man.” An uncannily accurate assessment. “I am the Wandsmith. Have you lost your focus or has it been destroyed?”

“Destroyed.” Anger and bitterness seep through the word as his face darkens. If he had his focus, sparks might be rising; but he doesn’t. They don’t.

“Then I will craft you a new one. Free of charge, though I will ask you a favor which you may say no to.”

His expression twists for a moment at the word Free, a flash of confusion (nothing is free nothing is ever free not for him there is always a debt to be paid) that settles again into that same tired determination as he hears the rest of the sentence. “What is it?”

“A potentially dangerous venture.” The Wandsmith hardly pauses, “There are postings around town with the summary, and I will call upon interested parties. Return in a few days, I will craft your staff.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he nods, resolving himself to the idea. Dangerous usually means it will take a long time, and every minute that ticks by is another minute She’s still alive; but he doesn’t even know what he’s going to be doing yet. No need to jump to conclusions. “Understood.”

They straighten, and almost seem to smile: “Then I will see you then, Fenberos.”

His metaphorical hackles raise as he hears his name for the first time in a very, very long time. Every inch of him tells him not to trust this person, if they can pull a name from thin air (names have power, he knows this all too well); but he’s in no position to refuse a free staff, with no money and no focus. Instead, he bites his tongue, turns, and leaves.

His vision swims as he emerges into the sunlight once more, and he grips the wall to keep himself upright. It’s not until a hand is placed into the dead center of his vision that he realizes that the woman with the staff has followed him out. He looks from her hand up to her face, trying to get some sort of read on her, waiting to see what she wants from him. Payment for her information? He doesn’t have that. What else would she want? Better to ask and have a definitive answer. “What do you want?”

“I was going to warn you, but you weren’t actually listening to what I was saying,” she looks at him with an expression he can’t quite read. “The Wandsmith is a... changeling, I think? Someone who can pick different faces.” He’s heard stories, but who knows if he’s met one before? No one reveals anything about themself in the Feywilds. “They’re a very powerful arcanist, so they can be off-putting, but I promise they’re a good person regardless of what their face is.” She smiles at him and brandishes her staff just enough to catch his eye, “They enchanted my staff to be Sure-Footed.”

Oh. This is a person, not just a means to get him to a magic shop. He blinks as he takes her in for a second time: bright blue eyes, a curly black bob, shorts with so many pockets, a gnarled wooden staff that she leans on the way he currently leans on the wall of the shop. She holds her hand out towards him again, and he closes his eyes as he tries not to let out the world’s deepest sigh. “Why do you keep holding your hand out?”

“You need a place to stay, right?”

Her question catches him off guard, and he knows his surprise slips through onto his face, because he’s too tired to keep it off right now. “… That’s correct.”

She smiles at him softly, and something in his chest twists in a way that feels so foreign and misshaped. “There’s a campground at the edge of town you can stay at, free of cost. I can show you there,” she offers, and suddenly her holding out her hand makes sense.

“Okay,” he nods, carefully pushing himself away from the shop’s wall. He wobbles for a moment before steadying as he begins to follow behind the woman back out of town, towards the area he came from. People are still staring at him: this time, he’s slightly more aware of their eyes. Their gazes burn into him; if he had his focus, he would burn back. Instead, he just keeps his gaze set on the woman’s shoes. (He doesn’t see the ash that follows distantly in his wake, and neither does she.)

She leads him to a secluded clearing, away from most of the rest of the campground. He takes it all in with a soft nod, noting all the flammable material that surrounds him and categorizing it mentally. It’s going to be so strange: he can’t remember the last time he lit a fire without magic.

“Here,” she holds something out to him-- a piece of bread? Again, a thousand questions run through his head as he stares at it; but hunger overpowers all rational thought, and he finds himself taking and devouring it before he even realizes what he’s done. He still feels shaky, but he doesn’t feel one strong wind away from passing out anymore. That’s an improvement.

“… Thank you,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes to the ground. It takes a moment before he realizes that he doesn’t know how to address her, and lifts his gaze again. “What should I call you?”

“Diana,” she smiles again (fuck, she’s pretty, fuck, why does she keep smiling). Is that her real name? Does she know the power behind a name? “You?”

She already heard his name from the Wandsmith, but she’s asking what he wants to be called. That’s kind of her, giving him a chance to define himself on his own terms. He opens his mouth to answer, but pauses as he realizes he’s not actually sure what his answer is. It takes him a long, strained moment before he finally, hesitantly, says, “Fen.”

“Good to meet you, Fen.” Her voice is still gentle, but she places an emphasis on his name, a certainty that he did not share. “... Would you like to clean up? The river isn’t far, but there’s bath houses too.”

She’s still there, still talking to him, still offering him help. Why? He doesn’t have anything to pay her with, he’s sure she can tell. Is she going to charge him later? Ask him to pay her back in favors? This will come back to bite him in the ass, eventually. It always does. But when he catches her eyes, her kind expression again, all thoughts stop. She’s waiting on him to make a decision. “You pick,” he ends up mumbling, unable to jumpstart his brain fast enough for his own standards.

She leads him away from the campground, towards the sound of running water, and gestures to the river as soon as it’s within sight. “I’ll be in earshot if you need anything,” she flashes him a smile, but doesn’t move until he begins to move as well, processing where he is and what’s been said about 10 seconds late. He doesn’t watch her leave, turning his gaze towards the river. When was the last time he saw running water as anything but an obstacle for the Blaze? It feels strange, walking up to it.

He doesn’t undress before he steps in. His clothes are ragged, covered with soot, and they need the wash as much as he does. He almost expects the water to sizzle as he steps in, but it doesn’t: it’s cold, shocking him awake and clearing his mind of all thoughts but the sensation. He grits his teeth, wading deeper in, until he stands at about hip-height. The water rushes past him, but his feet are planted firmly; he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and ducks under the water.

The cold assaults him, numbing the tips of his ears and his toes. He runs his good hand through his hair, doing his best to scrub it and his face clean before he runs out of breath. It takes... longer than he would like, and several rounds of ducking under, before he stops seeing black run off his skin. By the time he drags himself out of the river, he’s shivering (a sensation he hasn’t felt in a very long time). He doesn’t like it, the way it sinks deeper and deeper into his bones with each passing second.

The bandage on his hand is sopping wet and not much cleaner than it was, so he unwraps it, feeling the sting of the fresh air on his burnt palm. He dunks it into the water a couple of times and squeezes it out before he begins to rewrap the wound, wincing at how tight it is. Letting the hand hang loose, he makes his way back to Diana, who is sitting not too far off from the clearing where she left him. She hauls herself to standing with the help of her staff, leading him back towards the campground once more. Sitting there in his spot is something underneath a neatly folded towel: he moves to grab the towel immediately, beginning to dry off with one hand before he realizes he has taken without thought of cost, assumed it was for him. He glances up at Diana, only to find her looking at his hand.

“I have something for that,” she motions him towards her, placing herself on the ground and rummaging through her pack. Fen joins her after a moment, looking to see what she’s grabbing— a small kit filled with herbs and moss— and furrows his eyebrows. “Give me your hand.”

He holds them both out to her, unsure which one she wants. When she takes the bandaged one and begins to unwrap it, he realizes: she’s going to heal it, even though he didn’t ask. He stiffens at the thought, opening his mouth to warn her, “It’s, um. Not pretty.”

She shrugs, seemingly unbothered by the fact. Indeed, she doesn’t flinch as the bandage falls away, taking a moment to study the injury (an ugly, deep burn that radiates heat still) before she begins to grab herbs from the kit. Skillful hands make quick work of them, crushing a few different things together into a paste that she slathers onto the burn carefully. He waits for the magic to kick in, bracing himself for the pain of flesh regrowing; instead, he receives a cool, soft, balmy feeling that sinks into his skin, something that catches him so off guard he gives Diana a look of bewilderment. Nothing about her makes sense to him; and in that moment, with the weight of the situation he’s found himself in finally beginning to sink in, he looks at her with deeply haunted eyes. “Why are you helping me?”

Her head tilts, and for a moment, he’s reminded of a confused puppy. Very cute, but ultimately not understanding the question. “Because you need it?” The way she says it makes it seem like it never even crossed her mind not to help him.

He opens his mouth to say something, only to realize he has no idea what to say. Even if he weren’t exhausted, he probably still wouldn’t know what to say. Instead of arguing, he shuts his mouth, dropping his eyes to the grass as Diana pulls a new bandage from her kit and rewraps his hand in a much neater way. It’s still painful and hard to use, but the flesh doesn’t feel nearly as raw anymore, which is a significant improvement. He should say thank you, but he doesn’t quite know how to, and he doesn’t want to say something wrong and cause problems (like he always seems to end up doing), so he says nothing at all.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to let you know if your staff is done, and I’ll give that another heal then,” she packs her kit away, perhaps a little less neatly than it started out, and uses her staff to pull herself to standing once more before offering him a hand. Again. “Want help getting your tent set up?”

Why does it feel almost worse, being offered help rather than having to ask for it? It’s the assumption of helplessness, he thinks, as he hauls himself to standing without taking her hand. Asking for help, he’s able to say, I’ve reached my limit, this is beyond what I can do; but it stings to have another person think ‘This is something he can’t do’ without even giving him a chance to try. Even if, in this instance, she’s right: he can’t pitch a tent alone with one hand. But he doesn’t usually pitch one, just puts up a Tiny Hut— oh, no. He doesn’t have a focus to cast that with, and— “Can’t pitch what you don’t have,” he mutters (there’s a trans dick joke in there, somewhere), before he raises his voice to something meant for other people to hear. “I don’t have a tent.”

“This one is yours now,” she pats the folded fabric that the towel lay on top of, and Fen blinks. His expression mirrors hers from earlier, the same blank confusion of not quite understanding; and she begins to unfold it, moving in a way that lets him watch. He takes mental notes, in case he has to do it again later; but he knows it would stick better if he could do it himself. “Rachel should be by with a bedroll in… not too long, hopefully,” she glances back at him as if to make sure he’s still there, nodding to herself as she continues her work. “Meemaw probably won’t be by until tonight.”

“You don’t have to wait with me,” he says immediately, wanting to make it abundantly clear: she doesn’t owe him any more time, never owed him any to begin with. She is free to go whenever she wishes (and he wishes she would, because his head won’t stop spinning and he knows she’s part of why).

"I probably won't stick around for too much longer, I just want to get you settled! Like I said, I'll drop by in the morning to have a look at that hand again." She flashes him one final smile and a wave as she begins to walk off, pausing halfway out of the clearing and turning back to call, “Oh yeah, if you come to the communal fire tonight, Rachel usually has cookies!” (His stomach rumbles at the thought.) “I might show up for a cookie too, honestly, they’re really good.” With that, she turns back around, calling one last time, “See you later, Fen!”

His head doesn’t stop spinning— of course not, he chides himself, he’s still hungry and exhausted— but still he pushes forward, grabbing what sticks and branches he can from the edges of the clearing. Most of them are still green, but he can and will make it work. He’s burned the life out of enough creatures, he can certainly burn the life out of some sticks.

He kneels with little care for what it does to his knees, hands already in motion to set up the frame for his small fire. He still has his dagger (for now), and the piece of flint he carries in his pack just in case. It’s been a while since he’s had to light a fire by hand, but muscle memory takes over; and before he realizes what’s happened, sparks are drifting down to the tinder he’s gathered, setting alight what dead leaves he could scrounge up. He catches himself staring intently at the sticks, willing them to catch fire, before remembering that he has no focus, no Calida, no nothing. The leaves die out before the kindling can catch, and he closes his eyes, gritting his teeth in frustration. Nothing is ever allowed to be easy for him, is it?

“Fine,” he grumbles to himself. More tinder, then, and he’ll make sure to give it enough oxygen to flourish, this time. He begins to stand, only to feel the rush of blood to his head, and stops. It would make him feel better to have a fire, but he knows that if he doesn’t trance soon, he’ll probably lose consciousness. Shifting as best he can into something resembling cross-legged, he stares straight forward, into the open forest. He can’t keep an eye on everything around him, doesn’t know how safe this forest is, but he can keep his eyes forward. That much, at least, he can do.

Four hours pass painfully uneventfully before the sun begins to set and he focuses his senses back into himself, taking stock of his situation. He’s still tired, but now his main concern is finding something to eat. Diana said something about a... communal fire and cookies?

He’s on his feet before he realizes it, driven by the thought of food and flame. Following the pathway out of the small clearing leads him to a larger clearing with several different paths that disappear beyond view. He stares ahead with tired eyes (of course even getting there is an obstacle) and takes a deep breath, trying to keep himself level. If he can just find a person and ask for directions, it’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. He just needs to find a person. This is a campground, and people are likely to stick to paths. So, logically, if he picks the most well-trodden path and walks it, he’s bound to meet a person eventually. Set in his course of action, he nods, scanning the paths he sees until he settles on the one with the most wear (one of the paths on the opposite side of the clearing), and begins his quest.

It’s only a couple of minutes of walking before he sees a tent in the distance and veers left towards it. Sitting in a cloth-and-metal chair outside is an older-looking gnome with smile lines alongside his wrinkles who appears to be enjoying the last of the sun. Fen walks right up to him, casting a shadow over the gnome. “Will you tell me which way the communal fire is?”

The old gnome opens one eye curiously. The other follows only a moment later, taking in the elf in front of him. “Sure,” he nods, gesturing towards the path Fen just came from, and points the way he had been walking. “Just keep following the widest path back towards town. The communal fire is just on the edge of the forest, over by Meemaw and Rachel’s. I can show you there, if you like.”

He blinks, caught by surprise again. This is the second person who’s just readily volunteering their time to him. And again with no payment stated. “No, I can find my own way,” he shakes his head, turning to leave.

“It’s really no trouble, but if you’re sure,” the old man offers.

In that moment, the loud growl of his stomach reminds him why he’s there, and he cracks probably faster than he should. “… If you don’t mind. Please.”

The man looks at him with such concern, and Fen tries not to shift uncomfortably under his gaze. He doesn’t like being scrutinized like that, and he really doesn’t like being pitied like that. He’s so tired, and he doesn’t have the energy to keep dealing with people. He just wants to get to the fire.

Finally, the man nods, stands, and begins his slow walk. Fen, not expecting this pace, nearly trips over the smaller man in his haste to get going. “Fuck, sorry,” he apologizes, taking a quick step back to give the old man room to recompose. He hates walking so slowly, but he wants to have eyes on the old man at all times until they reach their destination. Never hurts to be cautious.

“So, what brings you to Savaholm?” The gnome asks curiously.

Savaholm. The name rings a bell, and he racks his scattered brain for more. It’s a… small mining town across the continent? But this town isn’t small, this is a full-sized city. How long does it take for humans to build something on this scale? How long ago did he read about this place?— The old man asked him a question that he ought to answer. “Just… needed to stop for some supplies.”

The man smiles, nodding. Apparently this is an acceptable answer. “We get a lot of folks at the campgrounds just there to resupply before they head back out. Are you a woodsman, then?”

“No,” he shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. He does not say anything else.

There’s a pause just long enough to be awkward as the man waits to see if he’s going to continue talking. As soon as he realizes he isn’t, the gnome opens his mouth again. (Is it too much to ask for some quiet? He can barely think over his hunger.) “Name’s Henry, by the way. You can usually find me either at my spot or at the diner if you ever need a friendly face to talk to. Oh, we’re here,” Henry pauses as the forest opens into a grassy clearing that keeps the buildings at bay. The path continues towards a cute little cabin with a fire burning contently in the back.

All thoughts leave his mind as he abandons his guide for the fire. He hardly hears the “Well— okay— see you later?”, already halfway there by the time the sentence is finished. Coming to a halt maybe half a foot from the edge of it, he holds his hands out towards it, waiting for the familiar dance of flame along his palms before he remembers where he is, the focus he doesn’t have. Still, he has to look on the bright side: it’s the first fire he’s seen in three days, and even small (it’s not that small, it’s still waist height), it is enchanting.

There are a couple of other people there, but he ignores their existence entirely. He’s not sure how long he spends basking in its warmth, ridding the last of the river’s chill from his bones, before someone comes out to greet him— an older dwarven woman with a thick gray beard, short and stout, wearing an (in his opinion, excessive) amount of cardigans, seemingly impervious to the summer heat. Respectable, if true. She looks him over once, frowns, and returns to the cabin.

He returns his gaze to the fire. That’s fine. People don’t need to like him, they just need to not kick him off his spot til his focus is done. He can just lose himself in the licks and curls of the flame again.

The sound of a door opening catches his ear, and he sits up straight, alert. It’s… the dwarf woman again, with— a plate of food in her hand. His stomach growls angrily once more, and he watches her approach with narrowed eyes until she’s right beside him. Wordlessly, she holds the plate out to him, a clear invitation.

He has just enough self restraint not to take it immediately. Instead, he takes a deep breath and asks, “How much for it?”

She shakes her head no and sets the plate into his hands, taking a step back but not walking away.

It takes all of two seconds before his willpower breaks and he begins to devour the first thing he sees on the plate— a yellow square of some sort of bread. Inside is some sweet grain, a pleasant pop of brightness against the drier crumb of the bread. It’s delicious, and he finishes the entire piece in the matter of less than a minute. He pauses only to ask, “What was that?” before moving onto the next part of the meal: meat, cooked until tender and then pulled, still dripping with juices. It’s almost familiar on his tongue, sweet and salty and acidic and a little hot: more food he doesn’t know. That’s right— Savaholm is far from Draguignan, his only point of reference on the Material Plane. New region, new food, obviously.

The woman doesn’t answer his question, but he’s getting the feeling that she doesn’t talk all that often, if at all. A little inconvenient, but ultimately not the end of the world. He can ask someone else about it later, right now he’s just concerned with finishing this meal. Sure enough, as soon as he’s finished with everything, he looks to the woman with a spark of life in his eyes once more. “Um. Could I have more if you have any?”

She nods and takes the plate back, walking back to the cabin with a quickness to her step that he is sincerely grateful for. He feels a little more grounded, a little more stable, with some food in his stomach, knowing that more is coming. He has a focus in the works that will take at least a couple of days to be crafted; he should take some time to decompress and recover. Sort through what few belongings he has, purchase some incense for when he has his focus so he can have Calida by his side again (he has to count and then keep all his gold for that, it can’t go anywhere else). Prepare for whatever the Wandsmith plans to throw at him.

This time when the dwarven woman returns with the plate in her hand (three squares of that yellow bread this time, and a whole lot more meat), Fen gives her a small, grateful nod as he takes it. She looks satisfied as he digs in once more, letting his hunger block out everything else around him as he dives into the meat once more. It’s similar to boar, but less gamey-- maybe some sort of regional variant?

“Fen, hey, glad you made it!” A now-familiar voice rings through the clearing, but he doesn’t lift his head, too busy shoveling as much cornbread into his face as quickly as he possibly can. It’s not until they’re right next to him that he realizes how close they’ve moved, and he tenses, holding his plate away from them as if they might take it. Instead, they ask, “Is it okay if I sit here?” and he blinks once to actually take in who’s speaking to him. Diana. Rather than answer, he simply scoots over to make room for her. She sits next to him carefully, settling herself after a moment of adjusting.

As soon as she’s sat, he holds up one of the yellow squares towards her. “What is this?” He rotates it slightly for her (in case she needs angles to confirm what it is).

“The— what you’re holding?” Her soft confusion and amusement permeate the air around her. “That’s cornbread.”

Cornbread. “And the grain inside, that’s— corn, then?” Though he’s read it before, he’s never said it out loud. The word feels foreign on his tongue, short and chopped, and he commits its flavor and pronunciation to memory.

“Yeah,” she nods, looking at him curiously before turning her gaze to the plate again. “You’re lucky, Rachel’s is a good first cornbread to have.” She eyes the meat before she turns to the dwarf woman and asks, “Pulled pork?” A nod confirms her guess, and she smiles. The woman glances towards his plate, and then to Diana; Diana nods, “Please!” After a moment, she adds, “I heard that Rachel’s cookies were making an appearance tonight, too?” A nod of confirmation. “Looking forward to them!”

The ease, the warmth, with which she converses feels so foreign it almost makes him uncomfortable. If not for the food still on his plate (quickly dwindling) and the promise of cookies, he might leave, just so he wouldn’t have to sit there and feel how wrong and out of place he is. No one here should be treating him with the kindness he’s being given.

“Fen?” His eyes snap to hers as he hears his name, waiting for what comes next. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure if you heard me.” Oh. What came before, not what comes next. He shakes his head no, stabbing another forkful of— pork, she called it?— as she speaks again. “That’s Meemaw, walking back with the plate. Rachel is her wife, they live in the cabin there. Did either of them ever come by your tent?”

He shakes his head no again, finishing off the last of his pork and setting the plate on his lap. “It’s fine. I don’t need a bedroll.” It’s not hard to just sit and trance; the ground works as well as anything else. Comfort hasn’t been a priority in a long time, and he doesn’t want to keep indebting himself to people.

“Really?” The expression on her face reads as skeptical to him, which is a little irritating. What reason would he have to lie? He’s already made clear that if he doesn’t want to talk about it, he just won’t talk.

He shrugs, keeping his voice neutral. “I usually sit when I trance anyway, it doesn’t bother me.”

“When you— trance?” She echoes, seemingly not understanding the word, or at least not understanding in this context. Maybe she doesn’t know how trancing works?

“Humans sleep, elves trance,” he says, as if that will explain everything. Her puzzled expression tells him it does not, and he closes his eyes as he holds back a sigh. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know, he reminds himself. “It’s a, ah, recentering, of sorts. From what I’ve read, sleep shuts off your senses and gives your mind time to rest; trancing does much the same thing, except that we don’t have to be unconscious for it. Takes less time, so it’s more efficient.” He doesn’t have the energy to go into much more detail than that, so hopefully, she gets it.

It’s the most he’s spoken to her all day (no coincidence that it’s after he’s eaten and found a fire). She looks intrigued by the concept, turning to face him a little more. “That sounds useful, and I can see why you wouldn’t need a bedroll; but isn’t the ground uncomfortable for an extended period of not moving, regardless of whether you’re sitting or lying down?”

He’s saved from having to answer by the dwarf (Meemaw, commit that to memory) returning with two plates in hand. On one sits a healthy serving of pork and cornbread; the other holds a several-layered tier of cookies. Following behind her is a halfling woman dressed not too far off from Diana (pants instead of shorts is the biggest difference he can see), with longer hair pulled back in a braid. She gives a wave to Diana, who waves back. While she accepts her plate of food from Meemaw, the halfling walks towards him with an efficient stride for her height. She holds a much smaller plate of cookies in one hand, and extends the other out to him (vertical, not palm up, that’s to shake hands). He eyes it cautiously for a moment before taking it with his good hand: her grip is firm but not painful. With his dominant hand still out of commission, his own grip is a little awkward; but she seems satisfied after one shake and drops his hand.

“Welcome to Savaholm! Sorry I couldn’t drop by earlier, I was in the middle of makin’ that cornbread when Diana let me know you were here,” she apologizes. “Said your name’s Fen, that right?” (He nods.) “Good to meet ya.” From tucked under the arm holding the cookies she produces a roll of— bedroll, of course— that she places on the ground alongside him. “This is for you, there’s a blanket rolled up in there too.”

The lump in his throat at the thought of another gift with no price is too hard to swallow. “I can’t accept this. I have nothing to pay you with.” (He misses the look that Meemaw shoots her wife, but Rachel and Diana certainly catch it.)

She only pauses a beat before she picks the bedroll up and sticks it in his face. “It’s yours now, hear me? Take it. It’s a gift.”

He is acutely aware of the fact that every single possession he has can be packed into the single bag currently at his feet as he takes the bedroll and tucks it inside. (There’s even still room for the tent.) What’s left of his life, all in one place. Fen takes a deep breath and focuses on closing the bag. Another gift. He almost opens his mouth to thank her, but stops himself. He can’t let any of this endear them to him. If he’s a dick, they won’t try to get close to him. So he says nothing, no thank you, just silence.

She holds the plate of cookies out to him. They look different from the ones he knew— what were they? The memory is foggy, and the answer slips out of his grasp as Rachel speaks again. “You look like you need one of these. They’re a, uh, special bake, if you catch my drift—”

“That could mean anything,” he interrupts, “can you be specific?”

“They’ll get you high,” she doesn’t even bat an eye. “If you take one, don’t take more than one. Meemaw has the normal ones. Start with—” she assesses him briefly— “half, probably, and wait a couple hours. If you still don’t feel anything you can eat the other half.”

As he’s listening, Diana wordlessly reaches over him to grab one. He watches her hand retract with a cookie, not processing what he’s seen until several moments later. The starts of several different trains of thought begin and die in the span of seconds as he picks and follows the most important one. “I still have nothing to pay you with.”

“Ain’t gotta pay me,” Rachel smiles. (He feels so out of place, out of his depth, here.) “Just take a cookie if you want one. They’re gingersnaps.”

Fuck. Yeah, he could use something to shut his scattered, racing mind up. It’s been one hell of a few days. He plucks one quickly off the plate, snaps it in half (though crisp outside, it looks chewy inside) and eyes it for a moment before stuffing the entire half into his mouth in one bite. It’s a little more food than he can comfortably fit into his mouth, but that’s certainly not going to stop him from eating it. Indeed, the spices seem to explode on his tongue, a familiar ginger flavor with an earthy undertone and a lingering sweetness. The only thing that puts him off is a strange, oily taste he can almost place as it coats the roof of his mouth, searching deep into his hazy memories until the flavor clicks. She said it would get him high. It’s feygrass, or something very similar.

“Oh, I still gotta give you the full welcome speech,” Rachel sighs, snapping his attention back to her. “Just some campground basics. Doesn’t take long, don’t worry.” She takes the larger plate of cookies out of her wife’s hand and hands over the smaller plate, offering him one of the (presumably) normal cookies. “Cookie’ll help it go by faster, though.” She chuckles as he takes one and bites off a more reasonable chunk this time. “First things first, fire safety.” (The irony does not go unnoticed.) “You’re welcome to make a small fire for yourself. There oughta be a lil spot in the clearing where people before you have made their fires; we just ask that you keep them in that little clearing, and keep an eye on them. Don’t leave your site without putting the fire out. Understand?”

He meets her eyes evenly. “I understand. I’m very careful about my fires.” She has no idea the depth of that statement; but he does, and he means every word.

She must be satisfied, because she moves on without questioning him. “Right! Then I suppose food safety is next. We get bears in these mountains! Don’t leave any food out, or in your tent. We got bearproof trash cans all around the campground, so use ‘em. Seriously, no one wants to deal with a bear by their tent at 2 in the morning.

“The less serious parts— we have breakfast here for those who want it at 8am every day. End of the Road Diner does food and patisserie the whole day.” (The fuck is a patisserie?) “Bathing options, you got the river not too far off from your clearing; but if you’re ever looking for a hot shower, we got bathhouses down the main path and just to the right. Any questions?”

It’s all a lot to process, so it takes a second before he shakes his head no, his body moving slower than he feels like it ought to. Is the exhaustion finally slowing him to a stop? Or is this the cookie, already slowly beginning to kick in? Whatever the cause, it must show on his face, because Rachel gives him a sympathetic smile and offers him the plate of regular cookies again (he takes one more). “Don’t be afraid to holler or come get me if you need anythin’, alright?” She leans over to Diana and whispers something; when Diana nods, she looks satisfied and stands up straight again, moving on to offer cookies to the other few people who are there.

He sits in silence next to Diana for who knows how long, the two of them just watching the fire together. (Though he can’t put a voice to it, he hopes that she can tell how appreciative he is of the silence.) When the cookie begins to kick in, he can tell— the way the pain of his hand slowly becomes a distant memory belonging to someone else, the way he sinks deeply into the log bench under him as his tense muscles slowly relax, the way thoughts fall away before they even begin— it’s a familiar relief. Nothing is good or even really okay, but this is better than things were.

“Hey, Fen,” her voice catches at him out of nowhere, pulling his eyes from the light of the fire towards her face. It dances on her skin, deep purple shadows and jeweled orange tones that cast her in a careless chiaroscuro. A constantly-changing beauty, fleeting from moment to moment (is it her or the fire he’s admiring now?). “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but... you looked pretty rough when you first came into town. What... happened?”

He turns back to the fire and stares straight into it as memories rush through his clouded mind. [A beautiful, frenzied high interrupted by the feeling of deep pain in his hand as red-hot shards of metal explode outward, a ringing in his ears as he grits his teeth and tries to keep his vision steady. Searching for Calida, for the Viscereine, for the Prince, for someone, for anyone in this smoke and deep, hot ash. Screaming to the sky as he slams his hand to the ground and nearly loses consciousness, feeling hot tears stream down his soot-stained face as he realizes that he is alone with no focus, no familiar, and no supplies. “Idiot,” he growls to himself as he hauls himself to standing. Of course this was bound to happen eventually.]

He’s acutely aware of her concerned gaze on him, pulling him back to the present. She’s still waiting on some sort of answer from him. He lifts his head towards the sky, studying the stars and their unfamiliar constellations as he tries to find some way to put everything to words. When he does finally speak, the grit in his voice does a pretty good job of covering up any sort of quiver there might have been. “Got left behind.”

Her mistake is in touching him. His body moves before he registers what’s happened: the feeling of a hand on his shoulder comes second to the instinct of self-preservation as he flinches away from the touch, nearly jumping out of his skin as he grabs for his staff. (Still not there.) It takes several moments of his heart pounding out his chest before he understands what she was trying to do (offer touch for support), undisguised anger and fear on his face giving way to wariness that couples with a bone-deep weariness. Introspection be damned, he does not want anyone touching him without warning him. “Don’t touch me without asking.”

She considers this, nods, and reaches out a hand to him anyway. She looks calm, unbothered by his reaction (where the people across the fire simply stare). He can’t let her kindness disarm him, can’t be careless, has to keep her at arm’s length. If not for his sake, then for hers, as someone with the misfortune of meeting him. Besides, he has much bigger problems to worry about. Friendship and connection are the last things he needs when he’s cursed like this.

He turns away from her, towards the path that will take him back to his campground, only for her voice to stop him: “Don’t forget your bag.” When he turns back to her, she’s already picked it up, holding it up for him to take. He grabs it quickly (whatever skin of his hand brushes against hers, whatever nerves spark to life for just a moment, he ignores) and turns away from her again.

“I’ll be by in the morning to work on your hand some more. If you want, we can get breakfast too,” her tone is even, a neutral base that he can’t interpret, “but for now, get some rest.” A moment’s pause. “Good night, Fen. Trance well.”

Between the high of the cookie, the fading adrenaline, and the way his body aches, he no longer has the energy to try to be nice or sociable. He slings his bag over his shoulder and begins his walk back towards his tent without so much as a nod of acknowledgement.

Fuck. It’s going to be a long few days until his focus is ready.

#gingewriting #oc #fenberos dartagnon #diana #dnd #it's not backstory per se but it is Finished and About Him and i think it's time to finally put it up so. here it is #this took place about 3-4 days before the campaign started!#as i said to lexi this morning: he's doing his best. his best is just rough

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