The Lovers, Chapter 1 | A Critical Role fic
Hi! I know TLOVM just ended, the Briarwoods are dead, etc. etc. etc. Y'all wanna disregard all of that and see my take on them getting together? It isn't even based on TLOVM, it's based off of the original campaign canon. Enticing, right? Are you enticed?
[content warnings: blood, gore, death, some body horror]
Also on AO3!
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The dead rise in Shattengrod. This is convenient for Sylas, because the undead are a perfectly acceptable target to slaughter β whatβs inconvenient is the cost. The only access to Shattengrod is through the Cerberus Assembly, which means the only way in is by playing escort to a pack of mages: Archmages and apprentices, overconfident teachers and their useless students. Every single time some wizard pitches a fit because they trip over a rock, or get a blister, or get their arm bitten off by a sharp set of undead teeth. Itβs insufferable.
Right now the mages are gathered around some fascinating carving on a pillar; one of them has sat down on the ground and pulled out his spellbook, so itβs going to be another ten interminable minutes before they can move on from the wreckage of this plaza. Sylas prays for abominations β a fleet of zombies, a cobbled-together necromantic beast. Other mercenaries have reported constructs so powerful that the ground underneath them cracked and decayed as they walked. Heβd quite like one of those. Especially if it was willing to eat the wizard sitting cross-legged on the ground.
Another member of Sylasβ band sidles over to him: a nervous-looking boy with freckled skin and a mop of brown hair. Sword at his hip, shield at his back. The trick would be to break his left wrist before he could draw his shield; from there, disarming him would be easy. One swing of Sylasβ sword would cleave his head from his shoulders. He wouldnβt even have time to beg for his life.
βHave you been here before?β says the boy, blissfully unaware of Sylasβ considerations.
βUnfortunately, yes.β
βYou still have all your limbs.β
βIβm capable.β
The boy flushes with the implication; he looks away. The look he gives the group of wizards is one of desperate longing β please finish what youβre doing, please let me leave. βDo they normally take this long?β he says.
βFrequently,β Sylas says.
βDo you know what theyβre doing?β
βMagic, presumably.β
βRight,β says the boy. βOf course.β He gnaws on the skin of his lower lip; Sylas holds his breath and waits for blood, but none comes. Just a strip of skin, vanishing between the boyβs teeth. Then the mouth opens again. βDo youββ
A soft moan rises out of the dark. Thank all the fucking gods: Sylas wraps both hands around the hilt of his sword.
βWhat was that,β says the boy.
Some wet dragging sounds; a small, muffled gasp of delight. The voice is high-pitched and feminine β innocuous, except for its presence here in the ruins of an ancient and highly magical deathtrap. Slowly, the rest of the mercenaries draw their weapons. The wizards continue doing their arcane nonsense with complete leisure and nonchalance.
βWhat was that?β says the boy.
βCareful,β Sylas says. βItβs going to try and climb inside of you.β
βWhat?β
The lesion attacks. One grasping appendage loops around the boyβs ankle and yanks him away into the dark, while two more fly at Sylasβ head β easily avoided β one swing of the sword and he cuts an appendage free, sending it whistling away into the ruins. The monster sobs; it sounds exactly like a child, left alone to die in the dark. He wants to kill it so badly that he can feel it aching in his teeth. He shifts his grip on his two-hander, races towards the sounds.
It is in fact trying to climb inside of the boy. One toothy, slimy tentacle has shoved into his mouth, and the lesion is crooning lovingly to itself as it keeps pushing forwards. The boy is paralyzed: heβs dropped the shield already (idiot) and his grip on his short sword is shaky and useless. Sylas takes another swing; he feels the satisfying, shuddering weight of impact as his sword cuts into the monsterβs body. Foul acid spews everywhere. The monster is screaming, the boy is screaming. Too loud, too loud, too loud for Shattengrod β or maybe just loud enough β and yes, there, the shuffling of footsteps as every undead creature in the city is drawn to the smell of fresh meat.
The fight begins in earnest; gloriously, Sylas is reduced to his body alone. His mind leaves him.
And then itβs done, and theyβre tallying the bodies β the mercenary boy first among them, a tentacle bulging obscenely through the skin of his stomach. Sylas vaguely remembers that death. The two other mercenary corpses he doesnβt remember at all. And, fuck, one of the junior wizards has gotten her face ripped off. Sheβs the worst loss: the Cerberus Assembly doesnβt care if they kill their own apprentices, but they deeply care if someone else does. Someoneβs going to be blamed for this.
And heβs the one who has to carry the body.
βDid you get what you came for?β he asks one of the alive ones: a red-headed woman, splattered with blood and dark ichor. Sheβs giving him a narrow-eyed glare like heβs the one who killed her apprentice. As if he ever could have gotten away with it. As if he would have even wanted to β sheβs heavy.
After a long stretch of silence, the woman says: βNo.β
βDelilah,β says another mage β a sallow man who is bleeding profusely from a head wound. βWe canβt make any more progress like this.β
βYou canβt.β
βYou canβt either. Youβre tapped, arenβt you?β
Her mouth goes flat and sour. βI can ritual cast.β
The other mage scoffs a laugh. Sylas risks a glance at one of the other mercenaries β an older woman, one-eyed β for a brief moment of solidarity. Wizards. By the time he looks back, the redheadβs face is completely empty.
βIβm staying,β she says. βYou take Ingrid back.β She gestures to Sylas in a way that could mean anything but probably means and take this piece of furniture with you.
βYouβll die down here,β says the other wizard.
His companion isnβt listening β she has already turned around and gone back to examining the walls. The mage attempts to share a look of comradery with Sylas; Sylas ignores it. Instead he watches the bandage gradually darken. The way this manβs head would feel against his thumb β the way it would give. Like soft fruit.
βFine,β says the head wound. βYou can lose Daβlethβs attention. No skin off my back.β
No response. He sighs through his teeth and turns to Sylas. βWell. Shall we, my friend?β
βIβm not your friend,β Sylas says, and at the same time the woman says: βIβm keeping that one.β
βWhat do you mean youβre keeping that one, Delilah!β
βLike you said, Iβmβ¦tapped. What if more undead show up?β She hasnβt turned around to rejoin the conversation; instead sheβs tossing these sentences over her shoulder, lightly, like an array of silk scarves. βBesides, heβs the biggest one.β
(This is true.)
The mage pinches the bridge of his nose; the movement makes him wobble, and thereβs an interesting second where Sylas thinks the head wound might actually take him. Alas, he rallies. βFine. Fine. Absolutely fine. I hope a thousand undead drag you away into the depths of this fucking city, Delilah.β He storms off, waving a hand flippantly to pull the rest of the mercenary band after him.
They donβt move after him, obviously. At least not at first. This gives Sylas enough time to dump the girlβs corpse into the arms of the one-eyed woman; the moment of solidarity is over, and this body is incredibly inconvenient.
βWell,β she says around an armful of dead meat. βGot a message for your family?β
βNot at all,β Sylas says, and she barks a laugh and whistles the rest of the band after the mage. They take the torches with them; the light dwindles, and dwindles, until heβs alone with the woman in the dark. The mage woman. Delilah. Sheβs maybe twenty feet to his left. Sheβs human, so she canβt see in the dark either. He could get her in the back. He could break her spine; it would only take one hit. She would collapse like a pile of parchment. No one would find the body down here. He might be blamed for it, but then again he might not be blamed at allβ
From the dark: βAre you enjoying yourself?β
βNot especially.β
βHm.β An arcane light blooms into existence, held above the mageβs fingertips. βI thought you might,β she says. βThatβs why I wanted to keep you here.β
βBecause I would enjoy myself.β
βBecause you were enjoying yourself. Werenβt you? During the fight. You were enjoying yourself.β
He canβt deny it.
βThatβs very rare, in my line of work.β She lets the globe of light go β it floats five feet above her head and stays there, bobbing gently. Itβs not a flattering light. It brings out the hollows under her eyes, sends the shape of her skull looming out through her porcelain skin. Was she watching him, during the fight? He tries to remember the feeling of her eyes on him and remembers nothing. Only the muscle memory remains: the constant thrill of killing and dying, like fucking in a white-hot beam of light.
The mage has already looked away from him and back to the wall. She pulls out a piece of parchment, notes something down. Says, idly: βAre you going to try and kill me?β
βProbably not,β he says.
βProbably not. Thereβs a chance.β
βThereβs always a chance.β
βCome here,β she says.
He considers staying put. But β despite his best efforts β sheβs intrigued him. He closes the distance. The glow of the arcane orb lights up the back of her neck: the pale skin there, the fragile bumps of her spine. He stands right behind her. Credit to her: she doesnβt flinch.
βDo you know what this is?β she says. She touches one manicured finger to a blue gemstone embedded in the wall.
βNo,β he says.
βWould you like to know?β
βNo.β
βHm,β she says again. She swirls her index finger; purple arcane energy surrounds the gemstone, touches it like a thousand small and desperate hands. Her eyes are narrowed again. She presses her palm to the gemstone β she seems completely engrossed in it, which is why itβs a surprise when she says: βHow would you kill me?
βIf βprobably notβ became βcertainlyβ,β she continues. βIβm very curious.β
βI would cut off your hands.β He doesnβt mean to be honest. This is an unforgivable crime in the Empire, where a mageβs hands are a mageβs power and a mageβs power is everything.
βSo I couldnβt cast,β she says.
βYes.β
She flexes her fingers. βPractical of you. I appreciate the honesty.β
βHe wasnβt wrong. Your friend. You are very likely to die down here.β
βHe isnβt my friend,β she says, βand I am not going to die.β She clenches her right hand into a fist; the wall begins to shiver, cracks growing like ivy from that center gemstone. She pushes her hand forward, fingers clawing at some invisible weight β more, more, more, more β the gem pops free. Without its presence in the wall, thereβs nothing balancing the weight β piece by piece, the wall begins to collapse. Clouds of dust erupt between them.
The wizard crouches down and pockets the gemstone. She lingers there. After a moment, she says: βNow would be the time.β
Sheβs on the ground, on her knees. Head tilted down. Neck bared. The dust is slowly starting to settle; it gathers around her like a veil, clinging to her hair and to her skin. Now would be the time. With her back turned. When she couldnβt do anything.
βAlthough,β she says thoughtfully, βthe sound of this collapse will draw more undead. Retreat and survival would be easier for you if you had some amount of arcane support.β
The rumbling of stone.
Sylas draws his sword; the sound is one long shiver. He watches, waits for it β there β the flinch. She flinches. Thereβs a moment where she truly believes that he is going to kill her β one moment of ego collapse, of animal fear. I am going to die here.
The flinch passes. Her shoulders lower. Footsteps begin to grow closer in the dark, accompanied by the low whimpers and gasps of the lesions.
βDelilah,β he says.
She doesnβt move. βYes?β
He circles around her; he offers his hand. After a moment, she takes it. She stands. Her hand is very still in his β if he hadnβt seen the flinch, he never would have known she was terrified.
βShall we?β he says.
Delilah smiles: a small, sharp thing, like a razor blade held in the corner of her mouth. Her free hand glows with the beginnings of arcane fire. An abomination launches itself screaming out of the dark, and for a while they dance.
He doesnβt think to pay attention to her. The fight consumes him β for a few blissful moments, he loses himself in the sharp clarity and pleasure of violence. Sifting through his memories later heβll tell himself that she was smiling. During the fight, during the whole fight. Her eyes were bright and hot; she was smiling.
The truth is that he doesnβt remember. He only remembers the combat: its brutality, its relief.
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He does think about her later, when heβs at the brothel. The way the arcane light illuminated her β how skeletal she looked, how sharp. Like she was dying. Like she was already dying.













