The party was an unlikely team formed by necessity, called upon when a threat rose. What had started as fighting the edges of an orc horde turned into something far messier. Ancient ruins. Dark artifacts. Cults behind the proverbial curtain.
It always spirals; the initial issue is always just a symptom of a much larger problem.
Now that it’s over, you’re left sitting at a tavern table with the others. The air is loud with victory, and the barbarian is already deep enough into their tankards to be dangerous. Across from you, the sorcerer shamelessly laves a slow, hungering kiss at the wizard’s throat. As much as their constant ardor has become a source of annoyance for all around them, everyone seems to agree that this is better than the continuous arguing that plagued their early relationship.
A huff of laughter comes from your right and you glance over, your own half-full glass still sitting before you. Your first drink of the night, and likely your last.
Wooyoung’s dark eyes catch yours immediately, a half-smile pulling at his lips as his lithe rogue’s fingers tap over the rough grain of the table. He watches you with the same easy steadiness he always does.
You’re not exactly sure when that started. Somewhere between the second cursed ruin and the dragon ambush, maybe. Or maybe it was when you healed the old scar he never talked about. The one you’d sensed when patching him up after a fight. The one he’d given you permission to fix, watching you too-intently.
“Thinking of turning in?”
You lift one shoulder in a shrug, armor creaking. Despite the victory celebration and the apparent safety of the evening, none of you has removed your protections. You’ve all spent too long in constant danger to easily do so.
“Maybe. I don’t know… Halt’s leaving soon, and I don’t want to miss him.”
The fighter has a family to return to, and you don’t fault him for being anxious to do so. He’s spent long enough risking his life.
“It’s gonna be weird,” Wooyoung comments, looking over the tavern crowd, “Not being with everyone anymore.”
The threat is gone. It’s time to go home. And while not everyone in your party is bosom-friends with one another, there’s a respect that’s been built from consistent danger and knowing that you have only each other. There will be things you don’t miss, and things you do. But overall, yes—it will be weird.
“Where are you headed?” you ask softly.
You’ve wanted to ask that for a while. Not because you expect anything, but because of all the people at this table, he’s the one you’ve leaned on the most.
Not in big ways—just in how he always lingered when you were last to strike your tent, or how his watch shifts always aligned with yours. You’re not sure he did it on purpose. You’re not sure he didn’t.
He pauses, tilting his head thoughtfully. Without the hood of invisibility in place, his too-sharp ears cut through the drape of his dark hair. His mouth, so quick to smile, purses slightly.
“…dunno,” he says after a moment, meeting your gaze again, “…where are you headed, saint?” he shifts, leaning his elbows on the table.
From anyone else, it would be a jab. From him, ‘saint’ has always seemed to be a term of endearment, like he enjoys your good nature.
Some of the others scoffed when you joined—a War domain cleric, instead of Light or Life? Unnecessary when frontline fighters were capable. And then you stood your ground in the marshes, unyielding under a black dragon’s acid breath, and knocked its head back before it could sink its teeth into the downed barbarian. It had taken proving you knew how to use your mace as well as your spells.
But Wooyoung never questioned it. Never questioned you. Just trusted you to be there to fix the hurts, time and again.
You don’t respond at first, lingering in the moment. Wondering. A daring request almost falls from your tongue. You pull it back.
“Hm,” one gloved fist props under your chin, the dark leather permanently stained with the blood of one of your comrades, “…I think I want to be done.”
It’s a new confession. One you’ve never voiced to another. Barely even to yourself.
“I’m ridiculously wealthy, I’ve learned spells not even my order’s high priests know, and…I’m tired.”
So many new scars mar what was once untouched flesh. Yours was always the last hurt to be healed; you made sure of that. The acid burns are still numb in some places. Eventually, you’ll fix it all—slowly, with enough restorative magic. Just… not tonight.
Wooyoung nods, something empathetic in his expression when he all too naturally slides an arm around your middle.
“So, retirement,” he concludes.
You can’t help but lean into him. He’s always been solid, strong despite his lithe build. Warm in a way that was much needed on the long road.
