#instinct fic

🜃 “And so, the Rakshasa and the Flumph lived happily ever after... the end. Would you like to hear another?” (Children squeal with glee.) “Me! I want to pick!” “No, it’s my turn! Tommen picked last time!” “Nu-uh!” “Uh-huh!” (A shrill shriek.) “All right, children! Settle down—no need to fight. We have the magic name bag, remember? And no peeking... now, who did we get?” “Puck!” “Um... I want to hear the Bear Prince and the Fey Knight!” “That old story? But you’ve heard me tell it so many times, I’m worried your ears will start to fall off! What about... the Adventures of Balduran?” (The children cry out ‘no!’ in unison.) “Fine, fine!” “I’ll be in so much trouble when Daddy Halsin finds out I’ve let you stay waaay past your bedtime again!” (The children’s laughter tinkles like bells.) This, Halsin mused, was precisely the reason he had come home ahead of his company—leaving the final stretch of the journey in the capable hands of his contemporary. He hadn’t had a proper night’s meditation since turning his back on the Trielta Crags, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his children going to bed without him there to tuck them in and kiss them goodnight. The stars had begun to appear by the time Halsin arrived. He could still feel the remnants of wild shape sloughing from his legs as he crossed the porch, passing a snoring Auntie Adèle on his way up the stairs—three at a time—to the second floor. He ducked his head into each room until a faint noise made him pause. It was the sound of a woman’s voice, mingled with children’s laughter, seeping through the crack of a bedroom door. Not wishing to disturb them, Halsin peered inside. What greeted his eyes made the corners of his mouth curve softly and brought a stinging moisture of relief to his eyes. Thank Silvanus—no, that’s not right... thank her. There, under the warm glow of paper lanterns strung high among the branches, were his charges—listening intently as Tempest read to them. And a bath too, no less... impressive. A faint note of strawberry suds still clung to his little ones’ crowns. His children were safe, happy, and contented. His fatherly heart felt light as a feather. Halsin had scarcely taken a day off in the two hectic, eventful years since leaving Baldur’s Gate—unwilling to surrender Reithwin to its own devices, fearing what might become of his life’s work if he failed to watch over it, even for a day. He knew well the wards in place: rites of bramble and impenetrable illusion, barring the way to those who thirsted for blood, yet parting for any soul seeking refuge. Even knowing how unlikely it was for any threat to bypass such measures, Halsin still could not—would not—let his guard down. Experience, and a lifetime of personal loss on a magnitude few outside his race could comprehend, had hardened his heart. After so many years spent searching for a way to undo the Sharran doom, he feared this callousness had become permanent. Always bracing for the inevitability of impermanence. And yet... the Forest Father had been kind to him these last few years—perhaps too kind. Which meant, surely, that something must soon go terribly wrong. It cannot last, whispered that shard of unresolved cynicism lodged beneath his ribs—a wound that would never truly heal.

He still feared he might one day wake from this reverie, back to a reality where he was once more deferred to as Archdruid and Master of the Emerald Grove—suffocating beneath the weight of duty, unable to leave. A world where he could hear nature’s endless cries of suffering and do nothing. Overturned by a new generation of druids—those he had once guided but ultimately failed to save. The loudest among them, his disciple Kagha, had driven her venomous fangs into his heart, twisting the Tree Father’s teachings under a shadowed, ironclad fist. But perhaps I need not face the shadows alone... Fostering and caring for this little acorn of a dream, he could already see the beginnings of it sprouting—becoming more like an oaken sapling with each passing day. Perhaps now, Halsin thought, he was allowed to reap its rewards—by letting someone else step in to complete what he had begun. His legacy was written plain across the faces of the children he had plucked from the streets of war-torn Baldur’s Gate. He thought back to those early days when his little ones dared not close their eyes at night; how he’d kept watch in his rocking chair, meditating as the youngest of his cubs—barely surviving their first year of life—slept against his chest, their small bodies exhausted from crying. I can still remember the smell of soot in their hair, and the salt of their tears... The bear within him nested. Halsin had long believed himself inured to the passage of time, yet lately, he had begun to feel that telltale ache of longing—the fear of never returning to what he once believed could never concern a restless wanderer like him: a home. A place where he belonged. And a home built by his own hands, no less. But he could not take all the credit. Halsin found himself watching, open and unguarded; memorizing everything about the woman, regaling his children with a tale—and not just any tale, but a gentler, age-appropriate retelling of their first meeting. He found it hard to focus on her words. Instead, he lost himself in a pair of storm-faceted opals. His heart did not stir easily. But it does now... Propped up among the cushions as she was, wearing a matching bear onesie beside her partner in crime, Moxie, she reenacted scenes with shadows and spellwork—to his children’s unending delight. Time and again, Halsin found his gaze drawn back to her: to catch the warmth of her smile, to soak in the tenderness of her voice, to bask in the rhythm of the heart beneath her lovely chest. And of course, Halsin was hardly immune to the human woman’s comeliness—vivacious, in full blossom. The sight stirred in more ways than one, even from where he stood, leaned beyond the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. Once again, he was reminded of the deep wilderness and its eternal beauty—untouched and ever-renewing. The fact that Tempest doted on his children, treating them as if they were her own, made his affection for her deepen all the more.

Halsin pretended not to notice Tempest’s approach—or the conversation she’d just had with Karlach. But that didn’t make his surprise any less genuine when he looked up to find her standing over him.

He paused what he was doing, showing her that she had his full attention. Curious now. For once, he had to tilt his head up to meet someone’s gaze. She stood with one hip cocked, arms crossed, lips pursed in thought. Tempest truly was a vision in her battle regalia.

“I realize I forgot to thank you... for sticking up for me, like you did.”

Halsin inclined his head in acknowledgment, feeling the tips of his ears grow warm.

And I thought I’d done a thorough job covering my tracks...

“Saw that, did you?” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll admit, I didn’t anticipate that my hand would show so readily.”

Tempest raised a hand, shaking her head with a small, amused smile—eyes sparkling. “It was... pretty great to see. You were pretty great to see, actually. Gods, I’ve never seen anyone put my uncle in his place like that. He’ll sleep with one eye open from now on, I’ll wager.”

She placed a hand on his forearm, giving it an affectionate squeeze. Halsin arched a brow, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“Anytime,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Tempest pivoted on the balls of her feet, ready to leave—still holding his arm—but hesitated, uncertain. “I’m not comfortable with owing people favors,” she admitted. “And I am indebted to you. So... name it.”

Halsin’s smile turned decidedly roguish, his gaze heating. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll come up with something... given time.”

Tempest blinked, searching his face—then realization struck. Her mouth fell open slightly as she looked down and confirmed that yes, her hand was still very much clasped around his arm. She released him immediately, holding her hands aloft as if burned, stammering something nonsensical, backing up and away from him. Sidling, not touching anything or anyone else. Muttering, “Shit... shit... shit!” before running upstairs.

Halsin remained in place, reining in the beast within by pressing the stem of his pipe to his lips. He lit the bowl, puffing experimentally, then reclined in his chair with a pleased hum.

He intended to spend the last hours of the night scrying through the hearth-fire.

The dire bear within him purred in anticipation.