#medium burn

he didn’t respond, rather he entered the water. placing a hand on your shoulder for support. you hadn’t noticed his bare frame until he sat right next to you. 

you looked at him and your eyes travelled down his chest, and then back up to his eyes. the heat in the room suddenly getting trapped in your face as you then cleared your throat, trying to regain your confident facade. 

“is there something you needed” you say as you look away in embarrassment. 

“yea...” he said as he began to heat the water. 

you stopped moving, and slowly turned back to face him, “what is it?” 

he looked at you, and leaned towards you, grabbing your wrist lightly. you wondered what he was doing and placed the back of your hand on his forehead. 

“are you sick?” you asked, “do you need medicine?” 

he shook his head no, and looked at your wrist. 

“so...” he looked back into your eyes, “you just let anybody kiss you these days?” 

you let out a small chuckle and pull your wrist away from him. 

“is that what you’re pouting about?” you teased, “you know i love you” 

he grabbed your wrist again. “that isn't what i asked” he said in a low tone, leaning closer. 

you looked up at him and realized he was being serious. he began to move his body, placing his hands on either side of you. cornering you in your own tub. 

when he is sitting on his throne he doesnt seem that big, but now, as he is hovering above you, the difference in your size is abundant. he looked at you, and then down at your wrist, he interlocked his fingers with yours and placed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. 

“you know...i wasn’t upset with you” he began to trail his kisses down to your wrist. 

“but when you allowed him to touch you twice,” his kiss dragged out. 

“i couldn’t take it.” 

you softly yelped as his suction turned into a bite. zuko pulled his mouth away from your wrist and placed his hands back on the ledge, trapping you once more. 

he stopped talking, his breath more controlled as he leaned in and placed a lazy kiss on your neck. his hair was making you feel ticklish but that didn’t stop him as he continued. 

zuko’s lips were still on your neck, moving to your lower jaw, and you turned your head to give him more room. you looked down at your wrist and saw a small hickey where the ambassador had once kissed you. 

“zuko~” you whined, annoyed with his bold behavior, “what if someone sees this?”  

“then don't give them a reason to look”  

your breath hitched as he moved to your ear, and you placed your palms on his chest for support, his mouth doing wonders to your mind. 

what is he doing? i can’t do this, i have a nation to run, i don't have the time to.... 

he bit your earlobe lightly, and it sent a shiver down your spine.  

well...i guess, we could relax for a little, it won't hurt anyone... 

he pulled away from you, lightly grabbing your waist, and he placed a soft, yet passionate kiss on your lips. you moaned into his touch as the kiss deepened, your hands traveling to his hair.  

he pulled away from you and leaned in close to your ear, “can you turn around for me?”  

you felt his hot breath against your ear, and it made you freeze. you were so lost in awe, completely ignoring his request and he pulled away and smiled, softly while raising a brow.  

your train of thoughts was interrupted when you felt him suddenly pick you up and turn you around. you couldn't even process what was happening until he was pressed up against your ass, his hands placed gently on the ledge for support.  

he let out a low moan, your touch making him buckle in delight, and stared at your bare back. 

“is this why you came to the springs,” you asked while turning your head to the side, “so you could take your revenge?” you teased. 

he didn't answer you, instead he lifted his hands, reaching back at his hair to remove his hair band. he took his hair tie and gently wrapped it around your eyes.  

“it’s not revenge,” he paused, completing the knot, “it’s a lesson”. 

the soft red silk paired with zuko’s lingering touch was leaving you with too much to imagine. 

“i know you can't see, my love” he placed his hands on your waist again, “but let me make you feel” 

. . . . .

his tip was reaching deep inside of you now, pressing into your sweet spot, making you whine in content. 

“zuko, please...slow down~” he started to leave a trail of kisses along your neck, making you shiver slightly, “c’mon it was just the ambassador-”  

suddenly, you felt his hands cup your chest, his hands warmer than usual. 

“just the ambassador?” he asked, dragging his dick in and out, driving you insane with how your walls squeezed. 

“n-no, zuko, it’s just-” you spouted out. 

“just what?” he murmured against your neck, “he had the audacity to kiss my wife”  

the warm water sloshing around was only added to the pleasure between your thighs. 

“well yes- but"  

“he kissed my wife, in my nation, in front of my people, and worse, he did it in my own home” he said while rubbing circles on your nipples, drawing a gasp from your lips.  

“could he ever make you feel this good?” he questioned, his pace quickening. 

“of course, not-” 

“well, he certainly acted...as if he could”  

your back arched as he thrusted into you, your throat raw from telling him how much you love him. zuko’s strength was unimaginable, you couldn't keep up, your body began to quiver as you tried to prop yourself up. 

your personal blindfold wasn't making it any better, you couldn't see anything, all you felt was his jealousy through your cunt. his hair tie was slowly slipping off your eyes; the glisten of the soft lamp making its way to your eyes.  

your mind went blank; all you could think about was your husband; you couldn't even remember what the ambassador was doing in the fire nation. 

“i love you; you know that?” he said, wrapping his arms around your frame. 

you felt his body heat up, and you realized he was close, the sweat from his forehead dripping onto your shoulder.  

“and i don't want to share you with anyone else”  

you throbbed beneath him, your walls squeezing trying to pull him in as you both were reaching your climax.  

“zuko~” you moaned, agreeing with his statement. 

you noticed his breath hitch and he let out a soft groan, “i’m sorry, i’m so close...please, can i...”  

you felt a rush of steam that escaped from his lips, paired with the gush of his orgasm crashing into you. he placed a sloppy kiss on the nape of your neck, pulling himself out of you in the process.  

“i apologize, for being so...rough” he mumbled softly, “can we...do it once more?”  

. . . . . . . . .

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient. Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of a woman's devotion. List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest; list to a Tale of Love....

Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The air feels different here. Lighter almost, but that might be the weight lifting off my shoulders.

In all actuality it’s being whipped into a frenzy. The air that is, by the rapidly spinning blades of the United Kingdom’s Airbus. They cut through the early morning mist, churning the low hanging clouds into a twister over the tarmac, and snatching at whatever isn’t tied down to the small group of soldiers waiting at the foot of the loading ramp.

It’s frigid. Numbing compared to the southern balm I boarded the plane in, but it smells crisp and fresh and hurts my eyes a little as I breathe. Like a brain freeze. Like it’s washing the humidity of my worry away.

I borrow some of that chill for myself. Steeling my will as my eyes run over the gathered men, forcing any foolish relief out with a visible breath. For all I know, this team could be just like the others before them; narcissistic hot-heads commanded by an even more self-obsessed, power-hungry asshole. The captain didn’t seem the type when I first met him, but I’m not willing to let my guard down yet.

I pull my hood off my head, square my shoulders, and walk down the loading ramp. Aiming for a calm and collected first appearance, and only sort of succeeding. Secretly, I’m chanting the mantra: don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t fucking trip. over and over to myself. Hoping that it’ll keep me from falling flat on my face. Wouldn’t be surprised, with my luck.

Nerves have me over-correcting my stride, or maybe I fucking jinxed myself. Either way, I end up basically skipping into my new captain; a man of considerable height and girth, easily over six feet tall and packed with hale and hearty muscle. Intimidating, with an expression to match. I'm sure I would've bounced harmlessly off him like a pigeon ricocheting off a window, but I manage to avoid it. Saving us both the embarrassment just in time.

I fix my balance, pretending I don’t need the helping hand he automatically offers, through my heart clenches at the kind gesture. I allow myself a small smile, as a thank you, then switch back to my default stoney expression.

Casually– like I wasn’t just stumbling about like an idiot– I drop my duffle bag and settle into parade rest: boots planted a shoulder’s width apart, arms behind my back, chin jutted out just a bit too cockily. Daring my new teammates to laugh, and hoping it’d be enough to make up for my little… episode.

Way to make a first impression.

My self conscious gaze sweeps over the gathered officers quickly, gauging their reactions. There’s definitely amusement there, on all counts except one. The biggest of them, towering over even the captain.

Betraying the rest of my face, my eyes widen in fearful awe. He’s standing so still, at first I wonder if I’ve imagined him, but the man next to him jolts slightly as he glances over his shoulder. No doubt feeling the dark, looming presence behind him, even if he didn’t hear his approach.

The big one takes up so much space even the mist seems to avoid him, but his teammate couldn’t tell he was there until he happened to look right at him. Like he’s some sort of living shade

He’d just joined the line, blending in like he was always there, even if he sticks out like a giant, all black-clad thumb. Either he’s fashionably late, or he just couldn’t be bothered to care about my arrival. Which is more than I can say for myself.

The first thing I notice about him– besides his mouth-watering size– are his eyes. They’re dark brown, almost black from where I’m standing, and haunted. They pin me in place, like a pretty insect stuck permanently on display.

I barely suppress a shiver, suddenly feeling like I’m making eye contact with a hungry predator.

His eyes are the only part of his face I can see; the rest being covered by an ivory skull mask. I stupidly wonder if it’s real, the face plate of some poor victim's head he’d kept as a macabre trophy.

He looks like the type to do something like that.

Masks in the military aren’t unusual. Hell, I’m wearing one right now; my own face, mirrored after expressionless, perfectly obedient marble angels. For tactical reasons. But his is… something. Intimidating definitely. Purposefully cold, like the air surrounding us. Tactical for sure, like mine. His is just more striking.

He notices my blatant staring (duh, I’m not exactly hiding it), and his eyes narrow, something like a dare in his gaze. I stubbornly refuse to break eye contact and regret the decision almost immediately.

His dark eyes draw me in like twin black holes. Sucking the icy air out of my lungs, the sounds out of my ears, devouring the surrounding light. Until it’s just him and I in a silent tunnel of thickening shadow.

A muted voice repeats itself in my head, like the tap of pebbles on glass, slowly pulling me from my distraction. The light and sounds flicker back into existence, hitting me like an unexpected fist, which in and of itself is disorienting.

A bit dazed, my eyes meet Captain Price’s, shining under the brim of his boonie hat.

His eyes are sharp, missing nothing, and blue-gray. Surprisingly warm despite their blade-bright color. He grins, and the motion lifting his slightly graying muttonchops endearingly.

It’s impossible not to return his smile, though mine comes off a bit wobbly and unfocused.

“You with me, Sergeant?” His slightly accented tone is light, so I haven’t pissed him off at least. I think.

I apologize anyway. Fighting the urge to glance at the skull-faced stranger.

“Yes, captain. Apologies, captain.” I cringe at my unprofessional behavior and cover it up with a stiff salute. “Sergeant Ava Davis, reporting for duty, sir.”

The wind from the winding down propellers slaps a chunk of my hair across my face. We’re off to a fantastic start.

“As you were, soldier.” The captain smiles again, offering his hand in a polite greeting, which I accept.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Davis." He pumps my hand once, making me feel like he's telling the truth, "Come and meet the 141.”

He turns his back to lead the way, and I quickly pull my hair out of my mouth, spluttering a bit.

Price pretends not to notice.

I step to follow him, then double back for my bag before joining him again at the beginning of the surprisingly short line. There are only three soldiers, not counting the captain and myself.

I blush at the rekindled amusement on their faces, hoping the color on my cheeks will pass as the chill nipping at my skin.

The first to offer his hand is a burly fellow, standing an inch or so shorter than me. He's sure in his movements, gives off an air of effortless confidence that I recognize and feel comforted by.

I automatically move to accept his greeting, but falter when I notice he’s sporting a mohawk of all things. Wouldn’t be my first choice, but surprisingly, he pulls it off.

His bruise blue eyes glint under his daring hairstyle, lit from within by barely contained mirth, and I find myself attracted to him instantly. Not, like, sexual attraction, more like the kind between magnets when they’re pushed close together. Unshakable law of nature.

The feeling surprises me, that I would like him so quickly without even knowing him, but I can't seem to help it. So, I do. Even more so when his low, undeniably Scottish accent thickens the air between us.

“Awright, lass?" He grasps my half-extended hand firmly, "Th’ name’s Soap.”

He begins pumping my limp hand up and down excitedly, practically bouncing me off the tarmac with his brute strength. Out of self-preservation, I tense my muscles, halting the movement so abruptly he almost loses his grip. He doesn't react, other than moving to hold my rigid hand in both of his, using the added strength to continue the handshake, completely forgoing the usual military professionalism.

At least someone is happy I’m here.

The contact shocks me, jolting through my locked limbs like earthly tremors. My mask crumbles before it, and I can’t help my wide grin. He’s just too infectious. Incautious hope bubbles up in my chest like half flat soda, and I try to choke it back, but it’s difficult when he’s smiling at me like we’re already best friends.

“I’m swell, thanks for asking.” My answer is honest, if not a bit breathless. “I’d tell you my name too, but you already know it."

“Aye, I heard. It’s Ava, right? Or is ‘at yer callsign?” Still, he continues shaking my hand, but I find it hilarious, so I don’t stop him.

I shake my head, “Nope, haven’t got one.”

Not for lack of people trying.

“Aye then, we’ll jus’ have t’ fix that, won’t we?” He winks cheekily, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking.

“Alright Soap, let the woman breathe.” A playful reprimand cuts through the magnetically charged air.

I turn to acknowledge the new voice, finding a younger man glaring light heartedly at the mohawked Scottsman.

The next soldier is effortlessly composed. A subdued power held in his limbs, in the way he stands. He's just barely taller than me, only by a couple inches, but it looks like more with his cap on. The brim casts his big brown eyes in shadow, but does nothing at all to hide the spark of mischief there. He keeps his hat pinned with a hand on his crown, fighting the wind for it like it’s something precious.

It looks like any other hat to me, a faded navy-blue with a worn united kingdom's flag patch. It suits him though, compliments his deeper skin tone.

“Sergeant Garrick, but you can call me Gaz." He turns to face me, his only sort of serious expression melting into one of open friendliness as he introduces himself. "Everyone does."

Now that he's speaking directly to me, it's obvious he has an accent, too. Very obviously not Scottish like Soap’s, and not as rich as Price’s, but still pleasant. I suppose I'll have to get used to the accents, now that I'm stuck here. For however long that may be.

Gaz smiles prettily and offers his hand. It’s only then that I notice Soap is still shaking mine. I glance at our hands pointedly, and he drops the handshake with an awkward chuckle, bringing his hand up to the strap of his tac vest. I smirk slightly, thoroughly entertained, then turn to accept Gaz’s greeting.

“Will do, but why Gaz?” I can’t help the question, but, thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind it.

His laugh is just as pretty as his smile, and It loosens my tense shoulders, breaking any remaining ice.

“That’s classified.” He scuffs his boot into the hardtop like it’s not actually classified.

“Yeah?” I smile sweetly. “Aw well, I think it’s cool anyway.”

He squeezes my hand once before letting go, mirroring my grin.

Still smiling, I turn to the last team member: the skull-faced stranger. I try to meet his gaze confidently, but it doesn’t come across that way as I look up at him. He really is a lot taller than everyone else, a staggering six and a half feet, and he doesn’t bother to accommodate for the fact. Not even a tilt of his chin, he just faces straight ahead, looking down his nose at me.

I take a step back to ease the strain on my neck, and his eyes flicker at the movement, but he still doesn’t offer his hand like the others. I don’t let it deter me.

“And you are?” I don’t tone down my grin a bit, smiling with every bit of fang in me as I stick my hand between us. Stupidly cocky, too familiar too quickly. I feel like I'm reaching out to pet a puma, and adrenaline curls in my throat like smoke.

For an embarrassing moment, it looks like he won’t return the gesture, and my bravado falters. I keep the smile plastered on my face, but I’m more focused on studying his eyes than anything.

His irises really are almost black, but this close, I can see the veins of bronze in them, sweetening the shadows like honey. One of his eyebrows quirks slightly, his smeared on eye-black concealing the true color of it, but I can tell from his pretty, enviable thick eyelashes that he’s blond.

His expression screams unamused. Which is a shame, I’m damn funny when I want to be.

“Strong and silent type, ‘ey sir?" My smirk grows sharper, "Or silent but deadly?”

I waggle my eyebrows, encouraged by Soap’s guffaw and Gaz’s stifled snort. Even Price covers his laugh with an over-dramatic cough.

The stranger hums– I can’t get a read on the emotion behind it– then takes my hand, surprising me even though I’m the one who offered it.

The contact sparks through me, straight to my core. Shivering through me like my veins are live wires, taking my breath away even with his gloves on.

He doesn’t shake my hand like everyone else had, only squeezes it. The pressure grows, becomes borderline unbearable, and the rough nylon of his gloves digs uncomfortably into my skin.

I refuse to squirm. Instead, I rekindle my grin at the challenge, squeezing him back just as hard.

“Lieutenant Riley,” He finally answers. His voice is deep, heavily accented, morning sex heaven. "Or Ghost."

Goddamn his voice is attractive.

I catch myself nearly humming in delight before the actual meaning behind his words hits me.

Like a bullet, square between the eyes.

I blanche nearly as translucent as the mist swirlng at my feet. My grin freezes on my lips, dies a horrible death, then falls off my face to shatter into a million tiny pieces on the tarmac.

The fact I’d just compared my new lieutenant to a fart seems to be the funniest damn thing of the decade to everyone else. Who are all in various stages of repressed hysterics, elbowing each other or biting their knuckles, but they cut me some slack and school their expressions into bland entertainment before I spontaneously combust of embarrassment.

Ghost and I release our mutual hold on each other at nearly the same instant, and I glance away, suddenly grateful for the cold pinching my cheeks rosy.

Meekly, I turn back to Captain Price, simultaneously trying to focus on the rest of his introductions and ignore the humor dancing in his blue-gray eyes. Though, I can’t help but notice when the lieutenant subtly flexes some feeling back into his hand, running his dark honey eyes over me with slightly more interest.

To Be Continued

Also, little celebratory announcement: we've hit 100 kudos on Ao3 !!! Most of my fics have more, but reaching this milestone feels bigger and more satisfying somehow. Maybe because I actually put work and time out of my life into Your Hand Grenade Heart lol

“If you don’t mind, I’d like a word once we’ve settled in for the night,” he said.

“If this is about what happened earlier,” she rose to her feet, “then I assure you I’m quite alright.”

“Actually, no,” he paused as he turned. “But I’m glad to see you’re feeling a bit more like yourself.”

A swift breeze pulled her hair into her face, but she was quick to tuck it behind her ear. Gale watched her eyes closely, but saw nothing peculiar within them. They were just as they always had been. Pale yellow with nothing of importance gleaming inside. No hint of anger or excitement. Just simply mindful and content. And the lingering dark essence he had sensed before disappeared. There was just Ferelith with her pale skin and dark hair holding her arms against her chest to brace herself against the cold wind of the river.

“You know,” she said, squeezing her arms. “I’ve met many wizards in my travels. Have you… met many warlocks?”

“A few,” he nodded.

“What were they like?”

Gale paused for a moment. A warlock was unlike a wizard in the sense of how they obtained their power. A wizard was impatient, in most cases. They desired power, but that wasn’t any different than any one else. What separated a warlock was the means in which they obtained that power and what sort of desire drove them. It varied upon the person. And when he looked at Ferelith, the quiet woman who cradled the apron with her books and her singed quill, he did not see a desire for power. He saw a woman with secrets. A woman blanketed by a protective shadow. He took a deep breath.

“Nothing like yourself,” he smiled at her in adoration.

Her eyes, once cold and gazing lost across the river came round to acknowledge the compliment of her companion. He caught the reflection of gratitude within them and knew her smile to be true.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” she looked back out to the water. “It even makes me sound a bit dangerous. But I’ll take the ambiguity as a compliment.”

“I simply don’t know enough about you to say otherwise,” he attempted to correct his statement.

“I appreciate your honesty,” she let a little sigh slip through, leading Gale to believe she was finished with his company. “For the record… you’re one of the kindest wizards I’ve ever met.”

“I do try… my lady.”

“Alright enough flattery,” she waved her hand slightly as he left her line of sight, her gaze still focused on the rolling stream in front of her. “I’ll see you later.”

His footsteps faded out, only to be replaced by another. Ferelith glanced up at the sky, realizing they had a few hours of daylight left before she could retire. There was still much to be done, but she had a sudden urge to be alone. Whoever it was behind her, they were in no rush. And she wondered how long she could stay silent before they urged her to speak.

“The breeze will just get colder as the sun goes down,” she said eyeing the colors shifting as the sun set. “It will draw me closer to the fire. Soon enough.”

“Take your time,” a male’s voice startled her.

Ferelith turned, seeing Astarion with his newly gifted bow strapped to his back, a few crude arrows in his hand.

“Oh, I though you were- well, it doesn’t matter…”

“I was just leaving,” he stated, glancing back to the rest of their party gathering around the pit as Gale prepared a fire.

“And you’re, what? Taking requests?” she smirked over her shoulder.

“I’m afraid the prime rib will be unavailable tonight,” he shifted his weight to his other foot. “But, in order to make up for it, I’ve offered a few bolts to your collection.”

Ferelith lowered her arms, granting him her full attention. “To my what?”

“The village coward dropped his quiver. There were a few arrows in there a bit too short to be considered an arrow. I tossed them onto you bedroll.”

“Oh… thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. At the quality they appear to be in, they could have just been poorly made arrows that couldn’t be used by a proper bow,” he cringed. “They might just snap straight in half.”

“Right,” she nodded, admitting that her thoughts were lost on him.

Astarion could see her drifting back out into the open evening, eyes faded into a distant plane. After what he had witnessed of her earlier that day, he had expected a change to her behavior at camp. The outburst to him meant a reveal of character. Not this reclusive woman who was lost in thought. While Ferelith had been a mostly quiet person from the beginning, there were still those snarky comments between he had rather enjoyed. This was simply just disappointing. She did not even bother to send him away as he turned to leave.

***********************************************************

After an evening delegating a very passive aggressive discussion between Shadowheart and Lae’zel over what she would consider dinner, Ferelith was forced to resist the urge to turn in for the night. Her head had been pounding, likely a side affect of the illithid’s mental damage from before. Still, she had agreed to have a moment with Gale. And least with him, she knew half of what to expect. That included walking up to see him observing his own double.

“Be with you in a moment,” his voice echoed.

His attention never left the mirror image, his eyes focused upon his own face. Ferelith snorted a bit, rolling her eyes with a sigh as she glanced around for something else to keep her occupied. She allowed him a few more seconds before she grew impatient.

“Is there a reason you’re studying your own image?”

Gale turned, a smirk shot at her to acknowledge the teasing tone.

“Indulging in a spot of vanity. Handsome devil, aren’t I?” he spun around with a wave of his, causing the image to vanish. “Be that as it may.”

It slowly fizzled down to a few sparks. He folded his hands behind his back, very much in the estute sort of way she would have imagine. His brow lowered and she could feel the tone shifting to a more serious manner. Though, she felt she had enough of it that day.

“Ceremorphosis. What does it make you think of?”

“The tadpole,” she answered, knowing it was what he expected.

Still, he responded with utmost enthusiasm.

“Spot on,” he winked. “Day one: fever and memory loss. Day two: hallucinations and graying skin. Day three: hair loss and blood leaking from all orifices. Need I go on?”

“By all means,” she nodded.

“Day four: excruciating pain as the skeleton and organs reform and reposition. Day five: the host's personality has disappeared. Fingers, toes, and limbs elongate,” he became a bit aggravated as a small chuckle fell from her lips. “I take it you get the picture.”

“I’ve already committed to the lesson, Gale,” she grinned. “Might as well get my money’s worth.”

“Day six,” he lowered his brow, clearly not humored by her sarcasm, “The flesh around the mouth splits to make way for tentacles. Day seven: a mind flayer is born. This is the most annotated version, of course.”

“What you’re saying,” she shifted with crossed arms, “is that I can at least keep my sense of humor until the fifth day? I’d say we only have another night’s worth of laughs, Gale.”

“I’m glad your coping mechanism consists of deflecting the seriousness of this problem with jokes,” he replied.

“You’re no fun tonight,” she tilted her head to the side. “But no worries. We’re two days in. We should have clearly turned gray by now.”

“Spot on again,” he flicked a finger at her. “Orifices remain blissfully unbloodied. Our heads remain clear, and our blood temperature is normal. Any expert will agree: this is… abnormal.”

“Don’t question it so much,” she shrugged. “In all my existence, the only reason I owe my life to anything is because of the abnormal. I’m just lucky to be alive.”

“I’ll toast to that,” he smiled uneasily with a hint of intrigue. “The pragmatic in me, however, sees only the silence before the storm. Something to sleep on. We should get some rest.”

“Thank you for leaving me with that imagery,” she gave a slight nod. “I’m sure it will soothe me as I mediate tonight. Good night, Gale.”

“I’m only here to help,” he gave a half solute.

Ferelith grinned, waving her hand slightly to bid farewell as she retreated to her bedroll. They had acquired a few extra blankets. And she was lucky enough to procure an additional pillow. Leaning against her new luxurious cot was her pack, waiting patiently for her hands to dive into it. And standing directly across it from the fire, just as he was the night before, was Astarion. He seemed to be waiting as patiently as her pack.

“I saw you getting a lecture from our magical friend,” he said the moment she glanced in his direction.

“It was quite informative,” she took a break from straightening her blanket to address him. “Descriptive, at the very least.”

“I have to say,” he said leaning forward with narrowed eyes. “I thought you’d look worse. But no. Not a tentacle in sight.”

“Thank you?” she pulled back, turning a shoulder to him. “I’m hoping it will stay that way.”

“Naturally,” he rose a brow. “But I was thinking… what if it doesn’t?”

Ferelith had thought about what would happen if she did change. But the ever growing stubbornness inside her made her truly believe it would never happen. She was not willing to believe it. Nor was she willing to admit to anyone else that it was a possibility. He let the sentiment settle with her for a moment. Though he could see it had little impact. The blank stare with a slow blink signaled him to proceed.

“Of course,” he went on, tilting his chin to the side with a gleam in his eye, “first sign of change and I’ll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours.”

He almost seemed too excited at the thought of putting her down. Like a wild animal. She crossed her arms, as if to guard her chest from his stare. It did not matter, he could hear the sound of her pounding heart. And it had only grown louder from his statement.

“I am open to suggestions. Knives, poison, strangulation – whatever you’d prefer.”

“I’d prefer not to die,” she said dully.

“Well now you’re just being closed-minded,” he teased. “There are some lovely ways to go.”

“First I listen to Gale talk about the details of turning into a terrifying monster and now you’re telling me all the options I have in which you could kill me? Whoever said chivalry was dead must have no taste for macabre.”

“To be fair, you were the one that pushed the wizard to give those wonderful details. I am giving you these options as a gift.”

“I am ever so grateful. Do go on about the beautiful ways in which I can ensue death,” she opened her arms, flicking her wrists in a manner as if she were receiving the said gift he spoke of.

“You know, I watched urchins freeze to death on the street. It looks peaceful – just like falling asleep.”

“Very poetic… I wonder if drowning feels the same.”

“Ha!” his shoulders fell back as he lifted his head with laughter. “Oh, come on. Humor me. If you had to choose…”

“Fine,” she took a deep breath with a few seconds of thought. “I suppose a knife. Straight to the chest. That seems quick.”

“A classic,” he nodded with approval. “One good thrust to the heart and you’re gone. We need a good blade, of course. Don’t want to waste time hacking and prodding with a dinner half.”

It was the first time in a long time it had happened. The welling feeling in her chest. The tightening of her cheeks. The widening of the eyes. The burst of air from her mouths as her voice let out a loud series of rhythmic laughter. It caught her off guard. So much that she covered her mouth, leaning forward, and looking to Astarion with surprise. She rose her brows in disbelief that he had truly made her laugh.

“Well,” he said, leaning forward toward her like they were a couple of children cackling in school, “I’m getting ahead of myself. This is all a worst case scenario, obviously.”

“You’re terrible,” she giggled, lurching forward with one last tit of laughter. “What about you? Is there any way you’d like for me to end your life?”

“Oh, my dear,” he said with a condescending tone. “I’d like to see you try.”

Ferelith reared back, a bit offended that he held himself so much higher than herself. But she knew he was only testing her. Pushing her to see what sort of outcome he could obtain by doubting her strength.

“Dealer’s choice then,” she said firmly. “I’ll make sure it’s a lovely surprise.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you’ll disappoint me,” it was meant to be a positive reinforcement, but the way he said it still made it sound more like a threat. “Now, enough of this talk. Let’s get some rest. The sooner we start tomorrow, the better our chances of keeping this hypothetical.”

“I take it you’re joining us to the tiefling camp, then?”

“Of course, darling,” he replied. “I’ll go wherever you lead.”

“I’d be careful with those words,” she said darkly. “You’ll never know what path I’ll lead you toward.”

“Even better.”

She shook her head at his advancements with a foolish smirk she could not hide. “Good night, Astarion.”

“Good night, Ferelith.”

************************************************************

The next day brought a heavy fog over the camp, dampening both their supplies and their spirits. Ferelith could smell the moisture in the air and knew it would lift as the sun rose. And sure enough, the moment they began to snack on their morning rations they could see a bit of orange illuminating the sky. Their pace quickened and they got to their feet, ready to begin to their journey into a new part of the forsaken land they had been thrown into. The human, the gith, and the two elves made their way out of camp, leaving Shadowheart to sulk to herself as they had agreed to take Lae’zel to question the tieflings and seek further assistance for themselves against her wishes. Though Ferelith had promised the temple would come soon, as she had an interest in what laid within it herself.

The path was quite clear to the camp. And Ferelith wondered how they had missed it so easily before. Or perhaps, they had been far too occupied with their troubles and each other to pay attention to path carved among the rocks. She kicked at the dirt, still a bit dry despite the wet morning, and looked up to the back of her companion who was the only one who managed to sustain any of the information the tieflings had given before. He stopped for a moment, glancing behind him to smile at her, then looking to the others.

“I think we should take a moment to really prepare ourselves for this camp,” he said with an overthought of wishful thinking. “Our main goal is information. We don’t want to overwhelm them.”

“It’ll be fine, Gale,” Ferelith stated, slinging her pack over her shoulder. “We’re only asking a few questions. Getting supplies. There won’t be enough time to do any real damage.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gale whispered slightly to himself with a shrug. “I can think of a few things that could go wrong.”

She ignored him, rummaging through the items in her pack until she felt the cold texture of leather beneath her fingertips. Pulling them out, she gave them one good look before she turned Astarion.

“Here,” she handed him brown leather folded neatly to show the string tied at the top around the collar.

He took them, a bit disgruntled but willingly. Though he wasn’t sure what she expected him to do as she kept searching through the pack.

“Am I supposed to hold onto these?”

“Put them on,” she directed, otherwise paying no mind.

“Right now?” he dipped his head low as he questioned her, staring her in the eyes while waiting for her acknowledgment.

“Yes, right now,” she finally turned to look at him but only for a moment. “You’ve been wearing the same city clothes for days. You should put on some actual leather. One, because it’s more useful. And two, so you don’t look like a complete lost cause.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that last part because this is a very expensive doublet. And this blouse is of the finest threads in Baldur’s Gate.”

“I’m sure,” she grinned lovingly, looking back down into her pack.

Astarion tossed his new leather armor to the side to free his hands. He began to work on his doublet right away. It was already sliding down his arms when Ferelith looked up, catching the back of him in just his white shirt. He looked… nice. It almost made him feel more humble than he really was. Or at least, more approachable. His hands came up, his fingers loosening the collar. Still facing the rock, he pulled the shirt up and her eyes widened as he lifted it. His back flexed and his hands grasped the bottom of his shirt as he pulled it over. She swallowed… hard… as he turned around. What she had assumed was the doublet in all its puffed out glory… had been the actual thickness of the man’s chest. He was lean, but he far from frail. Seeing it off was a revelation and normally she would have felt annoyed at being so wrong about someone’s character. She inhaled a heavy dose of air, holding it for a few moments as she let her eyes wander. He shook the leather tunic out and she admired the muscle in his forearm tensing as he did. Slowly, she exhaled, observing him turn around with his arms raised trying to pull down the armor. She counted each curve of his abdomen with a small smile. Then, nodding with a bit of appreciation, she looked back down into her bag.

“Well, you certainly have no shame,” Gale nudged her.

“What?” she shrugged with a coy smile. “I’m in the wilderness. My eyes get hungry, too.”

“Careful. Some of the tastiest looking berries are the most poisonous.”

“Better than death by ceremorphosis.”

******************************************************

The back of Zevlor whisked away, his tail thrashed back and forth with irritation as he left. There was something about a tiefling that left an excitement behind for Ferelith. Like a small trail of flame. She breathed a heavy sigh, knowing that the flames would grow larger the longer she stared at them. After all, she had just witnessed them in battle. Turning to her comrades, she noticed a slight irritation within their faces.

“What are we messengers, now?” Astarion seemed particularly the worst.

Ferelith stepped close to him, too close for comfort. It made him shift backward, which is exactly what she wanted. He took several steps back just so she could hiss at him out of hearing range of anyone else. She kept her head down as she spoke.

“Listen, we keep all options open. There’s no agreeing. No disagreeing. If we’re stuck here, we best leave all doors open in case we need a way out. That means seeing what we can do about the druids.”

“Ah, I understand, now,” he said, his chest still out further than than his chin to keep her at bay. “This is the sort of thing we should have discussed before our arrival rather than my appearance.”

Ferelith blinked, her eyes gliding up toward him. “I didn’t expect you to complain in front of the whole sodding camp after watching one of them take an arrow to the chest.”

“Like it makes a difference? They’re all going to die anyway.”

Ferelith crossed her arms, her fingers tapping against her forearm. “If we’re not careful, we’ll die too.”

“Fine, fine,” he waved his hand.

“If you’re done,” Gale interrupted. “I believe there’s a merchant just down the hill.”

She gave him one last warning glance before she turned to the direction Gale was pointing. There was a small set up just on the edge of the camp beneath a stretch of a rock archway. It was a grand entrance, nothing at all comparable to a refugee camp. They followed the trail down, glancing further into it and noticing the make shift buildings and rails along the sides. They seemed misplaced to her. Even the shop they approached looked more like a scatter array of things more than any kind of marketplace.

“Refugees… adventurers. No one in years. And suddenly, we’re overwhelmed. Well me,” he greeted them begrudgingly. “Thank you for beating back those goblins. Most brave of you.”

“I do what I can,” she shrugged, not feeling quite worthy of his gratitude just yet.

“Is there anything you need? Act fast if you do. The ritual will be complete before too long.”

“I do,” she paused, observing Astarion round the display. “We’re a bit short on supplies. But we do have a bit of coin. Are they really locking down the grove? I was hoping to rely on the business here for a short time.”

“I know it’s drastic, but more monsters seem to terrorize this region every day.”

“And the tieflings?”

“We druids will be safe-”

The sound of the merchant drowned as she became distracted by Astarion looking through the array of weaponry. She watched as he ran his fingers over the blades along the table, glancing at her with a mischievous smirk. Her eyes shifted back to the vendor, trying to pay attention as best she could. But she kept wandering back to the rogue. He held up a knife, displaying it for her with a raised brow. She shook her head slightly. But he ignored her, giving the air a few jabs and shrugging, setting it back down with a frown. The next one he picked up, waving a hand down in it like it were a grand prize. She swallowed the lump forming to stop herself from bursting with laughter. It did not work and she was forced to clear her throat rather loudly.

“It sounds like these are dire times,” she blinked to regain her focus.

“You sound just like Khaga.”

“Are these the only weapons for sale?” Astarion interrupted, setting down the knife he was holding with a loud thud.

“These are the only ones I am selling,” he lowered his brow. “There’s a blacksmith further into the camp. Though I’m not sure he has much to offer.”

“Thank you,” Ferelith said loud enough to draw his attention back. “Here’s what I have for… oh, I think a few potions will do.”

“Of course.”

She passed Gale the bottles as they were handed to her who began to slip them into the back of her pack. Astarion had lost interest in the wares and moved back to Lae’zel who was impatiently waiting behind them. Her stare was into the gorge, examining the tieflings as if she were able to spot the one with the information she needed. Ferelith was certain she would have already caused chaos if they were not with her. As she turned around, she could hear Astarion grumbling into her ear.

“Things are about to get a lot more dire with those sad excuses for weapons.”

“You’re going to get us kicked out,” she said as she brushed by the two of them. “Let’s find the blacksmith. Find the lead. And get out.”

“Is the blacksmith necessary?” the gith rolled her eyes.

“Yes,” Ferelith said firmly. “I’ve only got two bolts for my crossbow. The ones Astarion found are useless.”

“I warned you,” he shrugged.

“A snapped bolt could have meant my death.”

“It wouldn’t have been my first attempt to kill you.”