Chapter Text
I wonder which will get you killed faster—
Your loyalty, or your stubbornness?
__
Nyx is beginning to wonder if he and Astarion live on two entirely different planes of existence.
It’s an odd realization to come to after having bedded the man. Nyx isn’t some innocent, or even especially romantic about sex. Sleeping with Astarion does not equate to loving him, and he has no illusions about Astarion’s feelings on the matter. Astarion may act smitten, and he may be playing it up now that they’ve had a couple of nights together, but there’s always a hint of falseness about it, or playacting, or something. But Nyx had thought (hoped, maybe) that it would be at the least a confirmation of similarities between them.
There really are so many similarities between himself and Astarion. Whatever life Nyx lived before this, it was a tragic one. No life but a tragic one could have led them to where they are now. Astarion’s life, certainly, is tragic, too, even from the very little he’s chosen to share with them. He knows they share a deep need for bloodshed. Astarion recognized Nyx’s disease for what it was before Nyx even had a name to put to the feeling that leaves them shaking and sick to their stomach. Astarion accepts it. Astarion knows the worst of them and still sees fit to stick around. On this, at least, they are aligned.
In everything else? They couldn’t be further apart. And the commonalities are beginning to show the worst parts of him, to enable the voice in the back of his mind that advocates for violence to grow louder and louder and louder until it drowns out his own self. At least, the part of him that he thinks is himself. It’s hard to separate the two, and it’s becoming harder, with Astarion seemingly hell-bent on encouraging his worst instincts.
Perhaps it was easier to push those concerns aside before he and Astarion became involved. Perhaps it was easier when they could just be kindred souls without all the expectation that this new addition to their relationship seems to have added. Perhaps Nyx is more romantic than he thinks, and subconsciously had been hoping for a change.
Whatever the cause, Nyx is… troubled. But that’s nothing new.
He’s not thinking about this now, of course. It lingers in the back of his mind, like so many other things do, but right now, his focus is entirely on putting one foot in front of the other foot. They’re trudging back up the mountainside after a fight with a Githyanki patrol that nearly wrecked them. Lae’zel’s people are not warriors to be dismissed, even once the dragon had flown away. Their victory at the goblin camp had gone to their heads. They’d been too confident― co*cky, arrogant, and they’d nearly died because of it. Were it not for Karlach’s unbelievable endurance and a very liberal use of Nyx’s healing abilities, they wouldn’t have made it through.
Astarion had gone down. He’s back on his feet now, bleeding and bruised, but alive, and in a particularly sour mood because of it. Lae’zel is quietly seething with rage, and even Karlach’s usually jovial mood is dampened as she walks behind the rest of the group. Every muscle in Nyx’s body aches. He’d used nearly all of his reserve healing the others, and is holding onto the last touch of it in case anything else catches them before they can make it back to camp, but it means he’s well and truly on his last legs.
As they walk, a dour group, the lot of them, there’s a noise from the woods to their left. Nyx spins at once, hand flying to his sword, already dreading another godsdamned fight, wondering if they can even get out of another fight alive, before spotting the source of the noise.
The tiefling girl who’d tried to warn them away from the Githyanki is sitting up against a tree, whimpering, her hand at her side. When she pulls it away, it’s bloody. On the forest floor near her, a boar lies with an arrow sticking out of its eye, and blood on its tusks.
A few steps ahead of Lae’zel and Karlach, Astarion and Nyx are the first to see her.
“Oh, gods,” Astarion groans, partly in exasperation, partly in relief. “If I have one more scare today…”
“Tell me about it,” Nyx says heavily. They lower their sword back into its scabbard, and run a hand over their face. They begin to take a step forward towards the girl when they’re stopped, both mentally and physically.
The voice in the back of Nyx’s mind hisses.
Hungry for another, it screeches. More, more, more. So close to death, you can taste it, you can help her along, get your hands bloody―
And Astarion’s hand descends on his shoulder.
“What the hells are you doing?” he asks. Nyx opens his mouth, ready to justify himself, that he was going to help, not hurt, when Astarion continues.
“Just leave her. It’s not as though she helped us when we were getting ourselves killed over that Githyanki relic.”
Nyx stops short in his tracks. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly, darling,” Astarion says. “Just keep walking. It’s easy as anything, I promise you.”
“She’s hurt.”
“Hurt or not, she’ll be dead in a few days anyway,” Astarion says. “She can’t survive out here alone if she’d let herself get gored by a boar. So let’s not waste our time on lost causes, shall we?”
He’s so… cavalier about it. About leaving this girl to die. Nyx thinks, if he weren’t here, it wouldn’t even be a question.
“I can’t walk away,” they say slowly. “I’m a paladin.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I swore to defend the innocent,” Nyx says. Behind them, Lae’zel has finally succumbed to a need to rest, and Karlach is joining her, trying to cheer her up. It gives them a moment longer for this conversation without prying ears, at least.
“No, you swore to smite down villains,” Astarion says. “I know your oaths, dearest. There is absolutely nothing in them about stopping to help simpletons. And a good thing, too, or else I imagine your oath would be in a lot of danger after our musical friend―”
Astarion’s words are cut short as Nyx turns, placing a hand on his shoulder, and marches him a few steps back into the woods.
“Don’t,” they say. “Don’t, Astarion.”
“Its the truth,” Astarion says, unrepentant. “Come now, it’s a little funny, isn’t it? You’re so worked up about saving this tiefling girl because of the bard. It’s obvious. Pathological, even.”
“It’s not funny at all,” Nyx says. “You of all people know how it weighs on me.”
“Oh. You were being serious?”
“Of course I was being serious―”
“It’s one girl,” Astarion says. “I imagine the many people you saved in the druid’s grove even out that score. Not all of us have the luxury of wiping our slates clean, you know. Be grateful for it, and let’s just get the hells back to camp before we’re accosted by― by undead, or some other awful thing. She’s on her own. Let her be on her own.”
Nyx’s teeth grit, and his head pounds. The worst part is, it would be the easiest thing in the world to just walk away. It would be the perfect path between giving in to the voice that wants him to further savage that girl, and his more recent, more heroic tendencies. She would die. But she likely will die anyway.
Astarion is right. They can’t save everyone.
Their shoulders slump, and the blood pounding in their head drowns out nearly everything else.
Then Astarion looks over his shoulder, and lets out an explosive sigh.
“Well, I hope you’re happy,” he quips. “You delayed us long enough for yet another one of our unbearably heroic companions to find us.”
Nyx frowns, and turns. Astarion shrugs their hand off of his shoulder.
Sure enough, a familiar face is walking through the forest, but not towards them― towards the tiefling. Wyll has his hands raised to show he means no harm, but the girl is still eyeing him warily, reaching for something in her boot. A knife, likely.
“I can help you,” Wyll says. His voice is just barely audible over the rushing of the nearby river. “There’s a healer at our camp.”
“You’re not getting me to any damned camp, mragresham!” the girl snaps. Wyll smiles, and halts his approach.
“You know, no one will tell me what that word means,” he says. “But I promise, I mean you no harm. You’re hurt, and you need help.”
“I’ve managed this far,” the girl says. A pained groan leaves her lips, and she looks suddenly very, very young. From the twist in Wyll’s face, he sees it too.
“Ugh,” Astarion groans. “Fine. If Wyll is here that means we can’t be far from camp. You two have fun being disgusting and heroic. I’m leaving.”
“Go on, then. Do what you want,” Nyx says.
“I will,” Astarion says. Instead of responding, Nyx turns away, towards Wyll and the girl.
“Wyll!” they call. Wyll looks up, scanning the foliage until he spots Nyx. His whole face lights up.
“Thank the gods!” he calls back. “Where is everyone else?”
“Half-dead, but making their way back to camp,” Nyx says. He crosses the distance. It’s odd, how his steps become lighter, the closer he gets to Wyll. “If you listen closely, you can hear Lae’zel cursing out a dragon-rider.”
“A dragon rider?”
“We ran into some Githyanki. It wasn’t pleasant,” Nyx says drily. He comes around a group of trees, and recognition dawns in the girls’ face.
“I know you,” she says. Her shoulders relax, just a little. “You’re still alive, then?”
“Barely,” Nyx says. They crouch down next to her when she allows them to approach. “You were right. We should have found another way around.”
“Told you,” she says, the corner of her mouth raising in a smile. “I know what I’m about.”
Her eyes dart to Wyll. “You know him?”
“I do. We travel together. You might know him, too. This is the Blade of Frontiers.”
“You’re sh*tting me,” she says. “Really?”
“In the flesh,” Wyll says, “and at your service.”
“I didn’t think the Blade of Frontiers was a devil.”
The words are blunt, and Nyx can see the wince that flickers across Wyll’s face. He’s already trying to figure out how to mitigate when the girl shrugs.
“Kind of cool, actually. I like your horns.”
Wyll’s stunned expression is much more difficult to hide. Nyx’s heart thumps, unexpectedly and almost painfully, in their chest.
“Are you the healer he was talking about?” she asks.
“One of them,” Nyx says. “I’m a paladin. We have a cleric, too, if you prefer.”
She gives him a wary glance, up and down, then slumps. “My brother was a paladin. I guess you’ll do.”
“How badly are you hurt?”
“Not so bad,” she says. An obvious lie, but not one that Nyx contradicts. With her permission, they lift the corner of her shirt to reveal the wound, gashed and ragged. It’ll take the last of Nyx’s abilities to heal, but they think they can manage it. With a deep breath, his hands glow, and the process begins.
Wyll, having regained himself a little, keeps her distracted. He’s charming and engaging and by the end of the conversation, the girl is laughing. Ellyka is her name. She’s from Elturel, too, but was separated from the other triflings before they reached the Druid’s Grove. She’s relieved to hear of their survival, but not interested in rejoining them. She has no family to speak of anymore, and feels more comfortable out here in the woods than anywhere else.
She leaves them after she’s healed, despite an invitation to share supper.
“You’ve done enough for me,” she says, waving them away. “Now we’re even, even though you ignored my warning about the Githyanki.”
She disappears into the foliage like she was born to it, leaving Nyx unsteady on their feet, with a pounding head and a conflicted feeling in their gut.
“So, Githyanki?” Wyll asks, turning back to them with a smile that falters the moment he sees how unsteady they are. “sh*t, you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” Nyx says, a point that becomes somewhat ironic when their knees buckle. Wyll catches them before they can hit the ground, a strong arm around their chest and their back, letting them regain their footing.
“You gave that girl the last of your healing, didn’t you?” Wyll asks.
“I was saving it,” Nyx says. It’s more of a mumble than anything else. They’re so godsdamned tired. “In case.”
They wave a hand. “She was the in case.”
In their peripheral, Wyll shakes his head, somewhat bemused. “Has anyone ever told you to take care of yourself sometimes?”
“Has anyone ever told you that?” Nyx counters. Wyll chuckles, a warm, rich, throaty noise very close to Nyx’s ear. They close their eyes, as if it could sink into their skin, that sound, then snap them back open.
Uh-oh.
“Let’s get you back to Shadowheart,” Wyll says. “A few spells and a night’s rest and you’ll be back to rights.”
He doesn’t release them, just slings an arm around their middle and lets them lean against him. It’s nice. It’s really nice. For once, Nyx doesn’t protest being taken care of, even in this small way. It feels like support, not like pity. Not like weakness.
“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” he asks as they begin the trek. “With Ellyka?”
“Of course we did,” Wyll says. “Why wouldn’t that have been the right thing to do?”
Nyx shrugs, as much as they can under the weight of their heavy armor. “Because she might die anyway. It’s dangerous out here.”
It’s not the type of thing a paladin should say. Not a real one, at least. Nyx feels more and more like a very pale and poor imitation of a paladin, as the days go on.
Wyll is quiet for a moment, and Nyx begins to think he’s going to call them out on it. Then he shakes his head.
“I think we gave her the best chance we could,” Wyll says. “A world where we don’t help people because it’s dangerous sounds like a bleak one to me. We help people because it’s dangerous, right? That’s when they need the help most.”
His hand, solid and warm, squeezes at Nyx’s middle. “We did a good thing. You did a good thing, at cost to yourself. The decision was the right one, I’m sure of it.”
It strikes Nyx, very suddenly, that he may not have done that good thing at all, had Wyll not come along when he did. Then he remembers that his first instinct, before he was stopped by his Urge and by Astarion, was still to help.
Maybe he’s not so far gone. Not so far gone that he can’t claw his way back.
“You’re a good man, Wyll Ravengaard,” he murmurs. “I think you’re the best of us.”
“I would have to very vehemently disagree,” Wyll says. “But you have my thanks, all the same, my friend. And my counsel, whenever you ask it.”
“You may regret offering that,” Nyx says. “My moral compass is off-kilter, I fear.”
“It runs truer than you think it does,” Wyll syas. “You needn’t bear the burden of our direction alone. We’re all here for you.”
And who’s there for Wyll? Nyx thinks suddenly. Wyll’s father has been captured. He speaks of him so highly, so often― his friend must be devastated, in spite of the bitter nature of their parting. Nyx knows he is, can see it in the weight on Wyll’s shoulders. And yet, here he is, in spite of his own troubles, carrying Nyx when his own steps falter.
The best of them, indeed.
___
“No,” Shadowheart says blandly, not even looking up from her prayers as Wyll and Nyx stumble towards her. Lae’zel and Karlach have caught up with them, and Astarion has already found his way back to camp, sequestering himself in his tent. The weight of Nyx’s body and armor sags at Wyll’s hands. They’re barely keeping themself up, he thinks, likely would have had to have Lae’zel sling them over her shoulder if Wyll hadn’t been there.
“Come now, Shadowheart,” Wyll coaxes.
“No,” Shadowheart says. She open her eyes, quirking an eyebrow at Nyx. “You leave me behind in camp, and now you come begging for my lady’s blessing.”
“I come begging one single healing word,” Nyx says. A lopsided grin tugs at their mouth. They look woozy, almost drunk. They’re hurt worse than Wyll thought, at first glance. And still, they’d given the last of their healing to Ellyka. “Even a potion will do.”
“Let me think. No.”
“Then I come begging your blessing, my dearest and most perfect cleric,” Nyx says. “Please, madam, I am but a poor paladin, come to you in my time of need. Won’t you aid me?”
Wyll bites down on a laugh. Nyx and Shadowheart are an odd enough duo, to be sure, but they’ve bonded hard and fast over their lost memories. Around Shadowheart, Nyx is playful and comfortable and very much himself. And he’s one of the only people who can coax a genuine smile out of Shadowheart.
He isn’t given one now, just a roll of her green eyes.
“Fine. But I get to come on the next venture,” she says, standing up. “Hand him over.”
Carefully, more carefully than he needs to be, probably, Wyll deposits Nyx into Shadowheart’s arms instead. She takes his weight with little more than a grunt, and Nyx allows their head to loll on their neck, resting on Shadowheart’s shoulder.
“Shadowheart, you’re god’s favorite princess and my best friend in the world,” Nyx mumbles.
“Dark Lady save us. Keep your mouth shut until you’re less woozy,” Shadowheart says. She leads Nyx away to his tent. Wyll watches them go, smiling up until the very moment they vanish behind the tent flap, and for a long moment after.
Then, and only then, does the reality catch up with him. His smile fades, and his shoulders sag, and the weight of his horns becomes almost unbearable.
Gods, Wyll, what curse has befallen you? Counsellor Florrick had said when she laid eyes on him. A woman Wyll has known since childhood, horrified at what he’s become. How to tell her the curse is one of his own making? That even when doing the right thing, punishment can come in terrible, fiery retribution?
And his father― gods, his father. He doesn’t even know how to tackle that, just yet. It’s horrible to think that the last time he laid eyes on his father, he was being cast out. It’s terrible to think what the Absolute might be planning for Duke Ravengard. It makes this whole quest personal. Very personal.
He’s interrupted in his musing by Karlach, who moves as if to clap him on the shoulder before remembering her hellish heat.
“You holding up all right, soldier?” she asks. Wyll nods, best he can.
“For now,” he says. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“I’m always all right,” Karlach says. “Those Githyanki were tough, but old Karlach’s tougher.”
She pauses. “Good thing that dragon left, though. That might have given us trouble.”
“If anyone could take a dragon, it’s you, my friend,” Wyll says. Karlach grins, the happiest thing he’s seen all day.
“You need anything, you know where to find me,” she says simply.
It’s an odd thing, Wyll thinks, to know that only a fortnight ago, he was ready to take Karlach’s head for Mizora. How awful to think that he could have lost the best friend he’s ever known before he even had the chance to know her.
___
The evening finds Wyll where it often does― by the fire, with a drink in his hand. They find a terrible amount of wine on the road. Usually, he’s with Karlach, or with Nyx, but tonight, as the fire dies down, he’s by himself. It’s both a blessing and a curse. It gives him time to sort through some of the unexpectedly complicated feelings surrounding his father’s departure without fear of scrutiny from the others― but he’s also alone, and he’s never been good at that.
It also leaves him within earshot of a hushed conversation happening in Nyx’s tent.
He’s not trying to eavesdrop. He’s really not. But their camp is small, and voices carry. Most so-called private conversations aren’t very private.
“You should have said you were half-dead, you know,” Astarion’s voice sounds. It’s low and smooth, but there’s an edge to it, a bite. “I had a potion squirreled away.”
“And you would have wasted it on me, would you?” Nyx says.
“Perhaps I could have been convinced. But no, you had to go and do your awful stoic paladin impression and save that girl. It doesn’t suit you, you know.”
“Stoicism?”
“Heroism.”
There’s a long, loaded silence.
“We did the right thing,” Nyx says. “I won’t let you convince me otherwise.”
“I’m not trying to convince you of anything.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to keep you from dying because of some foolish altruistic instinct. There’s a difference.”
“That girl wasn’t going to kill me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. She was very obviously reaching for a knife, I’ll point out. But even if she hadn’t, what if you were beset after using the last of your healing? A stiff breeze could have blown you over.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It very much does.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve put a lot of effort into keeping you alive―”
“And if I die, you won’t get a return on your investment, is that it?”
Nyx’s voice raises at that last, then cuts off abruptly with a groan.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he says heavily. “I’ve got such a f*cking headache.”
“I’m not fighting with you.”
“You’re picking one,” Nyx says. “I know you don’t agree with how I do things, Astarion, but I― I’m barely in control.”
Their voice drops there, heavy and aching and tired, and Wyll’s chest burns in sympathy even as he frowns in confusion. In control? What does that mean?
“Barely,” he repeats. “Please, help me, or at least don’t try to make it harder. I can’t bear it.”
There’s another long, heavy pause.
“All right,” Astarion says quietly. He sounds sincere, at least. “I’ll― do what I can. But I’m not going to get myself killed over unnecessary heroics.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Yes, you are,” Astarion says simply. “Forgive me if I have a healthier respect for my own life than you do.”
There’s a further few short words exchanged, below Wyll’s earshot, then the flap of Nyx’s tent opens and Astarion steps out. He finds Wyll, sitting by the fire, trying very hard not to look as though he were listening.
“Eavesdropping isn’t befitting a duke’s son, you know,” Astarion says bitingly, and leaves, off into the forest to hunt.
A few moments after he leaves, Nyx exits the tent, too. They’re looking much better than they were― Shadowheart’s healing and a bit of rest have done wonders, but their brow is scrunched in a familiar, tell-tale sign of a blooming headache. They stretch their neck out, sighing, before catching sight of Wyll. A weary smile crosses their face, and they move to join him at the fireside.
“Sorry about Astarion,” they say. “He’s touchy today.”
“If I couldn’t handle a few barbs from a vampire, I could hardly call myself a monster hunter, could I?” Wyll says. “I wasn’t trying to listen, I promise.”
“I know,” Nyx says simply. “It’s a small camp. Voices carry. There’s always a risk. The amount of sexually charged conversations I hear from Shadowheart’s tent whenever Karlach is there―”
They shake their head.
“I don’t think I want to know,” Wyll says. He grins, but it feels tired and heavy, and he lets it drop a bit.
It doesn’t slip past Nyx. Very little ever does.
“How are you?” he asks, lowering his voice, giving them a semblance of privacy. “Your father― I can’t imagine.”
Wyll sighs, casting his gaze to the fire. “I don’t know how I am.”
“You speak of him so highly,” Nyx says.
“He’s the best man I’ve ever known,” Wyll says. He takes a moment, musing.
“Do you remember anything of your father?”
Something flashes across Nyx’s expression at that, something startled, something almost violent, something frightened. He shakes his head, tight in the face.
“Nothing I want to remember,” he says. “Enough to know that fathers can be complicated.”
“Complicated is a good word for it,” Wyll says, He rests his elbows on his knees, wine goblet dangling from his fingers. “I love my father. I do. I admire him.”
He grimaces. “But the last time I spoke to him, he was telling me he never wanted to lay eyes on me again.”
Nyx frowns, opening his mouth to ask something, but Wyll interrupts.
“I can’t say more. I’m surprised I was able to say that much,” he says. Nyx puts the pieces together in an instant.
“The pact?”
“It’s forbidden,” Wyll says, with an attempt at a smile. It falls somewhat flat. “Suffice it to say that I haven’t spoken to my father in years. I doubt he’d even say he has a son anymore.”
Nyx looks genuinely outraged at that. His mouth drops open, eyebrows drawing together.
“Then your father is a fool,” he says. “To disown you?”
“He has his reasons. Good ones,” Wyll says, even as something in his chest bursts to life at Nyx’s defense. “Reasons I don’t blame him for.”
He clears his throat. “I can only hope I’ve done enough that he’ll be proud of me again. Even though― well. It’s a long-shot, I think.”
Nyx’s jaw tightens. “Wyll. I don’t seek to insult your father. But if he can’t look at you and see his son, see the hero you’ve worked to become, he’s the blindest fool who’s ever lived. I mean that.”
“You’re kind to say so.”
“I’m not just saying it,” Nyx says. “I may not know the particulars of your involvement with Mizora, but I know you. I’ve never been more certain of anything than I am that you made the best of the hand dealt to you. Whatever power you gained from Mizora, you’ve used it for good. No one who meets you could think differently.”
Wyll Ravengaard has spent the vast majority of his life acting as a protector. He has rarely, if ever, been on the receiving end of what looks to be, if he isn’t mistaken, a fierce and protective loyalty displayed by a friend. It’s odd, and somewhat uncomfortable― but not unwelcome. Not by a long shot.
Nyx’s brow is furrowed as they wait for a response. All of Wyll’s instincts say to turn the conversation away from himself, lest he divulge secrets he isn’t meant to; or worse, he becomes used to Nyx’s loyalty, to their protection. In his desire to repay Nyx’s loyalty in kind, all he can think of is the exhaustion in their voice when speaking with Astarion.
“I’m barely in control.”
It’s a risk to bring it up. It was a private conversation, not meant for Wyll’s ears― but he wants to help. He has to help, if he can.
He takes the risk.
“What did you mean, when you said you were barely in control?” he asks. Nyx jolts, physically startling, and stares at him with wide eyes.
“What?”
“You said to Astarion that you were barely in control.”
Nyx’s ice-blue skin has gone pallid. His hands are shaking. Muscles in his throat jump, and for a moment, Wyll thinks he might go for a weapon. He doesn’t, just stares at him like a frightened deer.
“You heard that,” he says faintly. “I didn’t realize.”
“I’m not trying to pry,” Wyll says. In a moment of desperation to communicate that, he reaches for Nyx’s hand, holding it firmly, quelling some of the shakes. “I mean it. You don’t have to say, but―”
He hesitates. “You said you needed help. Maybe I can help.”
Nyx swallows hard. “You don’t know what you’re agreeing to help with.”
“Maybe not. But you’re my friend. If you need help, I want to try.”
Nyx’s entire face screws up in a blinding and unreadable mess of emotion. When he laughs, the sound is dry and hollow.
“No one in the world is like you, Wyll. I hope you realize that.”
Before Wyll can respond to that strange statement, Nyx is speaking again, as if he’ll never speak again if he stops.
“I have thoughts,” he says. “Urges. Monstrous ones. Bloody ones. Violent ones. And sometimes I want to act on them. I try― I’m in control.”
He says it vehemently. “I am in control. Barely. But I am, I swear, I don’t act on them.”
“Have you ever acted on them?”
The look Nyx gives him is a messy, heartbreaking thing, all pain and regret and terrible, terrible aching. Wyll needs to look no further than that.
“How can I help?”
“You already are. More than you know.”
