The nightly air was filled with woodsmoke and cries of merriment. The refugees from Elturel sure knew how to throw a party, Karlach mused, drinking and feasting and singing alongside them. The druids were more subdued, however, save for Halsin, who was glad to entertain the tiefling children by performing tricks in his bear form. He was a good sort, that Halsin. Karlach still couldn't believe they had managed to pluck him from that goblin-infested fortress. Gods, they had faced an entire army of bloodthirsty, pointy-toothed little bastards—and lived to tell the tale!
Karlach grinned at the thought; she and her companions were gods-damned heroes! Man, but it was all her plucky, wide-eyed younger self would have ever wished for: to become someone worthy of the tales her mum and dad kept telling her before bedtime. And now Karlach had done it, saving so many innocent people from a bunch of cultist whackos. The sheer joy of that good deed almost made her forget the worm-shaped ticking bomb burrowed inside her brain.
Almost.
Around the Grove, Karlach's companions were also celebrating in their own ways, no doubt to keep their minds away from their own squiggly home invaders. Lae'zel was sharpening her sword, glaring toward anyone who dared come any closer. Karlach respected that; the woman was the very model of a perfect soldier, loyal to her cause and hella smart on the battlefield. Across from her, Gale kept pontificating about some topic or another to Rolan, the baby wizard. Rolan's brother and sister seemed to be holding back their laughter at his peeved, pinched expression. Wistfully, Karlach remembered a time in her youth when she had wished for siblings, for a brother or sister she could tease or torment. These three were lucky to still have each other, she mused with a rueful smile.
Shadowheart was drinking all on her lonesome, which was to be expected. Karlach made a note to visit her later in the evening; alcohol was always made better by good company, and the cleric was surely lonely, even if she did not admit it. Astarion clearly did not agree with this assessment; when Karlach sauntered over to him, grinning wildly, he rolled those pretty peepers of his, saying, "Oh, joy." Karlach endured his bitching for a while (it was entertaining, she had to admit) right until he surreptitiously told her he was seeking the comfort of a warm body for the night. Karlach had roared in laughter, telling him, "Aw, you can't handle me, pretty boy, and you know it! I'm too hot for you, geddit?" The scowl Astarion had given her had been quite something to behold.
By then, Karlach's head was pleasantly buzzing from all the wine she had drunk—and the not-quite-yet lecherous thoughts trying to pierce through the comforting mushiness of her brain. Maybe Astarion was right. Maybe she ought to find a pretty face as well. Would it be Dammon, the soft-spoken blacksmith with the gorgeous blue eyes? Or perhaps Alfira, who had made Karlach blush and stammer like her horny fifteen-year-old self the moment she had opened her lovely mouth to sing?
Of course Karlach could not exactly be too naughty with any fine-looking companion of her choosing, she conceded grumpily. Still, it would be good to sit with someone, get to know them, laugh at the tales they would share. It would be a reminder of days long gone—a reminder of a childhood well-spent among her fellow riff-raff of the streets of Baldur's Gate.
Karlach mulled over that thought, bringing her bottle of wine to her mouth. She frowned before taking another sip. Wait. There was someone missing among this crowd of merry-makers, wasn't there? Someone whose bright laugh should also have echoed through the nightly air, someone who should have been all too glad to join the circle of dancers hopping around the bonfire.
Where had Wyll gone?
If there was one person who had earned the right to be lavished with praise from the people he had saved, it was the sword-wielding, swashbuckling hero. Hells, Karlach's first meeting with the famous Blade of Frontiers had been pretty rough (consequence of having a price on her head, she thought sourly), but Wyll had quickly shown that he was made of the real stuff— all steel, sturdy and strong, not something shiny but flimsy. He'd chosen the harsh life of a hero because it was the right thing to do—and yet Wyll had been punished for following his own damn heart.
For sparing Karlach's life because he thought she was someone worth saving.
Karlach immediately set out to find him. How long had it been since someone had clapped eyes on her and thought, hey, there was someone who deserved the sweet joy of drawing another breath? Since she had been treated as a person and not as an axe to be swung in the direction of her dear mistress's enemies? No, Wyll was the real deal, a bona fide, gods-damned hero who had come right outta some kids' fairytale. Karlach was going to drag his arse back to the celebration, where he could be lauded as the saviour he truly was. The man deserved it.
Karlach found him by the edge of the river, drinking alone. Oh, Hells no, she thought at the sorry sight. It was just as she had feared. She could not let him spend such a nice night wallowing in his misery. Life was too short—and yet still too damn beautiful—to waste any more of its precious moments. Putting on her best grin, Karlach strutted over to him, calling, "You okay there, hero?"
To his credit, Wyll soon returned her smile. "Karlach! What brings you to this little hiding spot of mine?"
"You, silly!" Karlach answered with a laugh. "What are you doing here all alone? You're missing all the fun!"
Wyll's smile faltered a bit. "Ah, well," he said, flicking his wrist and making the wine in his cup swirl, "I just wanted a moment to myself to gather my thoughts."
"A moment to yourself?" she said, snorting.
He winced at her words. "Well, strictly speaking, we're never truly alone, the lot of us, aren't we? But yes, I needed some time to ponder… certain things, so to speak."
"Yeah?" Karlach prompted. "S'that so?" As he looked away, keeping silent, she added, more quietly, "You sure you alright, pal?"
A too bright—too fake—smile came upon Wyll's handsome features. "Oh, yes," he said, "I'm fine, perfectly fine… er, well, all considering the circumstances, of course." And he laughed nervously.
Karlach was not buying this bullcrap, not for one second. "Wyll, you know you can talk to me, right? We haven't known each other for that long, but you pulled me out of some tight spots and we've bled together, yeah?" She wished she could clap him on the back. Or wrap her arm around his shoulders. But all she had were her words—the words of a stupid street kid who had only learned to write her own damn name. "C'mon, hero. We're all in the same mess. I won't judge, no matter what you say."
Wyll sighed. Passed a hand over his face. Gods, but he looked so weary, like an old, battle-worn soldier rather than the spry young man he truly was. "You know what's stupid?" he said after a while, a note of self-disgust seeping into his voice. "Of everything that has happened… my father being taken by that cult, the grove being under attack, that… thing burrowed deep inside our brains… do you know what truly keeps me awake at night?"
Karlach shook her head, waiting for his answer.
"It's stupid, but I keep going back to those gods-damned horns and—" Wyll's eyes suddenly widened, and he looked back at her. "Oh, Hells, Karlach, I didn't mean—"
"Hey, it's fine, it's fine," she said, holding up her hand. "I'm not offended, pal. I know you didn't mean anything by that."
In response, Wyll's shoulders slumped in relief. It was strange to imagine being born—to imagine living—without horns. Karlach suspected the opposite was also true for humans like Wyll. She fought to keep herself from snarling. Fucking Mizora. And fucking Zariel. It wasn't enough that they owned people's souls, oh no; they had to tinker with their servants' own bodies like it was theirs for the keeping. No wonder Wyll was feeling so blue.
"I think they look amazing, your horns," Karlach continued. "Don't sweat it, hero. You're as handsome as ever." In response, he made a noncommittal noise, bringing his cup to his lips. Undeterred, Karlach added, "You know, my people sometimes put things around 'em. My mum had this little dangling chain that she got from her granddad. And my dad would let me tie ribbons around his. People don't like our horns, say they make us look like devils… but it's not like that at all. They're part of who we are, see? And why should you feel ashamed of something that's part of you?"
Wyll managed a slight smile. It did not reach his eyes, however. "If you say so. Thanks for the pep talk, Karlach. I appreciate it." And then he was looking toward the river, his real eye—once a bright, warm brown—as glassy and empty as his fake one.
Karlach knew a dismissal when she saw one. Dipping her head, she told him, "Good night, Wyll," heading back to camp with her shoulders slumped in disappointment.
Gods, her heart—the stupid lump of iron that kept threatening to kill her—felt heavier than ever. Silently, she cursed that bitch Mizora and the rest of her wretched kind in Avernus. It wasn't right that someone like Wyll had to suffer for proving that he was a decent, kind person. It just wasn't.
Two blurs passed beside her, giggling all the while. Mirko and Silfy. The wee ones would obviously not go to bed early tonight. Karlach watched them go, smiling and shaking her head in fond amusement—and a brilliant idea sprang to life inside her worm-infested brain.
Wyll spent all his waking hours in service of others; it was time for those he kept helping to start giving back.
The sounds of the celebration were distant, but the party seemed to show no sign of stopping. Wyll listened with an inattentive ear. He was glad that the people were happy; the refugees of Elturel deserved some levity after all they had suffered. But an invisible hand grasped his heart into a tight vice, giving him little desire for merrymaking. And so he preferred to keep his distance, watching the peaceful flow of the river while his comrades—his friends, he could even say—mingled among those they had saved from a bloody death under goblin blades.
It wasn't that he wanted to shun their company, oh no. Wyll would have loved nothing more than to be among friendly faces, listening to all manner of tall tales and bawdy songs. But he could not find in his heart the will to smile, not after everything he had gone through as of late. The refugees, having to fend for themselves in the wilderness. That tadpole in his head, a living omen of a fate worse than death. His father, now a captive of that crazy cult.
And Mizora, oh, Mizora, whom he had blindly obeyed as he had gone to hunt an innocent woman…
Without thinking, Wyll raised a trembling hand to touch one of his horns. Gods. The rugged texture felt wrong, so wrong, under his fingertips. He had barely been able to look at a mirror in that past month. Wyll had attempted to glimpse his reflection in the water tonight, but after one glance he had stepped away from the river, stomach churning. The proof of his ill-made, infernal contract was now apparent on his very body. Even if he were to return to Baldur's Gate, the triumphant prodigal son, he would be shunned and hated—and for good reason. Hells, but what would his father say at the sight of him? Wyll was almost afraid to find out.
He closed his eyes, sighing again. What a pathetic excuse for a hero he was. Of all of his current troubles, what weighed the most heavily on his mind was also the most inconsequential. Certain doom hung above his head—above his father's head—and Wyll was upset that he had grown horns. Of course Karlach had looked at him like he had grown a second head instead. It was absurd. Her own people had been shunned as outcasts for their hellborn heritage—and Wyll had dared to whine to her, of all people? He almost wished she had chewed him out instead of offering her sympathies; he did not deserve her kindness.
Wyll looked at the bottom of his cup. It was dreadfully empty. Perhaps he had drunk enough for tonight. Overindulging in wine tended to make him melancholic, after all.
"Hey, hero!" a voice called from behind, snapping him out of these dark musings.
It was too high-pitched to be Karlach's. Wyll turned, only to find himself not only faced with Mol, but the whole of her little pack. Strangely enough, they all seemed to be hiding something behind their backs. Mol lifted her chin at him in greetings, insolent as always. Next to her, Mattis was grinning from pointy ear to pointy ear. Doni and Silfy were peering at Wyll from behind Mirkon, no doubt too shy to come forward on their own.
Wyll grinned bemusedly at them. It was simply impossible to brood at the sight of their eager, curious little faces. "Hey, kids," he said, crouching at their level. "You've all been having fun?"
"Yeah!" said Mattis. "The adults have finally stopped acting like a bunch of worrywarts! It was dreadfully boring, listening to their prattle all day…"
"One of the druids made a really great stew with some forest mushrooms," Mirkon added cheerfully. "I never had anything so tasty!"
"That's good to hear," Wyll said. That was why he had taken up the mantle of the Blade. Why he'd agreed to bow and scrape at Mizora's feet for any bit of ill-gotten power: so he could see smiling faces such as theirs when the fighting was finally over. "What's that you're all holding behind you?"
Silfy was the first to come forward, smiling shyly. To Wyll's bewilderment, she presented a red ribbon to him. Her brother was holding a little bell hanging from a string. And Mirkon and Doni seemed to have been gathering flowers, of all things.
Mol, of course, was the one to speak for the group. "Karlach said you were in need of, er…" She snorted, rolling her one eye. "Of some decorating, so to speak."
Mattis jabbed a thumb toward her head—or, more precisely, toward her left horn, around which was wrapped a band of gold-plated metal. "See? That's how we tieflings do it. People might find our horns ugly, but we don't. They're ours, see? So screw what they all think of us. A tiefling's horns is a tiefling's pride."
"Here," said Silfy, "if you want, I could…" She bit down her lip, still a little bashful. "When we were little, my mum used to… well, she…"
Wyll felt a warmth blossoming in his chest. The ribbons, the flowers, everything else… it was all for him. Of course he could not refuse such thoughtful gifts. "Go on," Wyll said, bowing down his head. "I'll be honoured to be your test subject—I mean, model."
Silfy giggled in response—a blessing for his ears after the ugliness of the past days. Suddenly, the weight on Wyll's shoulders seemed to get a little less heavy.
Suddenly, it felt like he had learned to smile, truly, freely smile, once again.
The night was well-spent, and most of the tieflings had gone to bed when Karlach staggered back to where she had last seen Wyll. This had been a splendid evening. Karlach had convinced Halsin to compete with Lae'zel in an arm-wrestling match, telling the Githyanki warrior that it was a Faerûnian tradition of great import. To no one's surprise, Lae'zel had won, her face barely showing any sign of effort as she had slammed the archdruid's burly arm on the table. Halsin, being the gentleman that he was, had gracefully admitted to her superior strength. Karlach had whooped and cheered, telling Lae'zel it was surely the first of many victories, which had earned her a smirk from the normally unflappable warrior.
Then, Karlach had made for Shadowheart's secluded little spot. The Sharran had eyed her warily at first, but soon enough her face had softened, and she began to react to Karlach's questions with more than one-word answers. There had been a spring in Karlach's steps when she'd left Shadowheart's side afterwards. The other woman had not been smiling, not quite; still, Karlach had noted how Shadowheart's shoulders had relaxed, and how she had stretched and yawned, content as a housecat. That was a job well done, Karlach thought as she bid her friend (her friend, she had friends, oh frickin' Gods) good night.
Karlach wondered how Wyll was faring, now that everyone else had gone to sleep. Had her little experiment worked? She certainly hoped so, rubbing her hands together in gleeful anticipation.
She found the man tending to his tent; no doubt he would soon retire for the night. Karlach stifled an urge to throw back her head and laugh at the sight of him. Ribbons of different colours were haphazardly wrapped around his horns, while his head was adorned by a wreath of flowers. Each of his movements was accompanied by the jingle of a solitary bell, hanging from the tip of his left horn. The Blade of Frontiers looked absolutely ridiculous. Hells, but Karlach had never been faced with a more glorious sight.
At the sound of her footsteps, Wyll turned, smiling ruefully at her. Pointing at his horns, he said, "Should I hold you responsible for this?"
"'Course not," Karlach answered, grinning. "You think I'd remember making flower crowns for the Blade of Frontiers, right?" She bounced her brows as she added, "You're looking very handsome there, hero. If Astarion saw you, he'd cry himself to sleep, he would. He's not the prettiest around anymore, the poor baby."
Wyll snorted, shaking his head. "They're a good bunch, those tiefling kids. I suspect you must have been quite like them in your younger days. Maybe that's why they like you so much."
"Oh, I was much, much worse," Karlach said with a laugh. "Damn, but I was a holy terror! The scourge of the streets! The bane of every posh lady's wallet!"
"That I can believe," Wyll chuckled.
Damn, it felt good to hear that sound. Karlach lived for these moments; ten years spent warring in the Hells seemed almost bearable when faced with the proof of a dear friend's joy. Almost.
And yet despite those bright, fuzzy feelings, her useless lump of a heart remained unnaturally still; it kept being a burning, lingering threat, a sore reminder that these precious moments would soon cease to be. For a split-second, Karlach's smile froze; for a split-second, she was seized with the urge to scream and rage and cry, oh Gods, cry even if she knew the tears would evaporate before they could even stream down her cheeks.
A frown touched Wyll's brow, and he reached—well, to touch Karlach's shoulder, but there was the rub, wasn't it, he simply couldn't. Instead his hand hovered above her skin, close enough that he could surely feel her heat. Yet Wyll did not wince, he did not flinch—and for this, she loved him, oh Hells, but this simple act nearly turned her into a weeping, blubbering mess.
"Thank you, Karlach," Wyll said. "That brightened up my night. Maybe the circumstances aren't the best… but I'm glad I met you. I'm glad I have someone like you at my side, even as…" His voice died down. He could not say the words, and frankly, neither could Karlach.
Instead, she said, nearly choking on the words, "Yeah. Likewise, Wyll."
And that night at the Last Light inn, after Dammon finally fixed the broken mess that was her heart, the first person a laughing, tearful Karlach crushed to her chest was Wyll.