Chapter 1
Down by the River
Tav's arms were lead. With each chop, he felt them grow a little heavier than the last, but on he chopped, reveling in the mindless exertion. It had been a long day, and a bit of time alone was what he needed.
"You call that chopping wood?" a woman's voice called.
Tav looked up from the half-split log, his hatchet lodged in a knot midway down. There she was. That obstinate, fiery half-elf he and Lae'zel had risked life and limb to save, with nothing to say but "Thanks. Wait, you're with a githyanki?"
Shadowheart strode towards him, her slim figure cutting through the reeds by the river's edge, her high braid swaying as she walked. She sniffed.
"That wasn't rhetorical."
Tav raised an eyebrow–or tried, anyway. It was something he'd been working on, and he belatedly realized Shadowheart was not the person to try it on.
She raised an eyebrow–successfully–in response.
Tav sighed. "It's not so much chopping wood as it is getting away for a bit. That goblin fight was exhausting, Astarion and Lae'zel are debating the ethics of vampirism, and Gale is just too fucking horny." He turned away and huffed. "I needed to breathe."
Shadowheart raised her other eyebrow. "So, to manage your physical exhaustion, you decided to chip wood with a dull hatchet," she observed drily.
Turning back around, Tav finally conceded a smile. "I suppose I did," he said. "The monotony, the repetition–it's soothing."
Tav sat down on a log. He grabbed his water skin off the ground and downed a deep draft. The water was warm, dusty, and tasted of old leather. It was perfect. After a second, smaller sip, he lifted the flask towards Shadowheart–a peace offering to quell their battle of quips. She smiled mischievously before taking it, then sat down a couple feet to Tav's side. She pulled a small, glass flask off of her waist and swirled it in circles, forming a red-gold whirlpool as the liquid sloshed around and around. His eyes darting from the flask back to Shadowheart, Tav noticed her smile had lost none of its mischief.
"You know what this is?" she asked excitedly.
Tav stared at the flask, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly agape. "Isn't that the last of Astarion's Sangreál? That fancy wine he told us to never touch or he swore he'd make us his spawn one day?"
She smiled. "The very same."
"How in Selûne's name–"
"They tried to ask me what I thought about Astarion feeding on consenting sentients. I said there was no way I was getting drawn into another of Lae'zel's monologues, so I excused myself to relieve myself. I cast a spell, stole the wine, and departed with my trophy." She uncorked the bottle, releasing a pungent smell reminiscent of pomegranate and copper. "Care to share? Or," she added with a smirk, "do Selûne's followers abstain from pleasures of the flesh?"
"Just give me the damn bottle, Shadowheart."
She gasped, placing a hand on her chest. "Ladies first? Hello?" She huffed and muttered, "What is the Moonmaiden teaching these days?"
"Of course, O great Sharran. May thee be wasted before thy fellow."
She tilted her head. "You haven't even had a sip, and you're already talking like a high elf."
"I'm practicing for after I take a sip."
"Of course you are."
"Well, go on! Try it!" Tav said eagerly.
Shadowheart dripped several drops into the water flask. "It's supposed to hit harder than the hells, or so Astarion says." She placed the Sangreál beside her, then raised the flask in a toast before awkwardly lowering it halfway. "Um, you don't have anything to toast with."
Tav hesitated for a brief moment, then placed his hand on the lower half of the flask to share the toast. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Tav thought he caught a tint of red on Shadowheart's cheeks as she looked away to cough. She must have gotten a strong whiff of the Sangreál, Tav thought to himself.
"So what do we toast to?" he asked. "Astarion and Lae'zel finally boning?"
Shadowheart let out a bark of laughter.
"So the mighty Sharran can laugh," Tav commented.
She frowned at him. "The presence of devotion does not mean the absence of laughter, Selûnite," she spat with venom.
"Perhaps, but there are always exceptions," Tav said, straight-faced.
She tilted her chin back to frown at him. "Present company excluded, I imagine."
"Oh of course. I only associate with true comics."
"Which is why you came to be away from everyone else?"
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "And why I haven't asked you to leave."
An awkward stillness for a half-breath, and then Shadowheart flicked her eyes away, up toward the flask.
"I don't know about you, but my arm's getting tired."
Tav grabbed into her comment like a lifeline. "Yeah. Me too," he added breathlessly. "So, a toast?"
"A toast." Shadowheart paused, her lips pursed, her brow scrunched. She took a deep breath before looking at Tav. "To friendship." She inhaled again. "And whatever may follow."
Yes, Tav thought. Her cheeks are definitely red, even in the dim light of the crescent moon. Tav steeled himself. "To friendship. And whatever may follow." Tav released the flask. "Ladies first," he added with an extravagant bow.
"You know," Shadowheart said with a giggle, "with a bow like that and a massive, floppy hat, you could be a better performer than Volo."
She sipped the water skin, then her whole face seemed to pucker, then expand as she tasted the very-watered-down Sangreál. She gave the flask to Tav and shook her head viciously, her long braid swaying violently.
Tav took his own sip and made a face very much the same. The alcohol tasted of copper and rose, as if someone had painted a thin sheen of copper over a bouquet of fresh roses. There was a faint scent of pomegranate that accented the flavor, rounding out the drink as fragrant, tangy, and metallic all at the same time. Perhaps this is what blood tastes like to vampires, Tav thought, questioning the twisted pleasure the flavor brought him.
"Oh, wow," Shadowheart remarked, breaking Tav's thoughtfulness. "Must be nice to be a vampire," she said, blinking hard. Apparently she had had the same thought.
"You're kidding."
"Correct. Now give it back–I need to decide if I like it." She snatched the flask out of Tav's hand, causing a bit to slosh onto her pantleg. "Dammit," she muttered. "This was my last clean pair." She took another, slower drink. "Wow," she breathed. "That is magical."
Tav grabbed the flask back and matched her. "Damn. That is good. Makes a man want to suck some blood." He looked menacingly at her neck.
She looked at him sideways, shoulders tense. "You're kidding, right?"
"Correct."
Shadowheart broke a branch off the log and threw it at Tav. "Oh shut up," she said, a lilt in her voice. She ducked, giggling, as Tav threw it back at her.
Tav smiled. "I think I'm going to stop at two sips because I'd like to chop some more wood." He shivered. "It's going to be a cold next couple nights." He picked up his fleece jacket, threw it on, and stood, casting a brief glance at Shadowheart. Only then did he consciously notice she was in her usual evening attire–sleeveless and approaching revealing. He sat down the water skin beside her.
"Would you like my jacket?" he asked. "Or are you planning on going back to camp soon?" A chilly gust of wind carried the others' voices from camp to their little spot by the river.
Instead of answering, Shadowheart shivered and asked, "Can I stay here with you in the silence?"
Perhaps it's the cool night air turning her cheeks red, Tav wondered.
"Sure," he stammered.
Tav hesitated, then decided it would be better to face Shadowheart's sass than watch her shiver in the cold. He took a step towards her, took off his jacket, and set it across her shoulders. Wordlessly, she pulled it around her tighter. Tav quickly turned away.
Why are my cheeks burning? he asked himself. My entire body is cold.
He wrenched his hatchet from its wooden prison and went back to cutting when he heard a gentle rustling. Tav turned his head to see Shadowheart move to a tree across from him, his jacket still held tight around her. She sat on the ground, her back cushioned by a patch of moss. She shifted, then stilled. Brief eye contact, a half-breath of stillness, and then back to chopping.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
On Tav chopped for the next while.
"Shadowheart–" he started, then looked up to see something he would have never expected. The Sharran cleric, his divinely sworn enemy, was sleeping.
Bundled in his coat, her head tilted against the mossy tree trunk, she appeared small–delicate, even. The intimidating, passionate warrior, fearless in the face of almost any danger, had become a pale flower, its pallid petals iridescent in the dim moonlight, her long braid dark as the night, gently tousled by the breeze.
Leaving the wood, Tav approached her.
"Shadowheart?" he tried again, but again, she did not respond but for the barely noticeable rise and fall of her chest. He sighed. "At least you're not wearing your armor," he muttered. He bent down and hooked one arm under her thighs, then cradled her neck and shoulders with the other. Tav stood, surprised at the ease with which he could lift her.
Delicate flower indeed, he mused. Tav's thoughts froze. No, he thought to himself. She worships Shar, you serve Selûne. Don't even think about her that way. Just take her to camp and forget about it. It would never happen, anyways.
After walking a few minutes, Shadowheart stirred. She blinked slowly, then yawned. "Normally I'd revile the idea of being helped by a Selûnite, but"–she yawned again–"I think I can make an exception. She closed her eyes again, and her breathing soon steadied.
For the first time, Tav marveled, I actually get a chance to look at her face without her threatening to wallop me for staring.
Besides her distaste for Lae'zel and all things githyanki, Shadowheart's lustrous, emerald eyes were one of the first things he had noticed about her. He continued his exploration of this forbidden land. Her long black hair in its iconic high braid was neatly groomed, contrasted by the looser strands that fell beside and framed the sides of her head. A scar ran across her right cheek–a souvenir of a battle she could not remember, she had said around the campfire one night. And her lips…those full lips–
No, Tav reprimanded himself. You don't know she feels that way. Hells, you don't even know if you feel that way. You certainly shouldn't. He shook his head. Too much Sangreál.
Tav and Shadowheart soon arrived back at camp. The fire flickered dimly, the smell of wood smoke and pine sap lingering. Pausing, Tav scoped out the camp. It was quiet–for once. Everyone must have gone to bed. He walked to Shadowheart's tent.
The sweet scent of incense and the musty odor of ancient religious texts reigned this corner of camp, the air dense with Shadowheart's nightly prayers to Shar. Tav laid her on her bedroll, and she stirred as she touched the ground.
"So now you decide to wake up," Tav teased as she opened her eyes.
Her eyes glowed with something Tav had not seen until this moment. Not with mischief, wit, or victory. Warmth.
"I woke up so I could tell you thank you. And to say good night."
Tav paused, confused. Shadowheart thanking him? Perhaps she was just talking in her–
"Thank you for carrying me back, and for lending me your coat. It's very warm, and I believe I will be keeping it tonight." She pulled it tight around her, then raised an eyebrow in a playful challenge.
Tav smiled. "I would've offered. Thanks for sitting with me, and for the drink. I needed it."
Now it was Shadowheart's turn to smile. "We'll have to do it again, then." She yawned. "I'm going to sleep. Good night, Tav."
"Good night, Shadowheart."
Tav returned to his spot by the creek, gathered the firewood, and returned to camp. Not worth starting another fire, he thought to himself. Everyone's in bed regardless.
Tav laid in his bedroll for hours, reliving the evening over and over, pondering this unusual but distinctly pleasant time with the cleric he was supposed to hate. It was only after deciding anything more than friendship would be awkward, and only as sleep finally claimed him that he realized Shadowheart had called him by his name.
