Chapter Text
And you are a garden, entwined with all
You are the silence on sacred shores
You've got diamonds for teeth, my love
So take a bite of
Me, just once
I want to turn the page once again, oh
Take a bite
-Sleep Token
Halsin watches intently as the little moon elf sneaks into the worg pens, nimbly moving to his cage. She shushes him by holding a finger to her mouth when he makes an inquisitive grunt and begins to fiddle with the lock with a sharp blade. His ears prick up at the sound of approaching goblins, and she turns her head toward the source of the noise, aware of her time constraints, too. When she gets nowhere with the lock, she pockets the blade and lifts a lyre in her hands; she brings the lyre’s body down hard on the lock body, effectively smashing it open in one blow. She wrests the cage door open with both hands and steps to the side to allow him to pass; Halsin lumbers out, shaking himself. The moon elf places a hand between his shoulders and he almost flinches at the gentleness of her touch. He turns his head, and his golden eyes meet hers, and there is compassion in them; not a trace of fear in sight, as though she did not just release a trapped bear.
“I trust you can find your way out from here alone, dear friend,” she mutters, the sounds of goblins growing closer. “Don’t get yourself killed.” She turns, inexplicably, toward the incoming goblins, flicking a pair of small blades from a pouch at her hip and twirling them between her fingers, and Halsin resumes his true form, stretching and calling after her.
“I had not planned on it. Thank you.” The moon elf freezes in her tracks, whirls to face him, and a grin breaks across her face. “I am Halsin, Archdruid of the Emerald Grove.” Her smile widens fractionally.
“Halsin. Lovely to meet you. I’ve been looking for you. But I think we have more pressing matters than introductions at the moment.” Her attention returns to the goblin noises, which have grown louder. She takes off in the direction of the noise, raring for a fight.
“Could I at least know your name?” Halsin calls after her, and she spares a final glance over her shoulder.
“Lilah,” she replies, disappearing through the door, where the goblin noises erupt into a cacophony of surprise and pain. Halsin charges after her to find her in close combat with several goblins at once. “How would you like to fight our way out of here?” She flips a blade in her fingers, throws it at a goblin, impaling it. Halsin smiles a feral smile, his eyes glowing gold.
“With pleasure.”
His erstwhile savior is not alone; her party numbers seven, in total, himself making eight, and together, they decimate the goblin encampment in very little time. Halsin thanks them profusely for their rescue, and she floors him by enthusiastically agreeing to help him lift the Shadow Curse.
Her cheer is a marvel to behold; despite her injuries, she refuses to allow him to heal her, nor will she let her companion healer come close; instead, she takes up a position at the center of the camp they make for the night, playing her lyre and singing for the party. Such proves to be her way; she fights viciously, relying on her lyre to provide Bardic Inspiration and casting meager spells until her reserves of magic run dry; when this occurs, she drops the lyre to hang at her hip and withdraws her blades, putting herself in immediate danger as she fights in close quarters against their foes.
She retreats into her cheerful, smiling mask once more when the fight is finished, hiding the way she limps back to their camp, favoring one leg, or carefully cradles her battered ribs, a shattered wrist, a cut on her cheek. She again and again does not allow Shadowheart to tend to her, much less him; insisting on seeing to the others first, settling herself on a log near the campfire and resuming strumming her lyre and humming calming tunes. Lilah heals herself when she thinks no one is looking at her, often exhausting the last stores of her magic to do so. She lies down to rest last, busying herself in camp maintenance until moments before dawn, when she finally allows herself a few precious minutes of sleep.
Her mask of good cheer is still evident when they reach the Grove, and she follows patiently behind Halsin as he rights the wrongs he can’t believe Kagha allowed. When the tieflings want to organize a party to celebrate both their liberation from the goblins and his return to the Grove, Lilah immediately joins in the planning and preparations, and he catches her several times lifting and carrying heavy supplies she by no rights should be able to carry, only to find she has bespelled herself in order to help.
As dusk approaches, she performs songs for the assembled partygoers on her lyre, and when night falls, she dazzles them all by juggling her blades, flipping as many as six up in the air at once, whirling and twirling and catching them all. She throws one final blade in the air and spins in place, appearing to swallow the blade when it returns to her, to the delight of the assembled tiefling children. She turns her back to them all, cranes her neck back, and withdraws the blade from her throat, spinning back around with a wicked smile and to delighted squeals. Afterwards, she teaches the children juggling with small sticks in place of blades; they delightedly scamper off to show their parents and guardians, and Lilah makes her way over to where a cask of wine has been broken open. She fills herself a cup and takes a long drink, lowering the cup from her lips as Halsin approaches.
“That is quite an impressive feat,” he begins, refusing the cup when she attempts to hand it to him. She refills her cup and takes another long drink, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and the back of her hand on her leathers.
“A lifetime of training,” she replies. “I am not without the scars of my failures.”
“Are you a rogue then, blademaster?” Halsin asks, and Lilah laughs heartily.
“I leave the thievery to Astarion. I’m a bard by trade.” Halsin quirks an eyebrow.
“I’ve not encountered a bard with that much skill with blades,” He replies, and Lilah shrugs her delicate shoulders.
“The College of Swords offers much in the way of skill,” she replies nonchalantly, taking another drink. One of her traveling companions, Gale, calls her name, and Lilah flicks her head in his direction. Halsin smiles a genial smile.
“I shall not keep you all to myself. There will be time for more talk later,” he tells her, and Lilah nods, downing the last of her wine and wandering off in the direction of Gale.
From there, the journey grows ever the more difficult: Lilah fights savagely to defend the portal to the Shadowfell as Halsin searches for Thaniel. She comforts Art Cullagh and Oliver in turn, soothing them with the very gentleness of her being and her endless abundance of cheer. She flings herself first into the chasm after Ketheric Thorm and the Nightsong with a cry; her small blades in each hand, lyre hanging from her hip, fighting as though she is a much more powerful creature.
--
With Ketheric’s defeat and the Shadow Curse lifted, Halsin is only too glad to join the party in their quest to cure themselves of the Illithid parasites, and the party presses on toward Baldur’s Gate. He quickly realizes Lilah’s place atop the party’s hierarchy; major decisions are run through her, she directs travel and dictates resting places and sees to everyone’s needs…except her own, with regularity.
More often of late, she has taken to falling asleep around the campfire, slumped against a companion’s shoulder, and more often of late, her companions have been quick to let her. Even prickly Astarion, who often pooh-poohs her goody-goody antics, wraps an arm around her waist to prevent her from slipping off the log when it is his turn to serve as her pillow. They whisper about it, her companions that have known her longer; they too can see the mask slipping, even as she desperately tries to keep it up. Their applause at her nightly performances grows less enthused, more concerned, and she only pushes herself harder and harder. He does not miss the glances that pass between them as someone carries Lilah back to her tent for the night; the parasite avails them of some limited telepathy, and while Halsin wishes he was part of the conversation, he is glad for the peace of his own thoughts. Silent conversations quickly turn spoken, however, and concern for Lilah only grows. Still she insists on pushing herself to the very limits of her ability each day, always seeing to others before herself.
Tonight proves no exception, as the party returns, heavily battered, to their camp. Few linger long enough to even merit lighting the campfire, retreating to their tents for a long rest. Still, there Lilah sits on her log, quietly strumming her lyre with what Halsin strongly suspects to be broken fingers. When the party has disbanded for the night entirely, Halsin remains awake, watching her from the darkness outside his tent. Lilah looks around, as if making sure she is unobserved, and sighs heavily. She rises from the log, stretching her arms high above her head, and makes for her tent, rubbing her neck with her good hand. Halsin watches in silence as she deposits her lyre in her tent and strips herself of her light leather armor and blade pouches, leaving her standing in a thin tunic and leggings. She toes off her boots last and pads away, barefoot, from her tent, heading in the direction of a small lake he knows to be nearby.
Halsin follows her at a distance, more out of a sense of concern for her injured hand than anything else, he tells himself, silently stalking after her in the darkness. He pauses at the edge of a copse of trees, watching her walk into the small clearing and pause at the edge of the lake. She looks around again, and, certain she wasn’t followed, finishes undressing. Halsin knows he should avert his eyes, that he should not be spying on her and that he should allow her privacy to bathe in peace after the hell of battle, yet the pattern of bruises and minor lacerations to her skin draws his attention, and the part of him that is intrinsically a warm-blooded male takes note of her gentle curves, the slight swell of her hips and the rise of her breasts. She is a slender thing; all the better for her, in truth, as her thinness allows for more agility on the field of battle. Blood clings to her skin in places, deep wine red against the pale milk-white. She hisses as she steps into the icy water of the lake and wades in up to her waist, crossing her arms over her chest and taking in a deep gasp of air before plunging herself below the surface of the water. He turns to leave and give her the privacy she deserves as he hears her break the surface of the water with another gasp, hauling crisp night air into her lungs in several panting breaths.
A flickering of light draws his attention back to the lake, and Halsin watches her try—and fail—to cast a healing spell over her injured hand, cursing to herself all the while as her exhausted stores of magic sputter and die uselessly. He takes a deep breath, ready for whatever vitriol might come, and steps out of the copse.
“I could help you with that, you know,” he says gently, his voice low and soft. It still startles her, and she jumps nearly a foot out of the water.
“H-Halsin,” she says, and he notices her teeth are chattering.
“Come out of the water, you’ll catch your death,” he insists a little urgently. He can only imagine the damage she might do to herself if she continued carrying on like this while sick with fever. Still, Lilah does not move from the water; if anything, she has sunk deeper in to it to hide herself. Her dark hair clings to the skin of her face, her shoulders, her breasts…He casts looks around the clearing, but there is little to protect her modesty beyond her filth-soaked tunic and leggings, and he highly doubts she would want to put those back on after venturing in to the freezing waters of the lake to clean herself. He extends a hand to her, and gradually, Lilah makes her way out of the water, shivering all the while. When she is close enough, Halsin removes his own tunic and pops it over her head. It isn’t much, but it will at least warm her a little, he hopes. “Let me see your hand.” He holds out his hands and waits until she hesitantly lays hers in his.
“I’m fine, Halsin, I promise,” she swears, and she does her best to make her shaking voice light, her lips cracking in pursuit of a smile and an air of her usual bravado broken by the shiver that courses through her. Halsin probes the delicate bones in her hand and she yelps. She is most decidedly not fine. As Halsin intones the spell to reset her broken bones, his eyes travel up her arm, cataloging the extensive smattering of bruises and tiny, web-like silver scars that trail up it and pigment her pale skin. His eyes rove over her neck and what he can see of her shoulders, down her other arm and her legs, searching her for more injuries he can mend. When his eyes return to her face, Halsin finds her blushing under his examination, her face taking on a pinkish hue. “I’m perfectly well.” She’s not as good at lying up close, he notices. Her mask falters under his scrutiny.
“You need not lie to me, Lilah,” he says as he covers her now-healed hand with his. Her fingers are cold. This close, he can see the bags under her crystal blue eyes, the flecks of gold in them, the exhaustion in her features. In one decisive motion, he gathers her into his arms, and Lilah sputters protests as he hauls her against his chest, cradling her in his arms and turning back toward camp. Her cheek presses against his bare chest, and her skin is cold. He carries her past her own tent and in to his, ducking inside and placing her on his bedroll. He finds a heavy blanket and drapes it around her shoulders, and Lilah pulls it tight around herself. Her eyes are downcast, her cheerful mask discarded at last.
“Thank you, Halsin,” she begins, stifling a yawn.
“You need rest,” he says decisively, easing her back onto his bedroll. She resists, only a little, until her head hits the pillow and she takes in another deep, slightly ragged breath, drawing the scent of him in from the linen to her lungs. She yawns anew, settling in amongst his bedding.
“Where will you sleep?” Lilah queries, fighting a losing battle to keep her eyes open. Halsin chuckles and lays down on the ground next to her, pillowing his head on one arm.
“I will keep watch beside you. Nature has provided my bedding for many years; one more night will cause me no harm.” That faint blush returns to her cheeks, and a small smile plays across her lips. It is only moments before sleep envelops her, and Halsin allows himself to follow her into rest.
Morning comes quickly, and Halsin wakes to find his bedroll empty, the heavy blanket carefully arranged around him instead of the slender body of his moon elf companion, his tunic carefully draped over the bedroll. From outside his tent, he can hear the all-too-familiar sounds of Lilah strumming her lyre and singing as Gale cooks their morning meal. Karlach joins her in a bawdy tavern song, much to Wyll and Gale’s consternation and Astarion’s amusement, and Karlach’s booming, jolly voice contrasts Lilah’s high, bird-like song, lowered a few octaves for the nature of their subject material. Halsin emerges from his tent and takes a proffered bowl of food from Gale, taking a seat around the unlit campfire and watching Lilah and Karlach carry on in their song. Lilah smiles at him, wide and earnest, and something in his chest feels like it cracks; long forgotten emotion stirs in him, and he pushes it back down into the secret place it came from, even as her eyes sparkle at him. For the first time since he’s met her, she seems well-rested.