Requiem (for the Grand Design)

by Flammus713

Summary:

A spasm grips your chest. Your strength falters. An emptiness grows within you, paladin.
Something has been lost.

After breaking his sworn oath, Albert Wesker is granted a single chance for redemption: find the Tiefling, Meg, and return with her to his master.
It's an easy decision, and he doesn't care what happens to her, so long as he can reclaim the power that is rightfully his.
But, of course, it's never that easy.

~~~

Tags will probably change as I finish this thing up lol

Chapter 1: Oathless

There remained a hole in his chest, even weeks after his failure.

Complete.

Total.

The absence of power was only fitting for such a disgraceful disappointment.

And yet, he'd been granted mercy — the mercy of a second chance, undeserved and yet…

Oathless, he would not remain.

The wind tugged at his cloak, sundown approaching quickly. He'd be forced to stop and make camp before long, which could put more distance between himself and his quarry.

In the last fading rays of the sun, he stopped, rolling out a bedroll and lighting a fire for warmth, tying his horse to a tree. He scratched simple wards into the dirt, the presence of them more powerful than any magic, enough to deter intelligent creatures. Less intelligent beings would avoid him anyways — he stank of tainted magic; of death magic.

The horse barely trusted him as it was. Fortunate, because crossing half the Sword Coast was arduous and lengthy enough on horseback. It would be longer on foot.

One last time before he let himself drift off, he called up on the lingering traces of magic within him, wisps of power barely allowing him to track his quarry.

His skin warmed. Close, then. Perhaps another day or two before he'd find her. Then it would be merely a matter of catching her.

It felt as though he'd hardly closed his eyes when the sun rose, and he with it.

He ate on the road, as per usual, calling on the tracking spell every so often, using a small twig as a makeshift compass needle to point him in the direction of his quarry.

It was on the outskirts of one of the larger cities following the river that he stopped, dropping his hold of the magic.

She was here, he was certain of it.

A dilapidated inn on the outskirts hosted only one other person, who took a singular look at him, chugged his drink, and left very quickly.

“One room,” Wesker said, setting a few coins on the bartop. “And lodgings for my horse.”

The woman behind the bar squinted suspiciously at him. “Costs triple.”

“Sign says twenty,” he responded.

“Sign’s out of date,” she responded. “Either pay sixty, or get gone.”

He tried to hold his anger in check. “Very well. Sixty for myself and my horse.”

“Ain't got nowhere for your horse, pretty boy,” she retorted. “But for a hundred, I'll find somewhere.”

He swept the coins off the counter, scowling. “I'll find somewhere else, then.”

“Y’ain’t gonna find nothing for less,” the woman retorted, wiping the abandoned cup with a dirty rag. “Costs twice as much farther in.”

He grimaced at the sight. “I'll take my chances.”

The woman huffed, muttering a string of blasphemes as he walked out, untying his horse from a banister and leading it past the gates.

He tried an inn just past the farthest outskirts, where locals had stands to sell wares in the streets. At a hundred per night, he had lodgings for himself and his horse, as well as meals. Not inexpensive, and a few characters within the inn encouraged him not to leave anything of value in his room, but it was private and well-placed within the city. He didn't doubt it would be more if he went any further in.

He was hoping he wouldn't stay more than the one night.

He left his pack with his essentials in the room, stepping out with only his gear, stepping into an alley to cast a tracking spell. A twig spun, wobbling from right to left before pointing southwest. He pocketed it, heading off in that direction.

Citizens dodged out of his way as he walked. He was hardly inconspicuous in his armor, heavy and black as onyx. The sword across his back didn't help. Even in casual wear, he did not carry himself in the manner of an average mortal.

Though perhaps, he thought with a grimace as a man all but dove out of his path to avoid him, he would benefit from something less conspicuous should his target elude him.

He walked as casually as he could, eyes skimming across various storefronts and market stands, looking for anything out of place. Most citizens were of human or elven descent, making it much easier to seek out the curl of horns; the infernal red of hellish skin.

There.

He busied himself examining the wares of a blacksmith, holding up a dagger to see behind him. The reflection was distorted, but the curve of horns was distinct.

He clicked his tongue, setting the knife down to the chagrin of the smith, then turned away, strolling up the street and keeping the woman in the corner of his vision.

Her horns curved like a demonic crown, thick red braids wrapped around her head. Her skin was almost a peachy color, pale scarlet at best, perhaps only the vague suggestion of the bloody crimson color he knew most Tieflings for. But perhaps that was a result of parentage.

She was wearing a light tunic of some sort, and didn't appear to be armed. That made her no less dangerous — he had limited intel on her talents.

It was best to assume she was highly dangerous, he concluded, turning around to purchase fruit from a stand, an excuse to keep her in his sight. She laughed at something a woman in the shadows said, coins exchanging as she purchased something, practically skipping away.

He followed at a distance, engraving the details of her face into his memory before returning to the inn, dropping his purchase carelessly while pulling supplies from his bag.

He waited until it was darker to cast his tracking spell and set out. He found her in a field just beyond the gate, her head tipped back into the breeze, loose pieces of hair fluttering. The sun glinted off of them like strands of gold woven into her fiery curls. Were he a bard, perhaps he would have gone on to pen poetry about the vision she was in the setting sun.

But he was not a simple, distractible man, notching an arrow and taking aim for her shoulder. Not a fatal wound, but it would send her to the ground, and the sussur arrowhead would prevent her from using magic to escape. The sleeping draught it was coated in would help matters as well.

He exhaled, then let it fly, dropping the bow and taking off in a sprint the moment he heard her cry out in pain, head whipping about like a startled deer.

She took off, far quicker than he thought she might have been. Fortunate enough for him, it was towards the trees, where they'd be less likely to meet any residents of the town, making it far easier to cart her off.

She glanced over a shoulder, catching sight of him, eyes blowing wide in a panic. She scampered around a tree, failing to put distance between them. Unfortunately for her, she couldn't rely on the darkness to hinder his sight.

He'd accounted for that prior.

The toxin coating the arrowhead had failed to fell her thus far, but he could hear her swears when magic failed to allow her an easy escape.

He pulled a dagger from his belt, flinging it in her direction. He knew he would miss, but his goal was to flush her out.

The forest went dead silent. He tipped his head, listening for the telltale thump of a body against the ground.

He turned, moving slowly towards the sound, pushing through a bush to find her on the ground, one fist clenched uselessly.

He dropped down to roll her over, only for her to whip a leg about and knock him off balance. Her clenched fist released a spray of dust and dirt into his face, blinding him. He choked on his surprise, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, snarling as he took off after her.

An unnatural fog clouded his sight, a swear escaping him as he realized it was magical. Which meant she'd pulled the arrow free, and was effectively lost.

He snarled, sheathing his sword. He grabbed the bloodied arrow from the underbrush, face twisting as he snapped the head free.

Failure once more. Unbelievable, that she'd escaped his grasp.

Except it wasn't, because his plan hadn't been foolproof. Because sleep evaded those of fey descent, and he'd been a fool to assume she was the product of a human’s coupling. More foolish to assume she wouldn't be clever enough to remove the arrow once she knew it blocked her magic.

He’d need to be better prepared next time. She’d used dirty tactics, because of course, anyone would. She’d be prepared to outrun his arrows and simple tactics.

What he needed was a way to catch her and keep her from running. The sleeping draught would have done the latter, but being ineffective, he’d need something else.

Hells, he wasn’t a bounty hunter . How some made careers out of it he couldn’t possibly understand. This was just obnoxious and difficult. Strategizing and prepping based off limited intelligence was far from his forte. He preferred to be well-informed. Overly- informed, even.

He began the trudge back to the inn, wallowing in his failure.

No, not wallowing . Albert Wesker did not wallow . He was above that. He brooded over his shortcomings. He ruminated on his mistakes. He did not wallow like some self-pitying, run-of-the-mill, low-blooded adventurer .

He was better than that. Stronger . Even without his powers.

“Strength above all,” he muttered, the tenet almost comforting, aside from the gaping hole of loss.

If this Meg was even slightly intelligent, she wouldn’t have returned — she would have skipped town at the first hint of trouble. Anyone with half a braincell and a hint of common sense would. Unless, of course, it was coupled with a more than healthy dose of pride. Arrogance led to ruin, as he knew too well.

As soon as he was locked back in his room at the inn, he cast a tracking spell, watching the pointer spin around before it settled. With a little more magic, he determined her to already be beyond the bounds of the town, heading northwards.

Frowning, he cast a scrying spell, fisting the arrowhead with her blood to focus the connection. But under the cover of night, it was hard to see her as she moved through the trees, the only sign of her movement being the rustling underbrush.

It was too dark to see a damn thing, for which he cursed his human eyes.

As soon as dawn rose, he left. There was no true destination in mind, only a northward course.

He rode for an hour or two before he stopped by a stream, allowing his horse to drink before he settled down with the arrowhead clutched in his hand, focusing his mind once again.

The connection felt fuzzy and weak. He could make out the hazy details of a map. The woman traced a line, finger pausing by a little divot in the map. The creased paper left the name of the town illegible. He watched her fold it back into a pocket and set off.

The connection broke. Scowling, he committed to memory the location where she’d stopped before remounting his horse. He’d stop in the first populated location he could and find a map. Otherwise, he’d be travelling aimlessly based on a direction — one that was far from accurate.

He didn’t reach the edge of the forest before nightfall, forcing him to set camp. His sleep was haunted by visions of his failure, a charring hand reaching out for his aid.

He could almost taste the smoke when he woke.

 

~~~

 

The first town he reached (if he could even call it that) was a miserable little grove populated with tree-hugging druids high off their asses on something , the acrid, sweet smoke heavy in the air. He felt lightheaded just breathing it in secondhand, sneering as he left before they could ruin his day further.

The next settlement was no better, a facade covering for a Zhentarim shipping route. It was much akin to pulling teeth, convincing the man behind the desk of the “post office” that he just needed a map, and nothing else.

He should have pulled a few teeth from the dimwitted halfling’s mouth, maybe that would have been more successful.

He almost grinned when he found the location she’d stopped at. Julkoun . A two day ride, and she’d likely be another three days behind him, as she was on foot. He could beat her there. Better yet, Waterdeep was merely a tenday’s ride from there and he could use an arcane waypoint to return to the Gate quicker, a prospect he was thoroughly enthused by.

Just a bit under a month and his rightful place would be restored.

He snapped the reins of his horse, hurrying in the direction of Julkoun. If he was on the road before sunset, he could ride part of the night without fear of a tree root tripping his horse into breaking its leg. The sooner he was in town, the better. He needed time to get the lay of the land, lay traps, and otherwise prepare for the roguish woman.

The Misty Forest seemed endless. The darkness coming with sunset seemed to arrive abruptly, so sudden it could have been mistaken for a cloud of magically conjured darkness. But he knew better, and with a scowl, he summoned a sphere of daylight, his concentration divided as he had it follow them like a personal sun.

Another hour and he gave up, forced to stop. His limited magic waned, and maintaining a spell and riding at the same time was draining.

He held the sphere long enough to set camp before dismissing it.

The next day passed in a similar fashion, and he was left wondering if he was hopelessly lost, or if the map was wrong. Or perhaps some spirit of the forest was feeling malicious and was messing with him. It had happened before to others.

But the trees thinned, and the heat of the noonday sun beat down upon him.

Before nightfall, he was in an inn, casting a scrying spell on the woman once more.

She was continuing onwards, happily humming as she walked through the forest. She wasn't far from his first camp.

She stopped suddenly, frowning. Her eyes narrowed, as she looked about, making nearly direct eye contact with him through the spell. And then, scowling, she swiped a hand through the air, breaking it.

Damnit.

Chapter 2: Strength Above All

Summary:

In which Wesker (and Meg) fail skill checks and make poor choices

Julkoun was the ideal site for an ambush. One side bordered the Delimbiyr river, another stretched into a grove. It was on the smaller side, making it hard to disappear into crowds. There were only three useful routes in and out — directly across the river, around the entire village and grove, or through the grove, the latter of which being the only one that would allow one to evade scrutiny, or escape the grasp of a pursuer.

It was tedious work, trapping the woods while also evading the various snares and other traps the villagers had set out, likely for the goblin bandits supposedly residing in the grove and plaguing the town.

Perhaps, in another lifetime, he would have taken up the bounty, ruthlessly exterminated them, and brought the town under his reign. But with his oath broken, he was that conquering Paladin no longer.

And there was no reason he'd return to this dump once he was restored to his rightful place, the iron fist of conquest at Lord Spencer's side.

Conquest and Glory, dual swords wielded by the Lord as they blazed across the coast, their granted titles only spoken in reverent, fearful whispers. The wrath of Conquest, the fire of Glory.

Until the fire of glory became fatal.

He exhaled slowly, refocusing his mind. Now was not the time to think on that. His fallen sister was only to haunt him in dreams and fleeting visions, not under broad daylight. And her ghost would be laid to rest soon enough.

He tied off one last knot before he turned back, locking himself in his rooms and casting a spell to locate his quarry. He doubted he could spy on her from afar; she'd recognize him after the last time, and have her guard up. But he was fortunate enough that she was still heading for the town.

He paused, casting another spell to determine how far she was, before he burst to his feet, equipping his gear as he swore viciously.

She traveled much faster than he'd expected — she shouldn't have arrived for at least another day, and yet…

When he risked casting the scrying spell, she was just crossing the river.

It would be awfully rude of him not to greet her. Especially after all the trouble he'd taken to arrive first.

When he stepped out into the town square, she had her back to him, chatting with a local farmer. The gnome waved a hand towards the east, and then she turned.

That was when Meg caught sight of him, her expression souring.

A flash of silver in her hands — a knife, or perhaps another small weapon — and she took up a position defensively in front of the farmer.

“I sure hope this is a coincidence,” she called, gaze steely. “Otherwise, things are bound to get ugly. I won't let you hurt anyone.”

“I have no quarrel with the town, Meg Thomas,” he retorted, one hand on his sword, drawing it with one hand. “If you come quietly, there will be no need for bloodshed.”

A strange look came over her face at the sound of her name, quickly masked by the same steely expression. The gnomish farmer cowering behind the woman hissed something, perhaps a whispered plea.

He didn't care what it was, watching the darting glances of Meg Thomas as he moved to block her path from the water.

“I don't do quiet,” she snapped, and with that, cast a cloud of fog to shield herself and the farmer.

At the same time, he cast a simple cantrip, snapping the rope that had held fishing nets above her and the gnome.

Both were trapped, and in a move of foolish heroism, Meg tried to free the farmer.

Which gave Wesker enough time to activate the earlier glyphs he'd placed, conjuring walls of fire to herd her towards the forest.

Swearing, Meg cut herself free, ducking under a swing of his sword to free the farmer. She caught the next blow on her dagger, barely able to hold the sword back.

There was a puff of golden magic and she was gone, a ginger kitten weaving between his legs and running.

Fucking druids .

He took off, quickly outpacing her and diving in a roll to try to catch her. She slipped through his arms like silk, scrambling up onto the rooftops before shifting back to a humanoid form, leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

He followed after her, hurrying to catch her. He shot off a bolt of magic, and she lost her footing, falling into the street with a pained groan.

But then she was up and running once more, with him hot on her heels.

She cast another fog cloud, followed by a spell causing vines to burst from the ground, ensnaring his ankles. He lost precious time freeing himself, cursing as he took off after her.

She seemed to disappear into the trees, and he feared she was lost once more as he dodged his own traps.

Until he heard a yelp and a crash through the trees.

He hurried towards the source of the sound, watching as she tried — and failed — to pull herself upwards and saw at the rope around her ankles, dangling her above the ground, caught like a rabbit in the snare.

She looked up at him, laughing nervously. “Is it too much to hope that you're going to cut me loose and send me on my way?”

“Afraid so,” he responded, grabbing the fallen knife from the ground, and then taking the one from her hands. She huffed in fury as he briefly frisked her for any other hidden weapons before sending her to the ground in a heap.

 Before she had a chance to do anything, coils of rope were being wrapped around her wrists and her sense of magic dulled to a mere whisper.

Not good.

He tightened the bonds, tugging her to her feet. She stumbled, ankles still tangled in the cord, protesting as he more thoroughly searched her, emptying her pockets.

She protested loudly as he unlatched her knife belt, but took the opportunity to try and identify him.

Golden blonde hair, piercing eyes like ice floes, sharp cheekbones…a very striking figure, and someone she was certain she’d remember meeting.

So, no, this was a complete stranger.

“Did my father send you?” She drawled. “You’re not his usual type, but—”

“No,” he said, cutting her off.

“Can I ask who, then?” She tried. “My mother? My…well, perhaps not him , but it’s entirely possible—”

“Stop talking.”

She scowled. “Rude.”

He tugged at the bonds, forcing her to start walking. Every attempt at conversation was quickly and curtly rebuffed.

“What’s your name?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Where are you from?”

“Nowhere.”

“What do you want with me?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does anything matter to you?”

“Nothing you should concern yourself with.”

She was marched back into town, and then thrown unceremoniously onto the back of a horse.

“You know, for a second, I thought I was going to have to walk,” she quipped.

He said nothing.

“Where are we going?” She asked as he mounted the horse behind her, arms around her to reach the reins. “I hope it’s somewhere interesting.”

He said nothing.

Not the most chatty of companions. Though, really, someone who was abducting her for unknown nefarious purposes was hardly a companion.

She spent the first hour of the ride trying to get a single word out of him that would tell her anything about him. The following hours were spent in silence.

They were heading northwest. That much, she could determine, but little else.

They stopped for the night in the middle of a forest. She wasn’t sure which one, there were quite a few of them.

“Any chance of untying me?” She attempted, wiggling her hands in a bid to gain a little slack. She just needed a few moments. In the middle of the forest, she had the best chance of straining for hints of druidic magic. She just needed a few moments — long enough to wildshape and disappear into the trees. One more badger wouldn’t be noticed amidst all the others coming up in the night.

“No,” he said. Which was the most he’d said to her in about four hours.

She pouted. “How am I supposed to…to eat with no hands?”

He cast a glance of pure disdain, considering her words.

She was starting to wish she hadn’t said anything when he decided to tie her to a tree.

She scowled, crossing her arms. “I feel like a prisoner.”

“You are a prisoner,” he retorted, dropping some sort of sandwich-like wrap in her hands. “You get twenty minutes, unless you want to spend the entire night tied to a tree.

He stepped away, returning to the small fire, rolling out a sleeping pad.

It was too bad she’d left her pack at the inn. And that she had no magic to simply conjure up another one.

Damnable man.

She wriggled, finding enough slack that she might just be able to reach the knots holding her to the tree. As she ate, she carefully wriggled, inching closer to the knot.

Miraculously, he didn’t notice. Not until she was halfway through struggling with the knot, unable to grab hold and pull it apart.

He grabbed her by the wrists. “What are you doing?”

She grinned cheekily. “What does it look like?”

He was thoroughly unamused. “Try anything like that again, and I will shoot you. My orders were that you be brought alive. There was nothing about you being unharmed.”

She blew out a breath, rolling her eyes. “You’re a paladin. You can’t do that without breaking some kind of oath, right? No harming prisoners or whatever?”

He wrenched her upright, her bonds falling away like they were nothing. Probably magic, but she had no time to dwell on that as he began to wind the rope around her wrists.

“Unfortunately for you, I have no such oaths,” he hissed, pulling just a little too tightly. She yelped in pain, face twisting. “So if you try anything, there will be no hesitation.”

She was then dropped, falling back to the forest floor.

“And I was of Conquest,” he said, stepping away from her. “I would have been well within my oath to strike you down, prisoner or not.”

 

~~~

 

She hadn’t expected him to give up his bedroll for her. And yet, he had.

Then again, he was a complete and total asshole the rest of the time, so it hardly balanced that out.

They’d been traveling for four days now, and she still didn’t know his name. He kept everything to himself.

There was a crackle amidst the trees. The horse nickered softly, ears flicking. She too was on edge.

It was too quiet.

The forest was only ever so quiet when there was danger near.

She whipped her head about, as though to spot the source.

The paladin clicked his tongue, attempting to convince the horse to start moving again.

It stubbornly refused to budge, ears flat against its head.

“It’s spooked,” Meg said. “Something’s wrong.”

“Sure,” he retorted. “Do you really think I’m going to believe you? This is another attempt of yours to escape.”

Before she could respond, an arrow went through his shoulder, piercing between his armor plates.

There were shouts and cries as raiders poured from between the trees, the horse screaming as it bucked the both of them off, clubs breaking its knees and smashing it upside the head.

The horse fell, crushing a few of the attacking goblins.

“Shit!” Meg shouted, crushed beneath the weight of her captor. He quickly rolled off her, drawing his sword and muttering under his breath, as though to reach for magic he didn’t have.

He swung it in an arc, one attacking goblin falling, head rolling across the forest floor.

The golden paladin fought with remarkable skill, dodging attacks as though he could sense them before they even began, sword clanging against bone and rusty iron.

Meg crawled backwards, palm slicing open against a sharp stone. She seized it, sawing at the ropes around her wrists, paying little attention to the battle.

Her captor was soon overwhelmed, more than a match for the goblins, but overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Her bonds broke, and she flung the stone aside.

Quickly, attention diverted from the fallen man they’d been clubbing to his compatriot.

“Oh fuck me,” she muttered, followed quickly by a quiet, “te occludo oculus” to blind them.

She was unarmed, but not without magic. She followed her initial attack with summoning fire to burn them, and a flaming scimitar of magic, launching into the fray.

The paladin had dealt with most of them. But not all, leaving her with more than a few.

Meg was far from unused to battle. And while she was far savvier with a bow than with a sword, she could more than hold her own.

It was over soon enough, and she was doused in blood (most of it not hers) and goblin guts.

She cast a glance at the horse, moving to take her supplies back, redonning some of her stolen armor and gear. Then she spared a glance for her captor.

He was pale, the tunic under his armor red with blood where he’d been shot.

She should just leave him to die, she thought. As a matter of fact, she needed to for her own safety. Not only was it the smart thing to do, but it was the safest choice for her. Leave him and disappear.

Never let it be said that she was smart, she thought, frowning as she placed a hand on his cheek, closing her eyes and drawing magic to her.

She was drained and the bleeding hadn’t even stopped.

“Damned idiot,” she seethed, moving to dig through the saddlebags of the fallen horse. Half the supplies had been destroyed, either crushed by the horse or damaged by the goblins.

She came up with two, one of them half empty, and the other slowly dripping out of a crack in the bottle.

She dumped the former into his wound, ripping a strip from his tunic to bind it, then attempted to pour the other down his throat.

With another grumble of annoyance, she tried to pull him off the ground, nearly falling under his weight.

The armor had to go.

Once he was stripped down to the clothes he wore under his armor, she tried again, bracing his weight on her and trying her best to carry him as far as she could from the battle site. It could be on a patrol route, and the goblins might very well not be alone.

She managed to find an abandoned cave after a bit (at least, she hoped it was abandoned, though the lack of signs pointing to recent use suggested she was correct in that regard), and dropped him on the ground.

“Don’t bleed out and die while I’m gone,” she said, as though he could hear and respond. He was still unconscious when she left, and when she returned, lugging any remaining supplies of any use, he was still unconscious.

She settled down, starting a fire, and waited.

Chapter 3: Wordless

Summary:

In which Meg makes more poor choices, Spencer gets shit on a little, and a god gets shit on a lot

It was about half a day before he woke up, launching upright and reaching for a sword that was no longer there.

“What have you done?” He snapped, immediately turning to her.

“Saved your life, you’re welcome,” she retorted, looking up from where she’d been slowly carving a stick down to nothing, setting her daggers aside.

“I had that under control,” he said, scowling. “I didn’t need any help.”

“Sure,” she drawled. “Was getting clubbed half to death by goblins part of some grand plan?”

He didn’t have any room to respond, continuing to scowl at her.

After a moment, he tugged his tunic away, examining the hastily wrapped wound in his shoulder. She tried her best to hide the fact that she was very clearly ogling, eyes roving over the scarred muscle.

“Where’s my armor?” He asked. “And my sword?”

“What, no ‘thank you’? Nothing?” She huffed, rolling her eyes. “Gods forbid someone save your damned life.”

“You should have left me to die,” he responded. “It was foolish of you not to.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t ,” she snapped.

He stared at her for a while, quiet.

“You’re nothing like I thought, Meg Thomas,” he finally said, looking away.

“Well, neither are you,” she retorted.

“You don’t know who I am,” he responded. “If you did, you’d know perfectly well that I am exactly what I am thought of.”

“That’s because you won’t tell me a damn thing.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He retorted. “I am Conquest. I am the wrath of Lord Spencer; the iron fist at his side.”

“I’ve literally never heard of that in my life.”

“Then you’re a naive and sheltered fool,” he responded.

“Or you’re not as famous as you seem to think,” she retorted. “Your made-up titles mean jack shit to me.”

He almost — almost — cracked a wry grin at that. “That would be a first.”

She crossed her arms. “I saved you. Can I at least know your name?”

He said nothing for a much longer time.

“Wesker.” He finally said. “You can call me Wesker.”

Wesker .

Part of her didn’t trust it was the truth. But at the same time, it wasn’t as though she had any way to know he was lying.

She watched carefully as he stumbled out of the former owlbear den, squinting into the sunlight as he tried to get his bearings. It took a few moments for him to identify which direction was which, and then he returned, grabbing her by the forearm.

Almost gentler than he had before.

“Let’s go,” he said, tugging her along.

“I never agreed to go anywhere with you,” she retorted, wrestling herself free.

“So you’d rather stay here?” He asked, raising a brow. “You’re only walking freely because I’m too tired to use magic on you.”

“Thanks,” she retorted. “I feel so grateful.”

“I’m certain I have the strength enough to shut you up,” he muttered. But it lacked the acid she would have expected.

She snorted, whispering a very quiet spell under her breath, forcing herself to keep a straight face as a tree root seemed to pull itself from the ground just to trip him.

Wesker fell face-first into the dirt, and the disgruntled expression was enough to break her composure, and she burst out laughing.

He scowled at her, wiping dirt off his face. He looked much less perfect with dirt smudged across his cheekbones. Less like an untouchable force, and the man he was.

He turned away from her, stepping over the occasional tree root and vines threatening to ensnare him (most of which wasn’t her using cantrips willy-nilly, but it was hard for him to know that).

She filled the hours they walked with near inane chatter, eventually finding out that the eventual destination was Waterdeep (which was, in fact, her destination as well, so she saw no reason not to travel with him, if only to continue to poke and prod at him to amuse herself).

Though it was exhausting to cover so much ground during the day. She was starting to see the appeal of a horse.

They stopped for the night near a stream, clearing the ground of sharp rocks. He splashed water across his face before moving to gather kindling to start a fire.

“Why don’t you use magic?” She asked, watching as he used a flint striker to create sparks.

“Never learned,” he responded. “Didn’t need to.”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re any good with that thing,” she said, dropping to the ground beside him, crossing her legs. She snapped her fingers, a small flame appearing between them, which she then proffered. He didn’t seem even slightly startled, using the magical flame to light a stick. He almost seemed saddened, as though it was something he was used to doing.

“So, who was it?” She asked after a few moments. “A friend? Sibling? Lover?”

“Sister,” he responded, almost unthinkingly. He frowned, as though disappointed in himself.

“Was she as pretty as you?” Meg teased. He pushed her away, standing and walking to where he’d dropped his pack.

“She wasn’t even half as obnoxious as you,” he retorted. He flung a small sack of supplies at her, hitting Meg square in the face with the bag. “ And she knew when to shut up.”

Meg snorted, digging through the bag. “Well, lucky you. I didn’t have one of those.”

“I was,” he said, clearly saddened by the thought.

“You must have cared about your sister,” Meg said, pushing for anything more.

“Well, she’s dead now,” Wesker said, stepping between the trees and vanishing into the darkness.

And then Meg was alone.

If anything, this would have been the opportune moment to escape. Slip into the darkness and disappear amidst the trees too. He wouldn’t be able to find her, she knew how to hide herself. And she’d know if he tried to find her again.

And yet, she didn’t. The thought had hardly occurred to her when it was dismissed without consideration.

He almost seemed surprised when he returned to find her poking at a piece of bread she was attempting to toast over the fire.

 

~~~

 

“You know, sleeping on the ground is doing wonders for my back,” Meg drawled.

“Suffer in silence,” he retorted.

“I refuse.”

He huffed. “I could just use magic to shut you up.”

“You’ve been threatening for days now,” she retorted. “I don’t think you can. In fact, I think you like my voice.”

“I don’t.”

She snorted. “You’re a terrible liar, Wesker.”

He huffed, trying to pretend to be unamused. Like it or not, Meg had grown on him in the weeks they’d been travelling together.

Like a fungus, he would say if anyone asked. Unwanted, and disgusting.

He was starting to have second thoughts about turning her over to Spencer when they arrived in the city.

He couldn’t afford that. He’d been given a second chance, and he could not squander it.

A quiet voice in his head whispered, asking just what if he did?

It sounded suspiciously like his travelling companion.

He scowled, shaking the thought off.

“You have a mom? Dad?” She asked.

“No,” he said. “It was just Alex.”

“Your sister?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. “Was that her name?”

Whoops. Too late now, he supposed.

“It was,” he said. “You’re the third person to ever know that.”

“Huh,” Meg mused, kicking at a rock. “Should I feel honored?”

“No,” he said. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

“So, what did people know her as, then?” Meg prompted. “Or did no one know her at all?”

“Glory,” he responded.

Meg snorted. “Was that to match with “The Wrath of Conquest”, or did you try to match with her?”

“They were titles bestowed with honor ,” he retorted. “We earned them.”

“From who? Lord Shitty-Titles ?”

“Lord Spencer ,” he retorted.

“Gotcha, Lord Shitstick,” Meg rolled her eyes. “What the hell is the deal with him?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Wesker retorted.

Meg hummed, kicking the rock again. “I think I should concern myself. I mean, seeing how you’ve been running all up and down the coast trying to find me for him.”

Wesker said nothing.

“Do you not know?” She asked after a minute.

“Of course not,” he said, like a liar.

“You really are a terrible liar,” she said, restraining a laugh. “I mean, did you just not ask?”

“Would it matter?” He retorted. “I do my duty.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Sounds boring. But, hey, to each their own. How much farther is it, anyways?”

He paused, thinking. “Perhaps a tenday, maybe more.”

She groaned at that. “Nevermind, forget I asked. I’m going back to complaining about sleeping on the ground.”

“If you behave, I’m sure there’s a nice inn in Waterdeep,” he drawled, rolling his eyes.

“I’m holding you to that,” she said, cracking a grin. “And a bath. I have nothing against the forest, but you stink .”

His scowl deepened.

Meg continued to giggle as they continued their walk down the trail.

“You have no siblings,” he said after some time. “Did you never want any?”

“I did ,” she said. “But I don’t think that was in the cards. I mean, there’s too much bullfuckery going on with that between my parents and divine curses and all that.”

“That’s…unfortunate,” he said, as though uncertain what else to say.

“Is it?” She snorted. “We’ve survived this long. It’s just annoying. I think my mom was planning to be the last of our stupidly cursed line, but then, you know, shit happens. So it falls on me.”

“Cursed how?” He asked.

“Petty god who didn’t take rejection well,” she said, shrugging as though it was a perfectly normal thing to say. “We used to have this silly old story about how our family was cursed to die unless we found “true love”, but really, that was just bullshit to make for a good bedtime story. Anyone who survived the curse had to fight for that.”

He hummed thoughtfully, as though considering. “Perhaps there’s a loophole you’ve missed.”

Had he his magic, he might have offered to try and remove the curse in her blood. He couldn’t believe he was even thinking about that, let alone considering a new quest once he’d restored his oath.

She’d probably be dead anyways. Hells, she was a prisoner he was escorting to Lord Spencer, she wasn’t supposed to matter at all.

He was starting to feel as though she mattered quite a bit.

“Next time we stop I'll tell you the story,” she said. “I can always do with some god-slandering.”

Which god, he wondered. There were quite a few. Perhaps a fiendish one, or perhaps one of the Seldarine pantheon, if he had to guess.

He'd know soon enough.

 

~~~

 

Meg curled beside the fire, hands wrapped around a cup of tea she'd insisted upon making after finding a patch of wild mint during the earlier trek.

She blew out a breath. “My family is cursed. Has been for generations, passed from parent to child. It goes back to some great-great…probably at least a dozen or so greats, but one of my ancestors. An archdruid. A very, very powerful one at that.”

Meg grabbed a stick, drawing lines in the dirt as though to accompany her words. “Story goes that they lived like a hermit in the woods, roaming through the lands they served by foot or by wing, depending on the manner that suited them. They fought fires and lived to serve nature.”

“And the god Silvanus noticed,” Wesker guessed, raising an eyebrow.

Meg looked up. “More than that. He favored them, saw them as his most prized. And it wasn't at a distance either. He began to watch through the eyes of a hawk, listen with the ears of a rabbit, show his favor with gift and treasures of the land wherever they sought to rest.

“And then he came to the earth himself.”

Meg set her tea aside, focusing on her scribblings in the dirt. “Silvanus was a possessive god. He saw all of nature as his domain, and sought to claim my ancestor as well, as his most devout worshipper. But they refused, claiming they, like nature, were beholden to no one. And the god was infuriated. He grew angered and spiteful, and turned on the archdruid. He sent storms and floods, uprooted trees and collapsed burrows. He sent blight to crops and plague to livestock. The people became desperate, and turned to the archdruid to seek forgiveness for the god, and in desperation, they did. But Silvanus would not forgive so easily. For three years, they were subjected to nature's wrath, until Silvanus decided that the rest of the people had had enough. But he was not done with the archdruid. So he found them once more, and offered them a chance at redemption. But after all he had done, he was rejected once more.”

Meg broke the stick, dropping the pieces into the fire.

“So he cursed them,” she said after a moment of quiet. “Them, and all their descendants, to wither away like the forest in a drought; like a starved rabbit in a barren waste, and for their souls to be his forevermore. For their lives to be lives of suffering and hardship, and for their children, and their children's children, to know death before they'd hardly come of age. To suffer both in life and in death, when their souls became his.”

“That's…” Awful didn't even begin to cover it. Neither did saying it sucked, or that it was far greater punishment than one living being should be able to incur.

“You don't have to say anything,” Meg responded. “It's fucked. It's the reason I rejected magic as much as I have. And it's why the bloodline dies with me.”

“Bloodlines don't mean much,” he said, cursing himself even as he spoke. “I was rejected by my own. Given up so young I couldn't tell you my own name. To a man with delusions of godhood, no less.”

“I'm sorry,” Meg said. “It sounds like you don't like him?”

Wesker frowned, looking into the darkness as opposed to her. “I don't know anything else. And I am powerless without him. A paladin is nothing without a patron.”

“You could always find another patron,” she suggested.

“Perhaps,” he acquiesced. “And perhaps you could finally break your curse.”

“Maybe when I die,” she said, only half joking. “Everything else has been…a struggle.”

“Is there a story there too?” He asked.

She shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. My father will tell you a grand, sweeping tale of how he wooed her and won her heart and soul. My mother will tell you about how he walked into a patch of ensnaring vines and she had to fish him out like a cat. Both are obviously true, but my father would embellish it more. Mom's lucky he never took playwrighting seriously.”

Wesker snorted, leaning back against his pack. “Bard?”

“Probably,” she shrugged. “I never thought to ask. He was just…Dad. I didn't realize for years that most fathers didn't deal in infernal contracts.”

“You grew up in Avernus, then?” Wesker guessed.

“No,” she responded. “We stayed a lot of places. I just didn't go out much. Mom was always all, “Oh, watch out for the forest, sometimes you'll run into petty bastard gods trying to connive you into selling yourself to them,” and dad didn't want me running around until I was better with maintaining a glamour. He has a lot of enemies.”

Wesker frowned. “The sussur bark should have interrupted the glamour. So why…?”

Meg laughed, standing and stretching. “Because it's easier not to concentrate on a spell for so long, and sussur can’t interrupt magic items.” With that, she began to take out the earrings, shrugging her shoulders as she unfurled wings from almost thin air. In the dark, lit by nothing but the fire, they could almost have looked to be made of the fire itself.

She grinned, snapping her fingers, practically showing off as infernal fire danced along her skin.

It was beautiful. The words “fallen angel” sprang to mind, but that wasn't quite right. She was the Hells themselves.

She was a devil.

He didn’t realize how long he was staring as she flaunted herself, only managing to snap himself out of his thoughts when her wings snapped shut, furled against her back.

“How…?”

She shrugged. “Dad enchanted it for me. I just keep them on most of the time because…well, mortals don’t take kindly to Tieflings. Cambions get it worse. Bad reputation and all.”

“Doesn’t it get uncomfortable?” He asked. “Stiff?”

She shrugged. “I don’t even notice it until I take my earrings out. But it’s nice to stretch them a bit. They…do get stiff, all crunched up and magicked away for days.”

He’s kind of glad she’d kept them hidden away for so long. He’s not sure how he would have taken her down while dealing with the wings as well. Would he have needed to bind them as well? Few winged beings lived on the mortal plains. Alex had been an Aasimar, but she’d only used her wings sparingly, insistent that the impermanence meant her power was not to be wasted. He’d never known enough.

The only truly winged being he’d ever known of was the daughter of the moon, a demigod who Alex had fought before her death. A demigod who had nearly killed Alex.

He remembered her coming back, straw and feathers in her hair and bruises everywhere from where her armor must have dug into her skin. And how she wouldn’t talk about it beyond a restrained look and mentions of how exhausting the duel had been.

That had been one of the few campaigns they had turned away from — because Alex, even with all her power, could not hold her own against a demigod. And what chance did a mortal like himself have? Even at the height of his power, Alex had never been his equal. Now…

Meg probably could have overpowered him had she been in mastery of all her devilish power. How could anyone have thought he could stand his own against a devil?

Spencer must not have known. That, or he wished him dead.

His gaze drifted back to the crimson wings, head tipped thoughtfully. Her wings looked fragile, with thin membranes between the thick, crimson phalanges. He wondered if they were deceptively powerful as well, or if they were as fragile as they appeared. Would they feel like soft skin beneath his fingers, or like the frail curtain their appearance suggested?

He shook the thought off. That was certainly not something he should be dwelling upon.

He stood, stepping away from the fire with the excuse that he was going to relieve himself, leaving the light of the fire far enough behind him that he couldn’t see or hear her.

Could she fly? Were those wings enough to support her as she stole away into the night? He knew little of devils — he could have thought she was simply a Tiefling had she not revealed wings.

Gods, he’d been sent to capture a devil . What the hell did Lord Spencer want with a devil ?

Perhaps not her specifically, he realized after a few moments. A lowly devil with no title was little. No, she had to have connections, and that must have been what Spencer wanted.

A full-blooded devil, possibly an archdevil of the Hells. That was true power.

He returned to the fire after some time, glancing at Meg, who was carefully slotting her earrings back into place.

“You don’t have to,” he said, interrupting her before she’d slotted the last ring into place. “I don’t mind.”

She paused. “You’re just going to travel with a devil in plain sight?”

“I’ve had worse travelling companions,” he replied.

Meg gasped. “Don’t insult your sister like that.”

He rolled his eyes, sitting back down. He hesitated for some time, allowing his eyes to trace the shape of her face in the dark.

“Meg,” he said, rolling her name across his tongue as he hesitated to speak. He found he liked the way it tasted, but that was a consideration for another time.

“Tell me about your father,” he finally said.

Chapter 4: Godless

Summary:

In which the truth about Wesker's broken oath comes to light, (my beloved) Alex Wesker gets to show up (in a flashback), Meg's parentage is a little more obvious, and things almost happen

“What about him?” She asked, crossing her arms. “His name? His rank? Or who he is to me?”

I want to know what Spencer could possibly want with you , he thought, but he didn’t say that, the words dying in his throat.

“I’m just curious,” he finally said, after almost choking on the words he should have said. “Tell me about him.”

“I’ll offer you a deal,” she responded. “You tell me a story, and I’ll tell you about how he beat Silvanus. Deal?”

“Your nature is showing, Meg Thomas,” he responded. He had to think for a while, wondering if there was anything he could tell. He’d fought so many battles, but how many were worth telling stories of? He was, by no means, a bard. And so many had been merely massacres that ended in scorched earth. Far from the sweeping romances that a poet would pen; further still from the glorious tales of triumph that would be drunkenly shared in a tavern.

“I was a paladin of Conquest, Meg Thomas,” he finally said. “I was a conqueror. Not a hero. The only stories told about me were fearful warnings.”

“What happened?” She responded, elbows on her knees as she leaned forward, head resting in her hands. “Tell me how you broke your oath.”

“It’s not a happy story,” he responded.

“Tell it anyways,” she responded. And he couldn’t find it in himself to deny that request.

 

~~~

 

The battle had been gruesome. The town had not gone down without a fight, and rather than leave anything standing, the stubborn people had set fire to their own homes as they fled.

The militia they’d formed had not been weak. He’d lost more than a few soldiers that day. Cannon fodder, compared to his sister and himself.

Smoke teared at his eyes, clouding his vision. He swung his sword in a wide arc, cutting down the men who had been trying so desperately to keep him back. He could hear Alex, further down the hall, doing much the same, the two a whirl of blade and divine power. He could hear her calling down the power to smite the soldiers crowding her, bodies falling with heavy thumps, though he couldn’t see through the smoke.

“Call out!” He shouted, coughing as the smoke grew thicker.

Two soldiers and Alex remained from their raiding party. Two out of the dozen they’d brought.

He could hear the sickening thump of an arrow hitting flesh, and someone hitting the ground.

None of them were armed for ranged attacks, meaning it was now one left.

Through the thick cloud of grey, he couldn’t see. Someone cast a spell, causing a gust of wind to stir the smoke up, embers burning at any exposed skin, fleeting pinpricks of pain that broke through spells meant to deter the steel of a sword.

He shot off a blast of magic, unable to sense where the remaining combatants were. His head pounded from dehydration, the heat of the fire enough to sense through his armor, enchanted as it was. Anyone else might have been cooked alive.

There was a blast and a shout of fury, white light breaking through the smoke in his peripheral vision.

Alex had called upon her divine power as an Aasimar to turn the tide of battle.

He wondered why at first, until the first skeletal hand clawed at his ankle.

He tried to shake it off as bones pulled up from the ground to grasp at anything they could, but the grip was like iron.

Fucking necromancers.

He swung his sword at his feet, severing arms, only for them to continue to function even while detached, digging into his armor and keeping him distracted while the living enemy fled.

Smoke swirled as Alex pulled herself free, hovering above the carnage long enough to catch sight of his struggle, then of the sorcerer farther across the battlefield.

She made a choice, diving at the sorcerer, leaving him to fend for himself.

Between controlling a horde of the undead and magically fending off the paladin of glory, the necromancer's concentration waned enough that Wesker could free himself, calling the power to smite the sorcerer. The wooden roof creaked ominously above the both of them as they took turns batting away the undead and attempting to break through the magical shields the necromancer kept throwing at them.

Every time Alex cast to destroy the undead, more took their place. Every time Albert knocked them all back with a thunderous smite, they got back up.

The two were tired from long battle already, their energy waning.

Alex snarled, one hand pulling at thin air as she grasped at her power, practically yanking a sunbeam down to burn through the shields, the gaping hole in the roof allowing some of the smoke to filter out.

The necromancer swore, looking between them both, then summoned another wave of the undead, cast invisibility, and fled.

“Go!” Alex snapped, shoving him past the wave of undead as they swarmed her.

He didn't look back, powerful strides carrying him towards the sorcerer as they flickered back into view. The dragonborn hissed, spraying the ground with acid to try and slow him. Albert jumped over the worst of it, hissing as a few drops burnt through cloth and singed his skin. The footsteps of the dragonborn carried him to the edge of the village before he heard the sound of wood collapsing.

He whipped about, his prey forgotten as dread took hold, smoke billowing from where the town hall had collapsed.

He turned back, rushing to the fire and pushing through the wall of smoke until he caught sight of a few white feathers flecked with red.

The battle was lost as soon as he turned his back on the enemy, letting them live another day.

No — it was lost as soon as he'd separated from the twin sword at his side, leaving Alex to fend for herself.

He dug through the rubble until the leather of his gauntlets had burnt so thoroughly that he could smell his own flesh cooking from the heat of the flame forced to pull away.

Alex was dead.

And the necromancer had escaped.

He dropped to his knees as his heart sized painfully, a spasm gripping his chest where he could feel the core of his magic.

Where he used to, before he'd failed.

It was gone now.

 

~~~

 

“Strength above all, rule with an iron fist, douse the flames of hope,” he recited. “Three tenets that I broke when I turned my back. Had I fought alongside Alex, she'd be alive, and I wouldn't be here.”

And neither would you.

“You mean you broke your oath by going back to save your sister?”

“By sacrificing the outcome of the battle,” he corrected. “The necromancer lived, and hope wasn't quashed. The village rose up within the month and without Alex and myself, Lord Spencer's forces were overwhelmed by the undead.”

They were quiet for a while. At some point, Meg had moved closer to him, and now, leaning in, he could feel her breath on his face, her hand on his knee.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That you lost your sister.”

“We were meant to be expendable,” he responded, trying — and failing — to look away.

“No one is expendable,” she responded. “You're obviously not.”

“Like I said, meant to be,” he said, looking into the fire instead of at her. “Doesn't mean we were.”

“I've never heard of a paladin’s oath being reinstated by their patron,” she said, instead. “Mshbe a warlock's power—”

“My oath broke when I failed,” he interrupted. “And when I succeed, it will be reinstated.”

“Does it have to be by him?” She asked, and not for the first time, he thought about that. About finding a different patron, one who wouldn't want him to deliver Meg, because gods damnit , he didn't want to give her up. Not half as much as he did before, when he'd been desperate to regain his lost status.

He still was desperate. But he couldn't convince himself that he'd be willing to hand her over and walk away. Not without second thoughts.

“I don't know,” he said, hands uselessly at his sides.

“You could walk away,” she murmured, wing brushing against his shoulder as she shifted closer to him. “Forget Lord Spencer, forget all of this.”

“Forget you?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

She laughed quietly. “Maybe not me. Maybe I don't want you to walk away and forget about me.”

He held her gaze for a few moments, dazzled by the fire reflected in her eyes, the way the blue drank him in. The space between them was shrinking, as though her eyes pulled him in, caught in her orbit. Like debris in a black hole, certain doom within reach and no way to escape.

Then he broke eye contact, pulling away from her. “It's late.”

It felt almost impossible to walk away from her, setting himself down on the ground on one side of the fire.

She moved to follow, dropping to the ground so her head lay near his own.

“Just think about it,” she said quietly, propped up on one arm to look at him. “Please?”

He couldn't figure out how to say no to her.

 

~~~

 

They were three days from Waterdeep.

“My father is a devil,” she said as they walked, swinging her arms at her sides. “My mother was a druid when they met. He was looking for a soul to win, and she was just tending to the ancestral grove. You know what those are, right?”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's a druid’s resting place?”

“Bingo,” she said. “Been in our family for centuries. Druids tend to return to the earth. There was a blight on the crops, so Mom was making sure it didn't spread. Dad was looking to make a deal, and he stumbled across her. And he was, well, smitten. Love at first sight.”

“Is this how he tells it?” Wesker asked, raising an eyebrow. She waved a hand as if to say sort of , then kept talking.

“So smitten, he walked right into a patch of ensnaring vines and was very nearly strangled. Mom pulled him out, patched him up, and then tried to send him on his way. Obviously, you know how devils are. Nothing comes free, so he insisted he had no choice but to take her to dinner in exchange. So she accepted, if only to get him out of her hair. Which, obviously, didn't work. He just came back.”

They came to a massive fallen tree, which he was forced to gracelessly scramble atop. Before he had the chance to offer her a hand up, she'd tossed her pack up, using her wings to propel herself upwards. She landed gracefully, popping her earring back in and taking her bag back, dropping to the other side while he just stared, dumbfounded.

“Do you just do that any time something is inconvenient for you?” He asked as he scrambled down to follow her. “Rock walls, fallen trees, rivers — do you just fly over them?”

“Why not?” She responded, shrugging. “If I can, and it's easier, then why not?”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

She grinned, shrugging her shoulders. “I bet you're just jealous. Gotta climb everything, no night flights, no feeling the wind through your hair…” she hummed, closing her eyes. “Kinda sucks to imagine it.”

He could imagine it. Pitch dark, clear and moonless. It sounded nice, soaring through stars with nothing but his company.

Except, no, with the thought in his mind, she was there, wings glimmering with each movement.

He scowled, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

Meg sighed, shaking her head. “You just don't know what you're missing.”

He didn't respond to that, instead moving to take the lead once again.

“Is that how your father won her over?” He asked. “Flaunting his wings?”

“No,” she said. “Though I'm sure the romantic night flights helped. He fought a god.”

“Did he, now?” Wesker asked, glancing back at her, slowing his pace.

“And won,” Meg added. “He fought Silvanus for her soul.”

“You didn't tell me that part yet,” he said. “Didn't we have a deal, Meg Thomas?”

She shrugged, trying to hide the shiver at the way he said her name. “Didn’t get that far. Do you want it in song form?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, grimacing. “I can only take so much bardic noise before I claw my ears off.”

She snickered. “Good, because I don't think I can do that with a straight face. My father could, but I can't.”

“Your father, the devil bard?”

“Suspected bard,” she replied. Then frowned. “Though, maybe the song contracts should be proof enough that he is . When I get home, I should ask.”

Not if, when . She was more convinced that he’d be able to turn his back on his patron than he was.

“Sounds like a bard to me,” he said in response. “You said he writes contracts in song form?”

“A song is memorable and simple,” she said. “Hard to forget when it’s constantly ringing in your ear and all that. So long as someone is alive to hear it, then your contract cannot possibly be forgotten.”

“Interesting,” Wesker responded. If he knew more of devils, perhaps he would have been able to determine exactly which one it was that was her father. Unfortunately, his knowledge was rather limited.

He was finding his knowledge on many things to be rather limited these days.

“Are you ever going to tell me how exactly he fought a god, Meg Thomas?” He asked instead. “Or are you going to warp our deal to keep that from me?”

“Why? You planning to fight one yourself?” She retorted, grinning. “I wouldn’t object if you decided to fight one for little old me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he retorted. “I’m just curious.”

“No ambitions of godhood?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. Then, shrugging, she said, “I guess there’s no reason not to tell you. It’s a famous ballad in the Hells anyways. I’m willing to bet there’s a bard or two out there who’s heard it too.

“My parents had been courting for a while when Silvanus came to my mother, Ingrid, offering her all the power he could bestow upon a mortal, in exchange for her eternal pledge. Ingrid, knowing how volatile the curse could be, and having seen how it had taken both her parents, and their parents before, refused him. And he was angered. So he swore to her that her soul would suffer in his hands for eternity once she was returned to him. And my father had heard all this from a nearby hiding place. He’d been planning to surprise Ingrid, only to hear of her curse for the first time from the god himself. So he confronted her, asking for the knowledge of her curse, and asking that she make a deal with him to save her soul from the clutches of an angry god. But she couldn’t — because her soul wasn’t her own to give.”

“How does a god hold a soul?” Wesker asked, frowning. “Without any prior contract, no one should be able to.”

“You’d think so,” she said, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Except that’s part of how a patron god bestows power. Or if you’re, you know, created as a vessel of divine power. Which is what all of us technically are. My bloodline, I mean. We’re considered vessels of godly power. It makes us incredibly powerful in Silvanus’s domain, until we fizzle out and…” she mimed dying, shrugging her shoulders as she did so. “You know, that’s probably what you are too. Some kind of vessel of divine power. Must be how your Lord Spencer gives you your paladin powers or whatever.”

The thought made him go still. Then, he shook it off.

“I was tempered by the power granted to me,” he said. “Not created from it. You may be the result of god-like power, but I am not.”

She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” he retorted.

“Forget it,” she said. “It’s not important how he had her soul, just that he did. And my father, being both a devil and probably a bard, had this unfortunate combination of theatrical dramatics and the power to ensure the most dramatic outcome. And he was head over heels for my mother, so he thought, what was the most sweepingly romantic move he could make to woo her, while also being the most dramatic story to tell after the fact? Winning her soul from a god. So he sent out every adventurer who owed him a debt to scour the world for sightings of the god Silvanus and ways to trap him on the mortal plane long enough to make a deal for Ingrid’s soul. It took him three years to find the god. When he did, he disguised himself with magic as Ingrid, and waited just at the edge of her grove until the god made an appearance, attempting to sway her once again to pledge to him. He heard the god out before he revealed himself, and challenged him. And gods are hard-pressed to refuse a challenge, so he was forced to accept. Winner take all — should the god lose, Ingrid’s soul would be forfeit to the devil. Should he win, the devil would disappear, and Ingrid would be his for the taking.”

Meg paused, then added, “She wasn’t happy when she found out. Ripped him a new one. She might have killed him if he’d lost.”

“But he didn’t.”

She shook her head. “No. My father’s skills are practically unmatched.”

“In dueling?”

“No,” Meg smiled slightly. “Lanceboard. He challenged the god to a game of lanceboard.”

“So he outsmarted a god?” Wesker raised an eyebrow.

“He did,” she confirmed. “Forced his hand, tricked him, and won. Silvanus was forced into a deal, signing Ingrid Thomas’s soul over to the devil. He returned to the Hells, victorious, and made a contract with her to return her soul to her.”

“A devil who gave up a soul?”

She shrugged. “It would be reprehensible of him to marry someone who couldn’t refuse him. He waited until she’d fulfilled her contract to ask.”

“How long did that take?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. “Probably at least a few decades. It was an almost impossible task. He challenged her to create a plant that could thrive in Avernus. He figured it was something a powerful druid like herself could do. My home is the only place in the nine Hells you can see something green.”

He shook his head, scoffing lightly. “And you let all that power go to waste when you reject it.”

“It’s not going to waste,” she replied. “I don’t want it. I don’t need it. And I want nothing to do with the god who cursed my family. Refusing his power is just another way to deny him, and it’ll give me more time before he finds me. You can’t blame me for trying to outrun a curse for a little longer.”

“No,” he admitted. “I cannot.”

Both were quiet for some time, walking through the forest.

They made camp that night by a river. Meg flicked knives into the water while he tried to start a fire, coming back with fish the size of his forearm and water spattered across her leathers.

“Hey, how’s your shoulder?” She asked. He rolled it, then shrugged, feeling no pain.

Before he could ask why, she’d dropped to the ground beside him, her head hitting his shoulder in a manner that would have hurt, had he still been injured.

He should have pushed her away as she pressed against him, should have tried to tie her to a tree or something .

He definitely shouldn’t have moved so his arm was around her.

If it weren’t for the smell of burning fish, he might have done worse, lurching upright to pull their dinner from the fire before it was any more charred.

Both ate in silence — on opposite sides of the campfire. He was desperate as he tried to put distance between them; to stop this from escalating any further.

They were two days from Waterdeep. Two days from him (most likely) never seeing her again. Two days from all this being over for good.

He needed to keep his wits about him; needed to resist the urge to throw her to the ground like an animal.

It didn’t help every time she looked his way and flashed him a teasing grin, almost as though she knew exactly what he was thinking when he looked back at her. Could devils read minds? Could she detect his thoughts whenever he wondered how her horns would feel in his hands?

He hoped not.

Or maybe he did.

It was hard to tell.

He closed his eyes, looking away. Behind closed eyes, he could still see her, lit by the fire, outshining even the brightest stars.

Gods, he was fucked , plagued by her no matter what he did.

When he opened his eyes, she’d moved, now perched directly in front of him, one knee between his own.

He exhaled shakily, forcing himself not to move a muscle, unable to convince himself he’d be able to pull away.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked quietly. The fire was behind her like a halo around her fiery hair. “It looked like it hurt.”

“You,” he said, unable to say anything else. There was nothing else to say. Nothing he could lie about, no way to cover for it. He’d accepted that he was damned because of her. No way to refute that now.

Her lips parted slightly, brows furrowing. “Me.”

“You should step away, Meg Thomas,” he said, quietly. “Don’t start anything.”

Don’t let me start anything.

“I don’t want to,” she replied. “Is that so wrong?”

Yes .

“No.”

Her wings twitched, her eyes dropping to his lips. “Tell me I’m imagining things.”

He should say yes. He should push her away. Spare them both. He was a damn good liar, so why, now, did that fail him?

He couldn’t resist her.

He couldn’t say a damn word in response as her hand traced his jaw, nails scratching lightly against stubble.

He caught her wrist, holding her in place for a moment before tugging her into him, falling backwards as he crushed his mouth to her own. Hardly a moment to register how soft she was against him, how right she was. Her skin was hot, teeth sharp as she nipped at him, his tongue tracing the shape of her hot mouth. Her hips atop him, one hand in his hair while the other was still pinned in his grasp. He took his time before pulling away to almost gasp for breath, heart thundering in his chest.

Barely a moment passed before his mouth was back on hers, tongues tangling and teeth clashing as he nipped at her lips, at her jaw, at her ear. He could feel her tail thrashing in the excitement, wings twitching. He almost grabbed her by the horns, flipping their positions right then and there.

He tugged on one braid before he pulled away, pupils blown, and she would have grabbed him and pulled him back right then and there if it weren’t for the ragged breath and quiet, “No.”

“Okay,” she said, pulling away. She settled back on her heels while he sat up, disheveled and with pine needles in his hair.

He closed his eyes, as though being unable to see her would be enough to resist her magnetic pull.

“We can’t.”

I want to.

“We can’t,” she repeated, with even less conviction than he had. “I want to.”

He very nearly echoed the statement, eyes dark and hungry. Gods, did he want to.

It took everything in him not to. The last vestiges of his resistance were crumbling like centuries old pillars. One stray gust could be enough to sway them and erase any trace that they’d ever been there.

He was weak for her. Dangerously close to giving in then and there, horns in his hands pinning her to the forest floor.

If he told himself enough times that he didn’t want to, would he be able to convince himself?

No.

He was too far gone for that.

“It’s late,” he said, even though the sun had hardly disappeared below the horizon. A flimsy excuse.

He didn’t have the strength for anything better.

Chapter 5: Douse the Flame of Hope

Summary:

In which Megbert picked the wrong day to arrive in Waterdeep and things happen. And by things I mean sex. They fuck in this one.

Waterdeep was a busy city. The Crown of the North, and not without reason. The city had thrived since the addition of the port and the arcane waypoints that enabled near-instantaneous travel between locations.

It seemed far busier than it had any business to, he thought, as they wound between crowds towards the waypoint. His grip on her arm wasn’t as tight, just secure enough not to lose her.

Her wings had been glamoured away, which likely was for the best. Too many people who might have gawked. Too many children rushing about who would have bumped and injured without realizing. A wagon wheel very nearly went over his foot on the way in, so who knew how much worse abuse wings would inadvertently receive.

“What’s going on?” She called over the sound of a small band on a corner merrily playing music. A few people were dancing nearby, giddy laughter carrying through the bustle of the crowds.

“I have no clue!” He shouted back, tugging her closer. “It’s not usually this busy.”

“It’s the Revel!” A stranger shouted at the pair of them as they went by.

“What in the Hells is the Revel?” Meg murmured, glancing after the disappearing dwarf, but received no answer.

Wesker continued to tug them through the crowd until they reached the waypoint, tapping the shoulder of the sorcerer working the portal. “How much to pass? Outgoing to the Gate?”

“Can’t today,” the dragonborn responded. “Closed for incoming to the Revel.”

“What’s the Revel?” Meg asked, eyes brightening. “We’re not from here.”

“Grand Revel?” The dragonborn’s eyes narrowed, frowning. “It’s the biggest holiday of the year, people travel from all over. Where are you from?”

“Outlands,” Wesker lied. “We’re heading to the Gate to find work.”

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” the dragonborn replied. “Enjoy the festival, try not to spend all your coin if you can. Watch out for pickpockets.”

His lips curled in frustration.

“Thank you,” Meg said, smiling. “But, uh, what’s the festival for?”

The sorcerer shrugged. “Hell if I know. Big ass party for love and shit at this point. Biggest event of the season, like I said.”

Meg dragged Wesker away before he could pick a fight with the sorcerer. “Might as well look around? Enjoy the festival? It’s my first.”

Her eyes were pleading, eager to explore. He should say no, drag her back and threaten the little sorcerer into letting them through. Blade or gold would work, surely.

And yet, he relented as she dragged him into the crowds, eagerly looking around the streets, gawking at the displays of magical items (cheap parlor tricks sold at absurd prices) on the streets and the tapestries on display. The sound of music was loud in his ears, the bustle of the crowd only adding to the noise. He’d have a headache before the night was through, he was certain.

Meg seemed excited by everything. When she said she’d never been to a festival on the mortal plane, she clearly hadn’t been lying.

In the bustle of the crowd, he lost his grip on her.

“Meg?” He called, peering over heads to look for the woman’s horns. She’d practically vanished until he managed to catch a glimpse of crimson braids, a snatch of her laughter as she joined some of the revelers in a dance circle forming at one of the courtyards.

He watched from the edges as she danced with complete strangers, arms crossed. Her face glowed with her enthusiasm, feet flying across the stones gracefully.

She caught sight of him, lighting up and waving for her to join him.

He shook his head. She frowned, but then was quickly caught up in a new song starting.

Someone bumped him in the crowd. He stumbled forward, right into someone dancing, and was unable to say a word before he was dragged into the circle, passed from hand to hand.

He was less than pleased with it as he was tossed from partner to partner, the loud noise and the bright sun disorienting.

Albert Wesker did not dance, especially not in rowdy, impromptu dance circles in the middle of town during a festival of debauchery . Quickly enough, he found his hands in Meg’s.

She lit up. “Changed your mind?”

“Hardly,” he drawled, though he was loath to let her go, casually guiding them both from the center of the circle to the edges, and then back into the crowds as the song came to an end.

This time, he kept his fingers interlaced with her own so she couldn’t disappear again.

It wasn’t long before something else caught her attention and she dragged him away, gawking up at the massive stained glass murals of the school of magic. Every few moments, the colors changed and a new mural was shown, sometimes from stories, sometimes of the passersby below. Statues of the goddess of magic, Mystra, stared down from high above, face shrouded.

“Look, it's us,” she called, pointing to the mural as it changed to depict a devil and a paladin, face lighting up. Hands on his shoulders, wings spread almost as though they were his own. Really, it could have been from some story — an incubus seducing a knight was all too common a tale around the table.

Though the armor was almost unmistakable, and her fiery hair was clear as day.

“So it is,” he agreed. It changed after a bit to depict a devil and a red-haired nymph in the forest.

Meg lit up even more, pointing. “That's my parents! That's them!”

He took a second look, then back to her. “Are you sure? Isn't that from a ballad?”

“The ballad about them ,” she said, as though it was obvious. “You think I wouldn't know my own parents when I see them?”

“I wouldn't,” he replied.

Her expression dropped. Anything she was going to say was drowned out as the mural changed, a pair in the crowd of onlookers excitedly cheering and shouting in Elfish.

“Perhaps we should move on,” he suggested, tugging her away as it changed once again.

Meg perked up after a few more blocks, eagerly dragging him through a market square. It was becoming clear to him that this may have been the first proper market she’d been to.

He almost felt bad, seeing how it was likely it would also be her last.

Perhaps it was some sense of guilt that had him humoring her. Surely, it had to be that, for the first time in his life, he felt guilty; remorse . It couldn't be anything else clouding his judgement as he paid for overpriced magical trinkets and tiny pastries, letting her drag him to pens with tressym kittens and enchanted boat rides (that was where he put his foot down, there was nothing in the Hells that could persuade him to set foot in a tiny pink boat enchanted to go in a loop with romantic bardic tunes playing).

Something in his chest ached when she beamed, and he was too afraid to try to name it.

He'd been forced to drag her away from the booth with the kittens as it got dark, not wanting to be on the streets after sundown. For one, the overall atmosphere of the festival had shifted as the day grew long, and what had been more open and casual in the morning had shifted to a far more intimate setting as night fell.

For another, it was the prime hour for pickpockets and other thieves to run about, and he wasn't fond of losing what little coin he had left, especially if he was to pay for lodgings for the night.

“One room,” he said, setting his coin purse on the counter at the inn. The fourth inn they'd visited that day.

“Lucky you,” the elderly woman drawled. “Can't imagine this is your first stop of the evening?”

“Is there a room available or not?” He responded, trying to keep himself in check.

“Just the one, that's why you're lucky,” she replied, grabbing a key from beneath the counter. “One hundred per night. Bathing water included. ‘Fraid dinner service isn't included tonight, but there's hot breakfast in the morning.”

“Shouldn't it be less, then?” Meg asked, eyes wide and smile gentle. “Is it really fair to pay full price for partial service?”

The woman seemed to contemplate for a moment before caving. “Fine. Seventy-five for tonight. Only because you seem like such a nice couple.”

Meg beamed, snatching the purse and counting out coin while Wesker reeled, looking between the pair.

“Did you charm her?” He hissed the moment they were down the hall.

“Of course not,” Meg retorted. “I just asked very nicely. You were standing there the whole time.”

“No, you did something,” he retorted. “You were smiling and looking at her funny.”

“Just because you're charmed by me doesn't mean everyone is,” she retorted.

He almost spluttered, lost for words.

“You do not charm me,” he finally said, gaze fixed on the door as he fumbled to unlock it. The lock was old, and the key stubbornly refused to turn in it at first.

“So it I batted my eyes and asked you really nicely, you'd be able to say no to whatever I asked?” She responded, practically purred as she placed her hands on his shoulders, trying to get his attention.

He refused to turn around. “Absolutely.”

A bold-faced lie, and they both knew it. If anything the events of the earlier day had only proven that.

“I'm almost tempted to test that,” she said, fingers winding into his blonde hair. He swore under his breath, finally managing to turn the key in the lock, the door falling open before them.

He shoved her into the room, kicking the door shut behind them both.

She didn't look even slightly apologetic, grinning impishly as she settled back on the edge of the bed.

The room was small. Cramped. One queen-sized bed, a small washtub, a pair of chairs at a tiny table. A few lanterns, unlit.

His eyes darted back to the one bed, his lips almost pulling into a grimace. Not even enough floorspace to justify not sharing.

His resolve wasn't strong enough for this.

He moved to the basin, using his limited magic to summon water and immediately splashing himself in the face, as though it would be enough to clear his mind. The sound of her rustling around the room and pieces of her leathers hitting the floor did not help matters.

“Want me to warm it up?” She asked, leaning over his shoulder and snapping her fingers to conjure a small flame. “Or are you one of those cold water psychopaths?”

“Better for me,” he grumbled, already trying to find a way to make space for his bedroll on the floor. If he moved the table, or if he slept with his legs beneath it, then maybe he’d be able to cram himself into the most uncomfortable position possible so he could lie awake in misery most of the night.

Maybe he should have just slept in the fields outside the city. He’d be 75 gold richer and bereft of such troubles.

He sighed, glancing out the window into the still-revelling crowds outside. Perhaps not bereft of troubles. Just…troubled in the open air.

Was it a curse? That anyone caught in his orbit would be taken from him? To love, only to lose?

When had he admitted it was anything more than physical?

When had he admitted it would hurt to let her go?

“You tried so hard to run at first,” he said, quietly. Almost whispered. “And you still haven't. Why?”

“Maybe I just don't want to leave you,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe I’m committed to seeing how this—” she waved a hand vaguely towards the space between the two of them. “—ends.”

Badly.

“Maybe you should still run, while you have the chance,” he replied. “Tomorrow, I’ll be turning you over to Lord Spencer, and you’ll have run out of chances to run.”

“I think I’ll take my chances,” she replied. “If it means I have this moment right now.”

“You’re a fool, Meg Thomas,” he replied, immobile as her hands ran over the edges of his armor, pausing at the clasps before undoing them.

“You could always run,” she replied. “I don’t see you running from me, though.”

Because I couldn’t possibly leave you.

He said nothing, instead catching her hand, and undoing the last of the clasps himself, leaving him only in the light clothing he wore beneath his armor.

After a tense moment, he tugged his tunic off. Meg’s fingers traced his jawline as she slowly leaned up onto her toes. Her lips were whisper-soft against his own, hesitant until he reciprocated.

More than that, the kiss becoming a bruising thing. Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging at the blonde strands while he fumbled blindly to unlace her leathers.

“Let me,” she murmured, pulling from him. He sat on the edge of the bed while she undid the buckles and laces holding her leather armor on her, leaving her in just the dark, lithe clothes she wore beneath her armor, which was just as quickly discarded in favor of joining him.

His hands wound into her hair, braids coming loose, before carefully wandering up to her horns, tracing the shape of them. She made a low sound into another kiss, tongue tangling when he slipped past her parted lips. She retaliated by yanking on his shorter hair, a surprised — but not unpleased — moan slipping almost silently into her own mouth.

Delicate, experimental touches was all they were at first, hands carefully slipping down flanks and tracing across planes. His hands traced the juncture of her wings and her back, her eyes fluttering shut and a pleased hum escaping her.

He did it again, with a little more force, nails scratching lightly at the skin, earning a full-body shiver, eyes flicking open as her pupils dilated.

Her lips latched onto his neck, teeth slight pinpricks of pain as she nipped at the skin, perhaps in retaliation. He busied himself with finally running his hands along her wings, finding they were velvet-soft beneath his fingers.

They seemed sensitive beneath his touch, considering the way she shivered and almost moaned as he worked his way along the ridges of them, her lips against his skin disappearing as he continued, hot breath coming in light pants against him.

Then came the first ghostly touch along his tenting pants. He would have thought it was her, had it not been for the feel of her arms around his neck.

He stopped, eyes narrowing. In a flash, he had grabbed one wrist, bringing it before him in time to watch the minute movements of her hands, confirming his suspicion.

“Stop that,” he chided, flipping them over so he was above her.

“Stop what?” She asked cheekily. Her ghostly construct squeezed at him through his pants, and he almost lost his focus entirely. He fixed her with a stern glare until she rolled her eyes, dismissing the mage hand with a thought.

“You’re no fun,” she muttered.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself before,” he replied, running a finger along the sensitive membrane of her wings, all too pleased by the way she quivered at the touch.

“You’re a smug bastard,” she retorted, one hand hooking in the waistband of his pants. “And a tease. And—”

He cut her off by kissing her. Much better things to do with one’s mouth than complain.

His hand moved from her wing down her body, feather-light touches along her bare skin. His lips traveled a similar path down her jaw, nipping at her neck and collarbone. Her breathing hitched, accelerating as the path he took led him to her breasts, which he lavished with his mouth while his hands moved southwards.

He paused, his eyes locking with her own for a moment.

“Are you going to make me beg?” She asked. Intended to be biting, the way her voice caught in her throat made it anything but.

“That is an idea,” he purred, smirking before he suddenly yanked her towards him, throwing her legs over his shoulders as he did so. She couldn’t help the yelp of surprise that escaped her at the sudden shift, nor the way heat curled as he held her fast, hips angled so she had no purchase on the mattress.

His mouth was absolutely sinful , tongue curling as though he already knew where to poke and prod for maximum effect. Her fingers scrabbled against the sheets, clawing for something to hold onto. He hummed against her, the sound vibrating through her, before she was practically bent in half so he could plant one hand on the bed by her head, allowing her own to reach his shoulders, gripping on for dear life.

She could feel the way he tensed when her nails dug in, scratching at his back, taking the sting with far more pleasure than she would have suspected. If he wasn’t busy going down on her, she would never have known.

Just to experiment, she dug her nails in, and was rewarded with a deep groan from him, his eyes drenched in his hunger when he looked down at her. His lips latched around her clit and her head spun, dizzy with the pleasure of it all.

His free hand ran down the length of her thigh, two fingers sliding across her folds, soaked with her own arousal and his saliva. He was quick to curl them in just right, nailing the bundle of nerves that had her seeing stars.

Between his clever tongue and his practiced hand, she had no hope, only able to clutch onto him as she came, nails leaving red welts in his shoulders.

She gasped out his name with what little breath she had in her lungs, forcing her grip to relax so she wouldn’t break the skin of his back (though she was suspecting he wouldn’t mind it). His eyes seemed so dark in the room, and after a moment or two, her legs were lowered to the bed.

Her fingers wound into his hair, tugging him to her mouth to kiss him. She could taste herself on his tongue, heady and potent. Without another thought, she grabbed him by the shoulders, attempting to flip them over.

He resisted, tensing at first, before relaxing slightly and allowing her to take control, shifting to allow the removal of his pants, stripping him of the last of his clothes as well.

Her hand teased along the length of him, as though deciding just what she wanted to do with him.

She decided, in a moment, that she would simply return the favor.

“Hold on to something,” she teased, slinking down the length of his body. Before he had the chance to say anything about her horrible quip, her mouth was on him. He hadn’t realized how achingly hard he had been until then, his hips jumping and almost causing her to gag.

Meg pulled back to catch her breath, blinking before sinking back down upon him, taking almost his entire cock into her mouth. His hands tightened around her hair and her horns, his breathing becoming ragged as her tongue traced around the head of his cock, before she pulled back once more, bobbing along the length of him. His composure was shattering beneath her, if the way bitten off moans became drawn-out groans of her name was any indicator.

Her hands traced along the lines of him as she worked, nails scraping lightly against skin. His hips jumped underneath her fingers as she traced along his balls, tightening under her ministrations.

It wasn’t until he was tense, almost on the brink of orgasm that she pulled back, flashing him a teasing grin.

His cheeks were flushed, and he was panting, eyes burning with a mixture of frustration from the denial, and hot lust.

Before she could go back down, his grip tightened, tugging her by the horns upwards.

“You’re done,” he gritted out, moving to take control once more.

She didn’t let him, wings spreading to bar him from moving them. He glared up at her, only for her to slide backwards, the tip of his cock rubbing against her slick cunt. She grinned before sinking down on him. It was slow, almost a burning stretch, a punched-out groan escaping him at the sight. She experimentally rolled her hips, groaning at the sensation. Her breasts bounced with her movements, his eyes following them as though hypnotized, hands still tight on her horns.

She tried to set a pace, muscular thighs working to allow her to ride him, but once he’d gained his composure, bucking up into each thrust, she was at a loss. He seemed to hit the back of her with each thrust, the electric rush throwing her off until she was no more in control than she had been when they first fell into bed. His hands moved from her horns to her hips, guiding her as he pounded up into her. 

His thumb found her clit, the additional stimulation making her squeeze pleasantly around him.

It was over all too soon, sweat-laden skin becoming sticky as they were pressed together, the sensation of his cum slowly dripping out of her almost enough to pull them apart, except then his arms around her tightened, as though afraid to let her go.

As though to do so would break the spell, and spell the end of them.

Chapter 6: Rule With an Iron Fist

Summary:

In which Wesker fucks up and Raphael and Ingrid are a power couple.

Notes:

Want some extra angst? Listen to Borislav Slavov's Wash My Dreams Away from the BG3 soundtrack for the first part of this one (up to "At that, he finally took the mug, pouring most of the vile contents down his throat.")

Feel free to switch to Raphael's Final Act afterwards :)

The sun had hardly risen when he woke. He was silent as he dressed, repacked his things, and stepped out to find food. The market had hardly opened.

He’d feared (hoped) that she would disappear as soon as he was gone. He was relieved (devastated) to find she was still there, though now half-dressed, hair half braided.

He waited in the doorway, evading her gaze while she dressed herself. He only looked at her once to wordlessly offer her food as well.

The walk to the arcane gate was somber. Silent. She didn’t protest during the walk to the rune, or as they passed through the portal into the heart of Baldur’s Gate.

The city seemed as though it had grown since he had left. Or maybe it just seemed large after months of small towns and half-empty villages.

He would have thought she’d resist at some point, break free of his hold. It wouldn’t have even been difficult — he couldn’t bring himself to restrain her, and his grasp was loose enough that she could vanish in a crowd before he’d even realize.

He didn’t want to hand her over.

But then they were walking up the path through the gardens to the estate of Lord Spencer, the white front of the mansion towering over them. Beckoning them forward, and she was still there.

The entryway was as he’d left it — grand chandelier dominating the open space, blood-red carpet lining a path through the main hall and up the stairs. On the second floor balcony, overlooking the entryway, was the lord himself.

Spencer looked worse for wear. He’d been old before, wrinkled and hair grey. As it was now, he leaned heavily on an ornate cane that he couldn’t make out the details of from a distance.

The man was ailing. Dying, even.

He almost pitied the man and his failing body. Almost .

The moment they’d passed the threshold, the doors closed. Guards he hadn’t seen before stepped from the shadows, taking Meg from him.

“Come closer,” Spencer rasped, leaning on his cane as he stepped around the balcony, heading for the stairs. “Let me see.”

Wesker glanced one final time at Meg, who was restrained by undead guards, then stepped forward, stopping just at the base of the stairs, and dropping to kneel.

Spencer walked right past him, waving a hand for the ghouls to bring Meg closer to him.

“She looks like a tiefling to me,” the man muttered, peering at her. She pulled away from him as he glanced at her. “But the horns, oh, the horns are the same, and you—you smell just the same.”

Meg made a face. “First of all, ew, secondly, I have no clue what you’re going on about.”

Spencer cackled as he stepped away. “Oh, you did well, Albert. Just splendid . Everything I want now, in the palm of my hand. Endless potential, finally paid off.”

“May I ask just what your purpose is with her?” Wesker asked.

Spencer waved a hand. “You needn’t concern yourself with that. Go do whatever it is you do when you’re not here.”

“And what of my oath?” He challenged.

“All in due time,” Spencer retorted, waving a hand to bid his guards follow him as he hobbled past him to the stairs, heading for the basement below. Meg wriggled in the grasp, trying to pull free, flashing a panicked glance at Wesker.

“Very well, my lord,” he said, gaze still firmly on the floor as he rose. Something rose in the back of his throat, foul and bitter.

But he could be patient. Surely, he could be patient.

“Wesker!” Meg called, pleading. “Don’t leave me here!”

He did nothing as she was dragged down the stairs, turning away and walking out of the mansion.

His duties fulfilled, his oath soon to be restored, and he felt more bitter and empty than he had when he’d first lost his divinity.

He stalked along the streets of Baldur’s Gate until he found himself at a tavern — one of the only ones open at this hour — behind the bar. An untouched tankard sat in front of him, the other workers of the establishment wisely keeping their distance.

Tavern. A respectable term for a respectable establishment, neither of which this place was. It was an altar to a goddess of debauchery and sin, and being here was perhaps one of the lowest points he’d sunken to.

He shouldn’t have cared. Why did he care what happened to Meg?

A traitorous voice in his mind whispered that it was because he cared .

At that, he finally took the mug, pouring most of the vile contents down his throat.

Then came the point of a knife in his back. He sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Can’t a man drink in peace?” He drawled. “Cut the purse off someone else, I’m too sober for you to get away with it.”

“Oh, I want nothing to do with your coin purse,” the dwarf drawled. “But my patron is probably eager to know who fills it.”

He sighed at that, dropping a few coins on the counter. “Can I finish my drink?”

“No,” the dwarf said, snapping her fingers. “Come along, or he’ll have both our heads.”

He sighed, dragging his chair out. Once he had enough space, he grabbed it, swinging it at her in improvisation. The dark-haired woman yelped, casting a shield. The stool bounced harmlessly off the magical construct, clattering to the floor.

“Hey! No fighting in my bar!” The bartender shouted. The dwarf fixed him with a smirk — one that reminded him all too much of Meg — and mimicked the bartender.

“Yeah, Albert Wesker, no fighting in the bar .”

His sword was at her throat in a moment. “How do you know my name?”

She seemed unperturbed by the movement, glancing at his sword before looking back up at him. She raised her hand, snapping her fingers, and disappeared in a puff of sulphurous magic.

A moment later, the same stench surrounded him, and he was disoriented, stumbling as his surroundings shifted around him. Red velvet and wood became marble and gold, a round table dominating the center of the room. A fire roared, though he hardly had the chance to take it all in before a hand was around his throat and he was slammed into a far wall, head cracking painfully against the stone.

“Where is my daughter ?” A red-haired woman snarled, eyes flashing golden. She had the same face as Meg, crimson hair loose around her face. Her teeth seemed too large for her mouth, nails lengthening into claws as she repeated the question, voice very nearly a roar.

Out of control, practically blinded by rage, she released him only to fully shift, wildshaping into an owlbear. One paw pressed him into the wall, a screaming cry almost shattering his eardrums.

“Ingrid, my dear, let’s not kill him,” a man purred, footsteps clicking along the tiled floor. He smiled, the expression far from charming. It didn’t reach his eyes, which burned with hellfire fury. “After all, our guest is of no use to us dead.”

“I don’t know who in the hells you are,” Wesker said, reaching for his sword, only to find it was no longer there. He couldn’t reach his magic either, completely cut off.

“Allow me to jog your memory,” the man purred. With a snap and a burning wash of fire, the glamour was dropped, revealing a devil he was only familiar with by virtue of his former travelling companion.

“I’d say I’m at your service, but I’m afraid I rather want you dead,” the devil said, still smiling — though it was clear it was forced. “After all, I don’t tolerate such grievous insult to my person.”

“I haven’t done a damn thing to you,” Wesker said. “I have no clue who you are, so I can only assume you have the wrong person.”

The devil’s eyes narrowed, the druid-turned-owlbear pacing restlessly around the pair snarling. He was shoved bodily down, the owlbear screaming at him once again, one paw pinning him to the floor.

The devil crouched down just enough to look him in the eye, his smile having finally dropped in favor of the displeased scowl that better matched his demeanor, golden eyes burning more ferociously. “I am the devil who will be your doom, Albert Wesker. I am Raphael — lord of the hells, holder of the House of Hope, and father to the woman you have condemned .”

“So you’re the devil who beat a god, then?” He forced out, barely able to breathe beneath the weight of the wildshaped owlbear.

“Is that who sent you?” The devil retorted. “That god ? I would have thought this to be beneath him, but let none say gods are without rock bottom.”

The claws of the owlbear dug in more at the mention of Silvanus. So she must have been Meg’s mother.

Raphael paced in front of him. “Or, perhaps, a little rat has sniffed about to worm his way into my home. For what purpose, I wonder? Surely, surely , the Wesker children were more than satisfactory — unless, of course, you truly are the only one left.”

The devil paused, eyes falling to him. “What was her name? The…fire of glory, I believe? Your dear sister, Alex Wesker. Now, whatever happened to her?”

“Who the hell are you?” Wesker snarled, only now feeling a twinge of panic. He wriggled beneath the owlbear, struggling to gain purchase on anything and stand. He wanted to grab the devil and throttle him until he had a clear answer.

Raphael looked far too pleased as he chuckled, malicious and cruel . “Did you not know? Were you not told? Oh, how rich . Why else would your oath not be restored by now? Did you not know your precious patron is but a mortal man? Did you not wonder why he would put it off until later, when he could benefit from your gifts now?”

He stopped his pointless struggling. It was impossible; it had to be a trick. Devils were known to lie; to deceive. Charlatans who thrived off misfortune, sowing the seeds of chaos with each word.

Raphael crouched before him, patting him on the head mockingly. “Poor Albert Wesker, the product of an infernal bargain gone wrong. How unfortunate for you.”

“Impossible,” he snarled, yanking away from the devil. “You lie.”

“And for what purpose would I lie?” The devil retorted. “What benefit would I find in lies? I speak merely the truth, because that is far better for my cause.”

“And what cause is that?” He snarled. “What cause benefits from you destabilizing my entire life? Assuming what you say even is true—”

“Because you left my daughter to die,” Raphael snarled, flame licking at his skin as he interrupted, hot enough to sear Wesker’s skin. “Because you left her to die, and if she is not returned to me, you will suffer the same fate a thousandfold. You’ll have wished I let Ingrid disembowel you when you entered my house of hope.”

The devil exhaled slowly, the fires of his rage calming. “Ingrid, dear, kindly let our guest up.”

The weight on his back shifted, the owlbear shifting back to the infuriated woman, who grabbed him by the back of the neck, hauling him upright.

“Try anything,” she snarled. “Raphael may think otherwise, but he’s far more lenient than I am. So try anything — I dare you.”

He was escorted through the halls into what looked more like a receiving room, with velvet settees and low tables of what looked to be cherry wood. At the point of a glaive, he was forcibly sat on one, a black box thrust into his hands.

He shouldn’t have lifted the lid, the disturbing content only suitable to fester in his mind alongside the few other acts he felt remorse for.

Settled in a velvet lining was a scarlet braid, clearly Meg’s, wrapped around one of her horns.

He could taste bile on his tongue, the overwhelming urge to throw up becoming stronger the longer he stared at it. The edges were stained with blood, as though she’d struggled as it was cut from her head.

It sickened him. And it was most certainly his fault.

The fact that he hadn’t been eviscerated yet was either a testament to the self-control of the devil and his wife, or proof that they needed him.

Maybe they were going to do the same thing to him that Spencer had done to Meg, and send chunks of him in a box.

What would they send? A finger? A hand? His head?

“Why would you show me this?” He said, carefully setting the box aside, too afraid to damage the contents.

“So you know just what vile vermin you work for,” Raphael replied. “And why you should take the deal I offer you.”

Wesker was speechless for a moment, staring with a mixture of confusion and disdain. “You’re offering me a deal.”

“A contract,” Raphael confirmed. “One that I hope you will take, seeing how it will be to all of our benefits.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You die,” Raphael said. “And much sooner than you would otherwise.”

“It’s not a choice, then, is it?”

“You’re lucky you get one,” Ingrid snapped. “If it were up to me, you’d be a smear on the walkway of the Spencer estate.”

“The deal is simple,” Raphael said, leaning forward. “You retrieve my daughter, and you live. Refuse, and you die.”

“I can’t,” Wesker said. “You think I would have been drowning my sorrows at a bar if I could have done something?”

Raphael laughed at him. “A powerless paladin is no paladin at all, now is he? You have a simple choice, Albert Wesker. If you do this for me, I could restore your oath just like that .” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. “You can even consider this a trial run. After all, I’d be a foolish man to overlook the opportunity to put a Wesker on my payroll.”

Ingrid was looking at him with a look somewhere between anger and shock, as though she couldn’t believe he would have the audacity to even offer such a thing to him.

He was almost in agreement with her.

“You’d restore my oath,” he said, ensuring he had heard correctly. “In exchange for Meg’s safe return?”

“Only if you sign the contract,” Raphael replied. Ingrid clutched her glaive, her glare making it clear that if he rejected it outright, she’d gladly run him through.

“Done,” he said.

Raphael raised an eyebrow. “Just like that? No wheedling, no asking about consequences, nothing?”

“I said I’d sign the contract,” he said. “Meg will be returned to you safely. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ingrid said, poking the devil with the butt of her glaive, glaring at him when he didn’t summon the contract fast enough.

Raphael snapped his fingers, and in a burst of infernal magic, the contract hovered in the air right before him.

He practically skimmed through it, just to ensure he wasn’t signing his soul away in the process.

He signed it quickly. Maybe, three weeks earlier, he would have thought he signed it too quickly.

But three weeks earlier, he hadn’t given a shit what happened to Meg.

With another snap, the contract had disappeared.

“Well, then, since that’s settled,” Raphael drawled, folding his hands. “Ingrid, is there anything I’m forgetting?”

“No,” the woman said, far from happy about what had happened.

“Lovely,” Raphael said, the cold, fake smile back in place. “Then I’ll just send you on your way.”

With a snap of his fingers, the House of Hope disappeared, replaced by the cold marble exterior of the Spencer estate.

Sword in hand, he stormed up the steps, and shoved the doors open.

Notes:

For some context, Ingrid Thomas is kind of an OC created based off what little we know in DBD lore about Meg's mother. In the BG3 AU, as in Fanfic_Fanatic13's His Second Act, Ingrid is the wife/ex-wife of Raphael (we like drama), thus making him Meg's father. It's more fun (and dramatic) for that to be her father, instead of whatever unknown mystery deadbeat she has in DBD canon.

Chapter 7: Merciless

Summary:

In which Spencer gets his just desserts, Wesker gets the fuel for an inevitable existential crisis, and (almost) everyone gets a happy ending

Or do they?

His entrance wasn’t half as dramatic when it was the dead of night and the estate was empty. Not even the undead guards were at the ready, slack at their posts.

He should have just gone straight for the dungeons to comb through them for Meg, but he couldn’t just leave without knowing if the devil had lied.

Which meant he had no choice but to confront Spencer as well.

He didn’t bother with stealth or subtlety, slamming open doors and shouting.

“Spencer!” He shouted, slamming open a door into a parlor. “Where are you?”

He knew he had the man when the undead guards lurched to attention. His restored magic quickly overtook the guards, reducing them to dust.

“Albert? It’s the middle of the night, surely this could have waited until morning?” The man rasped, coughing feebly.

“No,” Wesker replied simply, twirling his sword between his fingers. “Because I’ve come into some interesting information, and I’d like to know how much of it is true.”

“Gossipmongers and rumor mills, all of it,” Spencer retorted.

“You don’t even know what I was to ask about,” Wesker retorted, his calm mask starting to slip. “I wanted to ask about any deals you may have made; any contracts regarding myself.”

Spencer stared for a moment, before he began to laugh. It was a raspy, sickly thing, coming from his aged lungs.

“Have you been speaking with devils, boy?” Spencer finally said, leaning heavily on his cane. “You know they speak merely to deceive and lie.”

“And you do not?” Wesker retorted. “You told me no harm would come to Meg Thomas, and yet, you sent her father her horn in a box.”

“I never said any such thing,” Spencer replied. “You never asked what would become of her. I didn’t think you cared, Albert.”

Wesker let out a slow breath, fixing the man with his icy gaze. “You never said many things, Spencer. Tell me plainly: were Alex and I the result of an infernal bargain? Were we nothing more than weapons?”

“Weapons are meant to be used and discarded when they no longer suit their purpose,” Spencer said, hobbling away, down a hall. Wesker followed, frowning. “The Wesker children were entrusted with endless potential. They were far more than simple weaponry .”

“You told me that I was nothing,” Wesker said, a quiet anger simmering in his words. “That I was unwanted by my own blood. And now you have the gall to tell me that was a lie? That I was created in a hellish pact?”

“You are nothing,” Spencer snapped, turning on him. “Without me, you’d be nothing . You’d have been a wretched urchin, and then a wretched man on the streets, if not dead . I pulled you from squalor ; I forged you into a being of pure power. You were the best of them all, but do not forget that you would be nothing without me.”

“No,” he said, simply.

“What was that?” Spencer retorted. Quick as lightning, a gloved hand was around the old man’s throat, hauling him off the ground. His back was pressed against the second-floor banister, feet kicking uselessly.

“I said, no,” Wesker repeated. “Without myself, Spencer, you would be nothing.”

“I raised you from nothing,” the man rasped, nails clawing at leather. “You should be thankful!”

“Thankful?” Wesker barked out a laugh, his grasp tightening. “Thankful? I should snap your neck and be done with it. You’ve done nothing but use me my entire life.”

“If you kill me, you’ll be powerless!” Spencer gasped out, face turning red. “You’ll be nothing but a lowlife with a sword!”

“Then I guess I’ll need a new patron,” he replied. With one quick movement, he snapped the man’s neck, then dropped him.

Spencer toppled over the banister, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. In the dark, he could see the floor around the old man growing slick with a dark puddle of his blood.

He stared down at the man for a few moments, watching the puddle spread.

He supposed he should retrieve Spencer’s ring of keys and find Meg.

He made his way down to the dungeons, grimacing at the sticky sound with each step down the stairs. He’d accidentally stepped in the pooling blood, and now, it was drying on his boots. He raised his hand, beckoning the sphere of daylight to follow after him, lighting the dungeons.

Most were empty. He could hear the squeal of mice — or perhaps rats, he had no clue which they were — and the clicking of tiny claws across the dungeon floor.

Meg was in the cell at the end, chained to the wall, face bloodied. Most of it looked to have come from where her horn had been cut off.

She lifted her head, hissing at the sudden brightness as he unlocked the door. He waved a hand to dismiss the sphere of light.

“Meg,” he said softly, unlocking first one wrist, then the other. “I’m here. It’s time to leave.”

He took a moment to touch his fingers to her wounds, the warmth of magic rushing from his fingertips to her, injuries healing quickly. 

“You left me,” she said, pulling away as she rubbed her wrists. “You left me to die .”

“I did,” he said. “I shouldn’t have.”

“That’s not an apology,” she retorted, scowling.

“I’m…sorry,” he said, the words strange and bitter in his mouth. “Is that better?”

“No,” she replied, scowling. “Your patron cut off one of my horns and put it in a box to send to my dad . Do you realize just how fucked up that is?”

“I do,” he said.

“You don’t seem surprised,” she said, looking far more wary. “Why did you already know?”

Wesker grimaced, then pulled her to her feet. “If you haven’t noticed, my oath was restored.”

She yanked out of his grip, wings flaring out. “You’re still working for that sick fucker? What in the hells—”

“Spencer is dead,” he interrupted, raising his hands in what he hoped was a nonthreatening gesture. “He’s dead. He won’t lay a hand on you ever again. I ensured it.”

Somehow, that didn’t seem to help matters.

“Please tell me it wasn’t my dad ,” she groaned. “Please, tell me it wasn’t my fucking dad.”

He said nothing.

“I’m going to kill him,” Meg muttered, pushing past him to stomp out of her cell. Then she paused. “I’m going to need you to show me how to get out of here.”

Wesker conjured the sphere of daylight once again, the ball of light following them up the stairs and into the main hall.

Meg paused briefly to stare at the cooling puddle of blood, eyes following it to the source. Then she looked away, walking outside.

The pair had hardly stepped out before the smell of sulfur accosted them, and they were back in the Hells.

“Mom!” Meg lit up, running into the arms of the druid, who had dropped her glaive to embrace her daughter. The resemblance was clear, side by side, though Meg’s more demonic features came from her father.

Speak of the devil, and bid he appear, Wesker thought, as a hand fell on his shoulder.

“Let’s talk,” Raphael said, snapping the pair of them away to an office. The man sat in a grand chair behind a cherry desk, folded his hands, and waited.

Wesker sat down.

“A paladin without patron,” Raphael said. “A sword without a swordsman; a soldier without a master to guide his blade.”

“I am my own master,” he replied, a muscle in his jaw tensing. “What do you want?”

“To offer you a deal, of course,” the devil purred, snapping a contract into being. “I’m a devil with an eye for a deal. And you, Albert Wesker, are quite the commodity. I’d rather have you on my payroll than on someone else’s.”

“No thanks,” Wesker said, lips curling into a scowl. “I won’t be working for anyone any longer.”

Raphael let out a low laugh. “Then what will you do? Wander from place to place as a sword for hire? Mercenary work is beneath you, is it not?”

It was. And, when he thought about it, there wasn’t much else for him to do. Especially considering how many people likely wanted him dead.

“Then what are you offering?” Wesker asked, crossing his arms. “Make it worth my while, devil.”

“You need a patron, do you not?” Raphael asked, raising an eyebrow. “And I am sure I could find use for your talents. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. I call on you as needed, and in exchange, you have the power to do my bidding.”

“That’s it?” He scoffed. “No clauses about my soul belonging to you, even in death? Nothing about eternal suffering?”

“Oh, no, there is that,” Raphael laughed, his eyes growing cold. “Because if you lay a hand on my daughter ever again, I will not hesitate to flay you alive and wear your skin as a bathrobe.”

“I think you should take that matter up with Meg,” Wesker said after a moment. Because his initial reaction had been to say something about how that would warrant Meg keeping her hands to herself, and saying anything along those lines was likely to reduce him to a pile of ash on the floor.

The devil’s eyes narrowed, the expression on his face turning from one of forced politeness to a sour frown.

“Perhaps discuss with her whether she’s comfortable with that,” he said, standing. “Seeing how she may not want to see my face ever again. I’m sure you can find me.”

Wesker almost walked out the door before pausing, realizing he had no way of leaving without aid from the devil, or someone else.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I should sort out the mess I left in my wake,” he said. With a snap of the devil’s fingers, he was back outside the Spencer estate.

 

~~~

 

He was called on again within the week. This time, however, the devil was not alone, his daughter perched on a chair in the office. She looked almost as though their misadventure had never happened, dressed in a draping red dress and golden jewelry.

Almost, except for the stump where a horn had been cut from her head.

Raphael snapped a contract into being in front of him. “After some… consideration , your contract has been revised.”

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at Meg, who just flashed him a mischievous grin.

It was straightforward enough, and he didn’t need much time to consider it.

He’d deliberated the entire week he’d been ensuring the spoils of Spencer’s empire went to ruin.

Along with other things, such as digging up every piece of information he could on the Wesker children.

He truly was the only one left. One out of thirteen. He didn’t even remember any other than Alex, but perhaps that was the nature of the bargain Spencer had made.

He didn’t like the knowledge that he’d been puppetted around his entire existence, nor that he likely would not have existed had it not been for one man’s delusions of grandeur.

He stopped just before signing, the text at the end of the paper giving him pause.

“This says Meg has authority over my contract,” he said, frowning. “Why?”

“Because Meg refuses to allow someone under my authority to shadow her every move,” Raphael replied, his tone one of clear displeasure. “And this was the reasonable compromise we came to.”

He glanced at the woman, who seemed quite pleased with the way things were turning out.

He sighed, then signed the contract. “Very well.”

And that was that.

Notes:

I like to think that they’re on good terms after one nasty sloppy make out that ends with them rolling around in the dirt but I’m probably saving that for the next one :)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The BG3 Megbert AU