Chapter Text
The road to Baldur’s Gate was lined with ash, refuse, and viscera.
But it was also gilded with the golden light of dawn, the brightness of midday, and the sticky heat of summer dusk. The pure fact that they could count again on the certainty that the sun would rise, it would set, and it would rise again - it was magic, a wondrous gift Foxglove did not take for granted anymore.
Foxglove wasn't sure anyone's gratitude for the day could match her own, or Halsin’s for that matter, but during that long, long walk, she saw Astarion tilt his face up to the sun, eyes dropping closed languidly. She watched him seek out the dappled puddles of light on the path, avoiding the shadows not out of fear but out of sheer joy that he could, that his lot had been so reversed, so improved by what was arguably the worst thing that had ever happened to Foxglove and the rest of them.
They had three days on the road to Baldur’s Gate. It was three days of foraged food - summer berries plucked along the path, of mushrooms found in shady, damp spots beneath trees, of wild boar and game roasted slow over fires burning high. It was three days of laughter and shared gazes and hope, Ketheric’s Netherstone a trophy and an ill omen, tucked into Foxglove’s pack. She could hear it at night, humming its strange magic. It had chased her from her own tent more than once, and sent her to seek solace in the soft-edged quiet that was Halsin’s bedroll.
It was three days without a single fight, save the small squadron of githyanki they encountered just as they left Reithwin. But after that - for the remainder of that day and the next two - there was no bloodshed.
Foxglove was itching for a fight by the end of it, and did not know what to make of that.
They came upon Wyrm’s Lookout well-rested, the great expanse of the city like a sprawling diorama, lit with twinkling lights and quiet from afar, belying the true nature of that metropolis.
Foxglove had climbed to the top of the ruined fortress, only recently abandoned by the local Watch outpost and then destroyed by the Absolute’s army. They came upon it just as the sky streaked pink and purple, like hyacinth and wisteria and foxglove, a bouquet of glory and blurry pastels.
If they got up at first light, they’d be in Rivington by noon. Which meant tonight would be their last night outside of Baldur’s Gate, their last night absent true urbanity since Foxglove awoke on the nautiloid.
Needing peace, needing introspection, Foxglove had left her companions to build a fire and cook something for an evening meal, to sort out sleeping spots and patrols for the evening, as she took a moment alone in the watchtower. She’d brought the travel-worn items of her makeshift altar, knowing her growing anxiety and reluctance at the return to Rivington really had nothing to do with the modest suburb and everything to do with the near-century she’d spent in and around one of its buildings in particular.
Open Hand Temple.
Foxglove fingered the worn rope she’d used to bind her hands in the wilderness outside of Rosymorn. She hadn’t used it again since - she’d had no need to, not with her Martyred Father’s own claiming burned onto her wrists. Her daily prayers had continued - and truthfully, the ritual candles she liked to pray with were nearing their end - but the rope had been unused, warmed by neither her skin nor by Ilmater’s god-warmth.
She’d set the idol of Ilmater atop a crate, just as it had been along the road, the crowning piece of the makeshift altar Foxglove had lovingly set up at every campsite along their journey. It was just a few crates stacked together, but it was built with intention, hymns hummed and prayerful words uttered as she made it, and it was taken apart each day they traveled with the same reverence.
The idol itself had grown shinier by the day, that gleaming stripe along the side indicating where Foxglove’s fingers had worn over the length of it, a venerate stroke each time she entered or exited her own tent.
Foxglove set the rope down next to the idol and took the statue into her hands, observing it. It was masterfully cast by a servant of Ilmater at a holy foundry, somewhere else in Faerun, and deposited in her possession when she ascended from a novice to an Adorned.
Ninety-some years later, the same statute bore the physical testament of her piety, of her devotion and dedication to the performative worship demanded of a cleric of Ilmater.
The service beyond that worship, however, was less evident. Foxglove had not returned to Open Hand since the day the High Cleric asked her to leave. They had spoken with a gravelly, gentle tone, their hands worn with age but not with labor, and softly showed her the door. Her fellow clerics stood watching, heads bowed, cowls hiding their expressions.
Foxglove did not know, then, what the others felt. She’d been fresh off a mission trip, still wearing the blood of a bastard who’d threatened one of her clerics.
Brother Clements, she remembered. A dwarf with a heart as compassionate as it was soft, a body strong, used to bear the suffering of others.
There had been sorrow on Clements’ face when his assailant held a knife to his throat. No anger nor fear, just acceptance, just forgiveness for the monster. Nothing like what Foxglove felt, the fire of fury in her belly and pumping through her veins.
She did not regret that kill, nor the four similar ones she’d done before it - they were all made justly in defense of one of her pacifist siblings. It was that fifth one that snapped the High Cleric’s patience with Foxglove, and though their words had remained honey-sweet, Foxglove knew the High Cleric had grown distrustful, afraid of her and what she might do.
Foxglove wondered if that High Cleric remained in their position. She wondered if they - if any of her godly siblings - had received Ilmater’s attention in the months since her departure. It was with discomfort she thought, her inner voice a snarky and weary thing, that she might have been taking up most of His time.
“Care for company?”
Foxglove set her idol of the Crying God down and stepped once, twice, to the edge of the tower platform. Halsin stood at the base, holding a small bundle.
A smile worked its way across her face. She had come up here to seek clarity, and solitude, but Halsin’s presence felt like a threat to neither of those desires.
“Yours, yes,” she called down to him. Halsin broke a pleased smile and began the ascent, that bundle tucked under one arm. Foxglove stepped back from the edge, returning to sit in front of the collection of devotional items she’d brought to the tower.
The wooden planks laid over the watchtower’s platform creaked as Halsin stepped onto it from the ladder below. Foxglove cast a thin smile at him over her shoulder.
“Hello, love,” Halsin murmured, closing the short distance between them. His hand brushed over the top of her head with affection before he lowered himself beside her. “What has captured your attention this evening?”
Foxglove nodded to the idol of Ilmater, the worn rope, the stumps of her ritual candles. If she wasn’t wrapped up with Halsin, or stewing over a fight, her Lord was a reliable third guess. “Faith, I suppose, and what it means to serve a god,” Foxglove said, exhaling heavily. She nodded to his bundle. “What’s that?”
“Ah,” Halsin muttered, unrolling the cloth. Inside, each in specially-made loops, laid a variety of short-bladed knives, chisels, and files, and an uneven hunk of wood. “I whittle, in my spare time. The Curse took up nearly all of my mental and physical energy these past several tendays, and in the decades prior, as well. I haven’t taken these tools out in longer than I care to admit - but, thanks to you,” he smiled at her, “I can now devote my attention elsewhere.”
He surveyed the items in front of Foxglove, laying his tools out in his lap. “Did I interrupt your prayers?”
“No,” Foxglove sighed. “It does look like that, doesn’t it?” She shook her head, casting another glance over the collection of things she’d taken from her altar. Absent were the flashes of Him - the rock a goblin had thrown at Halsin, that lit Ilmater’s fury all those tendays ago; the book that glowed warm with His attention, His name inscribed in it next to the Final Scribe’s - and other things she’d picked up along the way that stuck out in her vision, that reminded her of Him.
“We’re coming up on Rivington,” Foxglove explained. “The Open Hand Temple - my temple - is there. And beyond Rivington, past the fortress, is Baldur’s Gate, and the Bhaalists wait there for my righteous fury,” Foxglove said, teeth worrying her lower lip. “I don’t know how I am supposed to feel.”
Halsin leaned back on his hands, directing his attention outward, past the watchtower’s low walls and to the city waiting for them beyond.
“I suspect there is no right way to feel,” he said eventually. “How are you feeling?”
Foxglove snorted. “Terrified. Anxious. And- and bitter, I think. The temple was my home, and I was evicted from it. It’s been mere months, less than a year, and my life has changed so dramatically - in ways both wondrous and horrifying.”
“Do you wish to return to the temple?” Halsin’s voice was neutral. It was his only tell - that he didn’t want her to know how he felt. Foxglove could not be certain whether he thought it worth her time to return, whether he knew or understood how deep the hurt and pain of the loss of her home ran.
She had been so angry, when it happened.
“When shall I enter the chamber, Revered Elder Deryn?” Foxglove asked, her tone bored and thin. The High Cleric peered at her with pale blue eyes, their face lined with wrinkles.
Quietly, they said, “The chamber is not available for your use today, Sister Foxglove. You will join me in the sanctuary.”
Foxglove blinked. The chamber - a dark, private room adjacent to the High Cleric’s quarters - had been waiting for her the last four times she’d come home from a peace walk. It wasn’t as though she really wanted to go sit in the dark room, to bind her hands and scream internally at her Lord, but it had become custom, and habit, and suddenly diverting from it felt wrong.
“The sanctuary, Revered Elder?”
Deryn gazed at Foxglove with something like sadness, and nodded. “Come, child.”
There was not a bone in Foxglove’s body that would question Deryn, the High Cleric. They had been Foxglove’s leader, a guiding, godly parent, since she and Wisteria set foot in the temple. In the days after Wisteria’s death, it was Deryn who wrapped Foxglove in compassion, who cried and wailed with her before the statue of their Martyred Father in the garden. It was Deryn who sent her on a Plea of Rest, who welcomed her back with gentleness and grace and found mind-numbing, rote physical work for Foxglove to do while she healed.
It was Deryn who saw Foxglove come back to herself and itch for more meaningful service, time back in the field with her godly siblings, and it was Deryn who organized Foxglove as guide and guard for one of the Temple’s peace walks.
Deryn led Foxglove through the catacombs of the Temple, under the kitchen and to a secluded, echoing chamber they called the sanctuary. It was not frequently visited, and whenever Foxglove found herself down here, she found herself mercifully alone.
Deryn gestured to a stone bench, weathered with time despite protection from the elements.
“Sit with me, Sister Foxglove.”
Foxglove obeyed, dropping down to the bench beside her High Cleric. Before them sat a small stone statue of Ilmater, His body broken and crumpled, but His face and hands upturned, reaching for the sky.
Uplifted from Suffering, it was called. An Adorned had carved it some time ago - their name was lost to the ages, but their work remained.
“Brother Clements tells me you killed someone,” Deryn said. Foxglove nodded.
This was not news. This was the fifth such kill Foxglove had made on one of these peace walks, made to defend her godly siblings from death at the hands of evil.
“A man slid a knife against Clements’ throat, and Clements wasn’t going to fight back. I wasn’t going to lose another,” Foxglove said, feeling her own throat constrict with residual fury. Clements’ assailant had been a man with gold teeth, a human with a knife gleaming and sharp, and in his greed he sought to rob Clements and the rest of them of whatever they had.
It was a ridiculous thing to do. Clerics of Ilmater traveled with no money and nothing of value, relying on the goodwill of people and the protection of the Crying God to see them through the trials ahead.
But the man threatened Clements, and Clements was ready to accept this meaningless death, so Foxglove acted.
She would not lose another.
Deryn sighed, weary. “Sister Foxglove, what does the Rack-Broken Lord teach us about inflicting suffering?”
“To not,” Foxglove responded, confused. “To inflict only the suffering which is necessary to serve Him.”
“How do you reconcile your actions with these teachings?”
Foxglove’s breath caught. The High Cleric had made it clear they did not approve of Foxglove’s willingness to harm others, but the Temple had employed her and her sister for decades to do exactly that - to go after the evil that walked to earth, to remove it from this mortal plane and prevent the suffering of thousands more by the killing of the worst individuals.
“I inflicted the suffering needed to continue our mission,” Foxglove argued. “That man sought to kill Clements. To allow that to happen would have been an affront to Our Martyred Father - to let Clements suffer that kind of death.”
“Do you not trust the healing abilities of your siblings, Sister Foxglove?”
Foxglove swallowed hard. She had not considered that - had not considered that her godly siblings, most of them healers, would certainly be able to stop Clements from reaching the Fugue Plane before he bled out. Just because she could not heal him, could not heal Wisteria when she needed it, did not mean the others couldn’t.
“Would disarming the man not have saved Clements from harm, Sister Foxglove?”
Foxglove felt her cheeks heat in shame. Her Lord’s fury had overtaken her, as it had every time she killed someone to remove evil from this world. Stopping short of the fatal blow had not occurred to her.
“It might have, Revered Elder. I cannot say for certain.”
“I find myself doubting, Sister Foxglove, whether you have stayed steady on Our Martyred Father’s path,” Deryn said, their voice low. They did not look at her, but Foxglove stared aghast at the High Cleric, mouth falling open in growing horror. “I have prayed on this matter. I will not lie to you, child. He has not provided guidance. In the absence of His word, I must act on my conscience.”
Deryn did not take their eyes off of Uplifted from Suffering.
“I must ask that you leave Open Hand Temple. Your actions are misaligned with the Broken God’s teachings, and your failure to curb them after numerous opportunities-”
“No,” Foxglove whispered, terrified and so beyond herself she couldn’t help but interrupt the High Cleric before her. “I am doing what He has taught me - He empowered me this way, He made me a cleric of war, of violence and force and strength-”
Deryn finally cut a look across to Foxglove, their eyes wet and hard. “My choice is made, Foxglove. I do not relish this, child. I have seen you- I have seen you grow under His teachings, become a woman and a cleric of substantial regard. But you have strayed, and your conduct is an insult to Him.”
Foxglove knew tears should be gathering in her eyes, but all she could feel was anger. The kind of cold, living fury that unfurled in the worst moments of her life, the anger that appeared whenever she thought of Wisteria, of the loss of her sister, of the torturous wrongness of the Bhaalists.
“I have given my life to Him,” Foxglove seethed. “I have given all of my years to this Temple. My blood spilled, my kin lay buried in the yard. This is my home, Deryn.”
Deryn blinked, taken aback by Foxglove’s dropping of their title. But Foxglove had never once been called only her name by the High Cleric - it was always Novice Foxglove, then Sister Foxglove - until now, moments earlier. It was the only way Foxglove felt she could hit back at the High Cleric; disrespect them in turn.
“It is no longer,” Deryn sighed. “I am sorry. The Temple will provide you with a week’s rations. You must vacate by dusk.” The High Cleric rose to their feet, bones creaking. “He commends you for your service, Foxglove, and the Temple hopes you find peace in the next chapter.”
Foxglove trailed her fingers across the brands on her wrist; His claiming, His rejection of everything Deryn had said to her. Ilmater’s warmth comforted her on her first night in Rivington. She’d slept fitfully against a stone wall in an alleyway, comfortable despite her surroundings but disturbed from sleep by the noise, the chatter of the world outside the temple.
Foxglove tilted her head, considering Halsin’s question. Did she wish to return?
“I do not see how I can,” she sighed. “Revered Elder Deryn cast me out.”
Halsin huffed, amused. “Would this Revered Elder Deryn not welcome a favored servant of Ilmater, one who bears His marks?”
“They’re very stubborn,” Foxglove admitted, cracking a smile. “I suspect I would be welcomed after such revelations are made, but truthfully I’m not sure whether I should go back. What do I gain from setting foot there?”
“A good question,” Halsin hummed thoughtfully. He was otherwise quiet, letting Foxglove work through her feelings on the matter.
“I would like to see Wisteria’s grave,” she said quietly, her voice almost inaudible against the wind. “That’s how I spent my final hours at the temple - at her grave. If she is with our Lord in Martyrdom, I suspect she has seen how my life has unfolded since my last visit to her gravesite, but it feels wrong to be so close and to not attend her.” Foxglove cast her eyes over her altar items again. “And I need more candles. The temple provides the best ones.”
“Then let us stop for candles and graveside visits. If you are called to do more there, so be it - but if not, candles in hand, we can depart,” Halsin offered. Foxglove blinked back sudden tears.
Us. We. He was with her - mind, body, spirit, magic - all of the ways she needed him, always. Turning to look at him, Foxglove found Halsin was already focused on her, eyes soft. Leaning over the short distance he had left between them, Foxglove pressed her hand against his face, drawing her lips near to his.
“I thank the gods for you, you know,” she whispered. “My own, and yours, and others. If the result of this terrible chapter is that I met you, it will have been worth it.”
Halsin pressed his lips against Foxglove’s, smiling into the kiss. “Silvanus blessed me when you walked into my life, Foxglove,” he responded, words muttered into her lips.
Foxglove pushed her forehead into Halsin’s, breaking away from the kiss to smile and shake her head once, wonder and joy replacing the anxiety from before.
“You are distracting me from my melancholy,” she tutted, teasing. “I was finally getting settled into my moody anxiety, and here you come, pulling me from it.”
Halsin laughed, bringing one broad hand to the back of her head, fingers toying with the flyaways from her braid.
“I’d apologize, but I try not to make a habit of lying,” he mumbled before pulling her back to his lips. He kissed her softly, slowly, exploring all of the angles he could find without parting her lips any further. “Do you want me to keep distracting you?” he asked, pausing for a moment.
“Gods above, yes,” Foxglove groaned. Halsin let out a short laugh before leaning backwards, pulling Foxglove with him so she laid over him, keeping her away from the hard wooden planks below them.
His hand on her head guided her back into the kiss. His lips were warm and Foxglove was more than happy to let him lead her through it, so thoroughly lost in the sensation of him. Halsin’s hands moved to settle at her waist, over the thin summer tunic she wore, as Foxglove pulled away, hovering over him.
“Would you let me take you here?” he asked, voice rumbling. “Could you be quiet enough?”
Foxglove almost whined at the question. “I would,” she agreed, grinning. Halsin made a noise in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a hum, and Foxglove knew it to be eagerness.
“Whether I could be quiet, I don’t know,” she added. “Was I quiet last time?”
Last time was truly the first time - the evening after they had found victory over Ketheric Thorm. Though Foxglove had found herself in his bedroll the past two nights, chased from her own tent by the humming of Ketheric’s Netherstone, they had done little more than kiss, aware of the closeness of their companions.
“No,” Halsin grinned back at her. “You were not.”
Foxglove laughed. “I suspect that is your fault.”
Halsin did not respond to that, but his grin got somehow wider, more hungry.
“Perhaps if your mouth is busy, you would make less noise,” he whispered to her through his smile, eyes flashing gold. Foxglove’s eyebrows rose, eyes trailing down his body - or what she could see of it, anyway, still holding herself over him. She sat back on her heels, her hips straddling his, and ground herself onto him, feeling the hardening length of his co*ck under her.
He was large - larger than she had expected, but nothing her body could not acclimate to, though Foxglove had her doubts about how much of his length she could fit into her mouth, her throat.
Those doubts did not stop her from wanting to try, though.
“Do you want my mouth on you, Halsin?” Foxglove asked, voice husky and eyes gleaming. “Do you want to see me struggle to take you, eager to pleasure you?”
Halsin’s head thunked back onto the planks. “Oak Father, preserve me,” he breathed. Talking to the sky above and hoping she would hear it, he replied, “Yes, my heart. Yes.”
Foxglove could feel his co*ck pulsing, twitching under the pressure of her hips, still rolling over him, and from the effect of her words and the images she was sure Halsin was dreaming up.
“You told me you would beg for me,” Foxglove whispered, feeling a wicked thread of desire and control she hadn’t known would manifest. But he was here - under her, hers, and willing - and she could not think of a reason not to grasp that desire and run with it.
Halsin groaned, lifting his head back up to meet her eyes.
Desperate, wild, he nodded. “I will. Please, my heart, please. I want to feel your lips around my co*ck, I want to see your beautiful mouth stretch to fit me. Please, I am yours, I will give you anything, everything,” he begged.
Foxglove was surprised how easy it was to pull this out of him, how willing Halsin was to switch from the gentle, self-assured dominance he’d shown her at Last Light. But she did not dwell on that - not when Halsin’s co*ck was still swelling under her, now a hard, tempting rod beneath her.
“How do you want me, Halsin?” Foxglove asked, still rolling her hips, still smiling down at him. “Over you, like this? Do you want to stand and see me kneel in front of you?”
Halsin groaned, long and low. “Whatever will result in your mouth on my co*ck the fastest.”
“Here, then,” Foxglove teased warmly. She finally moved herself off of him, regretting for a moment the loss of the hard press of his co*ck against her core, brushing against the sensitive nerves through her clothing.
The shifting of her clothing against her, the way it stuck to her, wet, pulled a short hum of pleasure from her.
Meeting Halsin’s eyes, her own hooded and hazy, Foxglove smiled sweetly. “I’m already wet for you, Halsin,” she teased, spurred on by the fluttering of his eyelids and the parting of his lips, letting out another delicious sound.
“I change my request,” he panted. “Please, please, bring your sweet puss* to my mouth. Sit on my face, take your pleasure.”
Foxglove almost froze, still getting used to the devotion Halsin bestowed on her, but she managed to smile at him, a reflection of the wolfish grin he so often graced her with.
“Maybe after,” she murmured, still moving down his body, settling on her stomach between his legs. “After I’ve had my fill of you,” she said, trailing her fingertips along the outline of his co*ck through his breeches. Halsin grunted, his hips lifting off the ground in a stuttering thrust.
“Please touch me,” he begged again, hands fisted at his sides as he pulled up onto his elbows to watch Foxglove. She could feel his eyes on her hands, watching as she slowly explored the shape of him through the fabric.
“I will,” Foxglove soothed him. The wetness between her legs, the tugging fire below her stomach; they were only growing as Halsin begged, but she was getting impatient with her own game, and wanted to see how well she could take him.
Deftly unlacing the fastening at the waist of his breeches, Foxglove tugged them down just enough to pull Halsin’s length free.
He was warm in her hands, solid and heavy, and Foxglove nervously wetted her lips.
“You’ll need to help me,” she murmured to him, the bravado from before softening to desire edged with uncertainty. “Tell me what feels good.”
Halsin lifted one hand to rest on the side of Foxglove’s face, still propped up on his elbows. “I’ll guide you, my hear- oh,” Halsin moaned, cutting himself off as Foxglove gripped his co*ck at the base and dragged her tongue along the underside of him, wetting the whole of him. It would be easier to take him, to take more of him that way.
She did it once more, hearing Halsin breathe noisily, eagerly, before she wrapped her tongue around the head of his co*ck and closed her lips around it, her hand still a pressure at the lowest few inches of him.
Foxglove heard Halsin shift to lay back against the ground, his hand still resting on her face. There was no pressure or guidance from that hand, but she reveled in his touch all the same, knowing he could shift and grip her head, could take control of her movements if he desired, if she told him she wanted that.
She was content to explore, for now, the ways she could make him moan. Her tongue swirling around the tip of him, against the sensitive underside of his shaft just below the head. A flat pressure there made his hips jump, his fingers scraping against Foxglove’s cheek as she hummed in delight.
When she pushed her way forward, mouth full and jaw already straining against the girth of him, Halsin cursed. His words were muffled against his other hand, his knuckles pressed into his teeth.
Foxglove doubled her efforts, straining to take more of him - more, and deeper into her throat. She could feel her own spit pooling at the edges of her lips, dripping out to make a mess of him and her face and her hand, still wrapped around the considerable length of him she could not take.
Pushing as far as she was able, a choked cough the signal of her limit, Foxglove pulled back. She let her tongue drag along him as she did, smiling to herself as his legs twitched again, straining to stay still.
“Tell me what you want,” Foxglove said, a strange sort of satisfaction sparking at the way her voice came out rumbling, a raspy tone the direct result of Halsin’s co*ck pressing into her throat. Waiting for his response, Foxglove slid her hand up and down the length of him, a lazy, leisurely stroke.
Halsin pulled his fingers from his mouth, tilting his chin down to look at her. His eyes were blown wide, a faint gold flickering over them. Another curl of desire, of satisfaction - to drive this man beyond the limits of his control would be a fun challenge, Foxglove thought to herself. Gods knew he unlatched whatever sense she had when he touched her, leaving her a needy, desiring puddle.
“Do that again,” he groaned. “As far as you can take me. Keep doing it, gods above, Foxglove.” He watched as Foxglove complied, as she, grinning, returned her lips to the head of his co*ck, tongue flattening, as she worked his length back into her mouth, her throat-
Halsin stiffened under her, his hand on her cheek suddenly pushing her away from him.
“Halsin?” Foxglove asked, moving swiftly to give him space. The gold in his eyes was bright, but not overtaking, and he looked at the sky- no, past it, concentrating on something else.
“There is a fiend in our camp,” Halsin growled, anger shining though. Foxglove sighed, uninterested in hiding her frustration and disappointment. “The one from the Shadowlands, who made a deal with Astarion.”
“f*ck,” Foxglove cursed, pulling herself away from Halsin’s body, from where she wanted most to be. But the moment was lost - as was the peace she sought. “How can you tell?”
“He smells of his home - Avernus, like iron and salt, and the River of Blood.” Halsin’s attention moved sharply from the world beyond to Foxglove, his eyes still gleaming gold. Foxglove froze under his gaze - it wasn’t predatory, but the wild magic of Silvanus’s domain was demanding, and through Halsin, Foxglove could sense its call. “Is he a threat to us, my heart?”
The affectionate pet name was the softness Foxglove needed to relax under the intensity of his stare. It was the assurance that Halsin was in control of himself, not beholden to the instinctual, bestial magic he’d been blessed with.
“In theory, no,” Foxglove said, moving to sit back on her heels. “I suspect he’s here for Astarion, to fulfill his end of the deal.”
Halsin nodded, that gold slowly fading from his eyes. He looked over her, then himself, wincing regretfully at his softening co*ck, still glistening with Foxglove’s saliva. “You need to go entreat with him,” Halsin said, more statement than question.
Reluctantly, Foxglove agreed. “Yes. I’m sorry. But later, after this is sorted and the devil’s gone, I’d like to pick up where we left off,” she murmured. Halsin met her gaze, a wry grin working at his lips.
“As you wish, love.”
-*-
“So kind of you to join us, my dear,” Raphael purred, eyes roving over Foxglove. Next to him, Astarion stood wide-eyed and anxious, a furious expression a poor mask for his nervous desire to know what information Raphael might provide.
She’d done her best to wipe her face of saliva, but she was sure her lips were red. And the wetness that had pooled in the short time she’d spent with Halsin had not gone away; an arguably unfair side effect of arousal left unattended, one the men she knew largely did not have to contend with.
“Raphael,” Foxglove greeted him, guarded. Her voice was still gravelly, despite the healing word Halsin laid on her throat. Fighting back her embarrassment, Foxglove cleared her throat, hoping it wasn’t obvious what the roughness was from.
To no such avail, though. Raphael sniffed in her direction, a wicked light shining in his eyes.
“You were busy, I see. So sorry to pull you away from whatever you welcomed into your bed,” he taunted her. “I’ll return you to it soon enough, little cleric.”
Gritting her teeth, Foxglove crossed her arms over her chest but remained unmoving, unwilling to show how his barbs and teasing flared humiliation in her stomach.
It was normal, and mortal, and fine for her to be intimate. The years of rejecting such contact for fear of the impiety of it still held weight, and despite it all, what she did in her bedroll and in the privacy of whatever space she carved for herself and her lover were exactly that - private. She had no desire to share those details, especially not with the devil before her.
“Are you here for Astarion?” Foxglove asked, smiling gently at her friend. “We’ve been waiting for your visit. As I am sure you know, we killed the orthon.”
Raphael tsked, examining his too-human nails. Foxglove almost preferred him in his fiendish form - this one was too polished and no less unnerving. A monster in its own skin felt safer, somehow, with less of it in hiding.
“Yes. Imagine my surprise when Yurgir appeared at my House of Hope with self-inflicted wounds,” Raphael drawled. “Not exactly what I asked, I’m afraid,” he sighed, overly dramatic. Beside him, Astarion stiffened, real fury and fear building in tandem.
“Ah, ah, remain calm, my toothsome friend,” Raphael smiled indulgently at Astarion. Foxglove almost snarled, his too-sweet tone just another weapon in his arsenal. “The spirit of our deal was met, and I do so want our little cleric to consider my other offer,” he added, cutting a sly look at Foxglove.
She swallowed hard, hoping he would not hinge such generosity on an agreement from her. Foxglove was dead set on not accepting a deal with the devil - not after seeing how Mizora toyed with Wyll, how thoroughly she controlled him.
Astarion bared his teeth. “We delivered the devil to you. We had a deal. Give me what is owed,” he seethed.
Raphael remained unruffled. “Indeed we did. I discovered all there is to know about those grisly scars of yours - and I’m afraid it’s not pretty,” Raphael pouted, his eyes retaining their menacing glint.
Foxglove shot a look across to Astarion, but he was focused on the devil, fingers fidgeting as he waited for Raphael to say more.
“Better to know,” Foxglove said coolly. Raphael, put out by their lack of dramatics, continued on with slightly increased bravado.
“Brace yourself, Astarion. Your future is tied to what I will soon share - it is of great import, a tale of dastardly, heinous deeds done by a cruel, abusive master,” he purred, eyes alighting at Astarion’s subtle flinch at the final words.
Foxglove knew Cazador was a literal piece of sh*t, an abusive lord whom Astarion served, but truthfully, the spawn had not offered up much in the way of explanation or story, and she never pressed. Her relationship with Astarion was strained, and he’d found solace in Wyll, so Foxglove did not feel the need to involve herself.
Maybe she should have. Maybe letting herself stay ignorant of what was clearly an abhorrent, abusive past was a misjudgement and a betrayal of her Lord and His tenets.
Foxglove held in a wince, her resolve hardened. Whatever Astarion learned today, whatever befell him later, Foxglove would do what she could to endure the suffering for him, to remove it from this plane and all others.
Red-brown eyes intent on Astarion’s, Raphael spoke in a low, grand tone. “Carved into that ivory skin of yours is one part - one seventh - of a contract between the Archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master, Cazador Szarr.”
Astarion sucked in a breath, lips thinning.
“The contract states that Cazador will be given knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed,” Raphael continued, a villainous sort of grin overtaking his face. “The Rite of Profane Ascension.”
Foxglove cut in. “This contract has already been resolved? Cazador knows of the ritual?”
“Oh yes,” Raphael murmured. “It promises to be a grand celebration. Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical,” he said, eyebrows drawing together in a vicious sneer. “And it would grant him what every vampire wants - the powers of vampirism and the luxuries and arousals,” he winked salaciously at Foxglove, “of a mortal existence. To walk in the sun,” he said softly, staring at Astarion with renewed glee. “To enjoy food and wine and the warmth of a lover. But it comes at a price, of course. A sacrifice,” Raphael hissed.
Foxglove could tell the devil was reaching his finale, the horrid information he’d tucked away to make the most of this reveal. Bracing herself, readying her magic to steady Astarion, Foxglove pursed her lips and hardened her expression, unwilling to give the devil what he wanted.
“A sacrifice of a number of souls, including all of his spawn. Including one Astarion Ancunin, who simply,” Raphael snapped his fingers, “disappeared one night. Imagine how Cazador felt,” Raphael cooed. “All of that work - all of that time. He’s been preparing for the Rite far longer than you have been alive, spawnling. You are all he requires. I’d dare say he’ll stop at nothing to get you back.”
Raphael was grinning at Astarion like a cat who’d cornered a mouse, who knew his victory was imminent and who wanted nothing more than to draw it out, waiting for the prey to flinch and squirm for an escape that would not succeed.
Astarion looked blankly at Raphael, his hands loose at his sides. Foxglove knew what this was, a frozen response to unfathomable stress. Stepping closer to her friend, Foxglove glared at the devil.
“Anything else?” she asked neutrally. Raphael rolled his eyes.
“Are you always so terse? I hope you show a bit more passion and fervor to your bedmates, little-”
“I am sure you are a busy…man,” Foxglove smiled mildly, cutting him off. “Thank you for this information. We wouldn’t want to keep you,” she said insincerely. She very much wanted this monster to leave.
Raphael sneered at her again, his teeth bared. “Watch your manners, you wretch, or I’ll find it within me to reeducate you along with that useless orthon, Yurgir,” he snarled.
Foxglove said nothing else, delighted to have made her way under his skin. She was feeling combative and fiery, pulled from something she would much rather be doing, and decidedly worried for Astarion.
Astarion, who stuttered a step forward, having regained some sense of time and space.
“What happened to Mol, devil?” Astarion asked, breathing shallowly. Foxglove started - she had not expected him to ask after anyone else, not in these precious moments he had to gain insight and information about the godsdamned ritual scarred into his back. But he had been worried beyond her understanding when Mol was abducted, after they fought off the Absolute’s reconstruction of Marcus and his horde of aberrations.
Raphael blinked in surprise before a slow, teasing smile unfurled.
“The thief-ling, yes,” he laughed lowly. “She is alive and thriving, I must say,” Raphael smiled at Astarion, all teeth. “There’s enough spite in her tiny little heart to power the Steel Watch, I think.”
“What is the Steel Watch?” Foxglove asked, looking between Raphael and Astarion, confused. A delighted expression took over Raphael’s face.
“That’s right - you wouldn’t know, would you? Well,” he said, savoring the power she’d given him by asking a question, by showing interest. “I dare say you’ll find out soon enough. If you wish to find my little warlock, you need look no further than the Guild. Right where a conniving little brat like her belongs,” he said indulgently. Astarion looked mollified, but Foxglove’s concern only grew at the devil’s words.
Warlock.
Mol had made a deal with a very, very powerful fiend - and from the sounds of it, Raphael had no interest in letting her go.
“With that, though, I really must depart. I have business to attend to elsewhere,” Raphael sniffed, picking lint away from the delicately embroidered shoulder of his vest. “I’ll be around, though, my dear. Don’t worry,” he said grimly, before snapping his fingers and evaporating in a cloud of black smoke that smelled of tar and salt.
“What a foul beast,” Foxglove grimaced, turning from the smoke to look at Astarion. In a moment of unguarded emotion, he just looked tired, and something in that expression lit the fire of Foxglove’s compassion.
“My friend,” she said warmly, reaching for the vampire. He watched her hand, and let her put it gently on his arm and guide him to sit nearby. From across camp, some of their friends looked on - Shadowheart sat in the mouth of her own tent, eyes wary. Lae’zel leaned into her training dummy, pulling out a knife wedged so deeply Foxglove wondered if she’d been working it in the entire time the devil had been present. Gale was shooting glances at them while soothing Karlach, who looked ready to chase Raphael into the ether and back to the Hells.
It was Wyll who took long, purposeful strides towards them, almost running across the clearing. A handful of rabbits hung from his bandolier, their blood dripping.
Ignoring his quarry, Wyll knelt before his lover, hands gently cupping the eld’s face.
“Is he gone already?” he asked, chancing a glance back at Foxglove. Foxglove nodded, dropping to sit on the turned log they’d requisitioned as a seat.
From the woods, Jaheira appeared, another two small game animals gripped.
“Ravengard, what in all the Hells are you doing? You scared off-” Jaheira cut herself off, glaring at the dissipating smoke. “You could have just told me there was a devil in the camp before running off. Nobles,” she tutted, striding forward to grab the rabbits from Wyll.
Wyll, to his credit, cast a charming smile at Jaheira. “My apologies, Jaheira. I did not think-”
“Clearly,” she muttered.
“-before running. The devil Raphael is a semi-frequent and unwelcome presence,” he explained. Wyll used one hand to unhook his bandolier, unmoving from his place before Astarion, and held it aloft, waiting for someone to take it from him.
Amused, Foxglove did, passing the strap and the rabbits hanging from it along to Jaheira, who muttered something rude and turned away, but not before casting an assessing glance over both Foxglove and Astarion. Finding them unharmed, she went on her way, disappearing into her own tent with the spoils of the evening’s hunt.
“Are you alright?” Wyll asked, full attention returned to Astarion. The elf was smirking, enjoying the attention Wyll was granting him. Foxglove watched with something like awe as Astarion leaned into Wyll’s hand on his cheek, his own fingers reaching up to trace over the other man’s.
“I’m fine,” Astarion said quietly, with no pretense. “Truly. It’s - it’s not good news,” he swallowed. “But it’s better to know,” he said, referencing Foxglove’s earlier words to Raphael. “He’s not going to stop, darling. He’s already hunting me, and he’s not going to stop. I must take the fight to him,” Astarion said darkly, his fingers clenching around Wyll’s hand.
“Then we will,” Wyll said calmly. “Cazador Szarr is a doomed man. I say it before all the gods, before my own honor,” Wyll vowed. “His days are numbered, and we will be the final thing he sees.”
“We,” Astarion whispered brokenly, and Foxglove felt that tug of sympathy, of understanding.
Halsin had done the same thing to her earlier - seen her fear and the choices before her, and made clear that it was not a road she would walk alone, even if it was only him along with her.
“We,” Wyll smiled, gentle and kind. “Right, Foxglove?” he asked lightly, not even taking his eyes away from Astarion’s face.
“Of course,” Foxglove blinked. “Yes. If that is what you want, Astarion, my might is yours, my magic is yours.”
Astarion leaned forward, blowing out a slow breath as he rested his head on Wyll’s shoulder, hiding from the world.
“Get me out of here before everyone sees me cry,” he hissed to Wyll.
Wyll smothered a grin and murmured sweetly back, “Anything for you.” He stood, drawing Astarion with him. Titling his head at Foxglove, he reported. “Jaheira's on kitchen duty. Watch has been set - Shadowheart, then Lae’zel, then Gale. If you need me, no you do not,” he said smartly, nodding subtly at the pale elf drooping against his side.
Biting her lip, a barely contained grin, Foxglove nodded. Watching as Wyll gently escorted Astarion back to the elf’s tent, grabbing a bottle of wine from outside of it and tightly closing the flap behind them.
-*-
Foxglove saw candles lit inside her own tent and knew Halsin was inside. She certainly hadn’t spent time there today, not since evening fell, and no one else had reason to enter her dwelling. And the druid’s own tent was dark.
Smiling to herself despite the emotional fatigue the last hour had contained, Foxglove slipped through the loosely closed flap of her tent, pulling the fabric taught and secure behind her.
Halsin was waiting for her, shirtless and with his breeches lazily undone, in the low candlelight of her tent. He leaned back against her pack, stretched out on the furs and quilted blankets she kept.
“Gods above and below,” she swore, stopping short. Halsin sent her a devious smile. “How long have you been waiting for me?” she asked, almost laughing, as she drank in the sight of him.
“I waited until the devil left,” Halsin said, voice low. “And then I figured I’d make it easy for you to pick up where we left off,” he said delicately, repeating her request from earlier.
Foxglove checked the tie on the tent flap, desiring nothing more than to forget the world outside in favor of Halsin’s body and the growing heat in her abdomen. Finding it secure, she turned back to him, vision tunneling to just his perfect, broad hand drifting to cup over his co*ck, half-hard and hardly visible through the loose fabric.
Grinning breathlessly, she stopped forward, pulling at the ties on the side of her tunic to loosen it at the chest, hands swiftly pulling it over her head and leaving her top half bare, her bottom half entirely too clothed.
“Nature outdid itself with you,” Halsin said roughly. “Do you desire what we were doing before?”
Kicking off her boots, then toeing off her socks, Foxglove gave Halsin a wide, encouraging smile, finally finding a moment of calmness and finesse against her eagerness to lay her body over his again.
“I do,” she confirmed. “Though the patience I had to tease you - I’m afraid that’s gone,” she breathed a short laugh.
Halsin pressed the heel of his hand into his co*ck, eyes fluttering. “All the better,” he groaned. “I was going to warn you my restraint was thinning, but it seems that is a welcome thought,” he smirked at her. “Come here to me, Foxglove,” he whispered, voice sweet and languid.
Foxglove’s fingers tugged at the laces on her own breeches, undoing the firm knot she’d tied.
“I’m still wet,” she whispered to him, feeling the glide of slickness against her underclothes, now even more evident with the loosening fabric. Halsin’s head dropped back, his hand fully grasping at his prominent bulge.
It was more than a bulge, truly. Foxglove could see the length of him, could almost feel it again in her hands, in her mouth, heavy and warm and so tempting-
Foxglove knelt before her lover, between his spread thighs, and brought her hand to join his. Halsin let out a strangled groan, his throat bobbing and exposed. He lifted his head up, eyes wide and wanting, and smiled lushly at her.
“I want your mouth on me again, my heart. Those first moments of your lips around me are ones I will never forget - I will play them over again, I know I will. So desperate for you. I am, Foxglove, I am,” he muttered, rambling.
Pushing herself backwards to lay on her stomach again, the bedding soft against her skin, Foxglove leaned her head against Halsin’s broad thigh as she carefully pulled his length from his breeches, lips twitching into a smile as she took in the size of him.
It would probably stop surprising her one day, but not yet. He was a wonder to behold - a glorious, tempting wonder, and there was nothing Foxglove wanted more than to lose hours to this.
She wanted her jaw to ache, her voice to scratch. She wanted her own saliva dripping over her chin, down his length and into the dark patch of curls at the base of him. She wanted his hips stuttering below her, Halsin’s fingers gripping her hair in a desperate, feral attempt to push himself deeper, farther into the warmth of her mouth-
Outside, in the camp, Shadowheart screamed.
Shooting up, Foxglove cursed, scrambling to find her tunic. Halsin was a storm of smooth movement behind her, his fingers lacing his breeches once more.
“Go,” Foxglove gasped, nodding at the tent flap. “I’ll follow. Be safe,” she said hastily.
Shadowheart hadn’t decided what to do with herself - whether she could accept Selune’s offer and devote herself to the Moonmaiden, or find another way to regain some kind of power after Shar stole it from her. The Spear of Night still sang for her, but Shadowheart was still relatively weakened.
Foxglove tried not to think about what might be happening out there are she rushed to put her clothes back on. Halsin was already out of the tent, the flap waving still in the breeze he created with his movement. She saw a flash of gold and knew he'd wildshaped.
Lae’zel’s battle cry broke through the tense quiet, and the pained sound of something unfamiliar but human - or humanoid, anyway - followed.
Finally clothed enough to fight, Foxglove shouldered her way out the tent and looked at the scene beyond.
More githyanki. So it was a fight.
But these were different, entirely unarmored assailants, only half of whom carried a weapon. Lae’zel was a furious whirl of movement, her longsword the lethal last image one of the gith witnessed before its head was sliced clean from its body.
Grimacing, without her weapon, Foxglove called on the holy, divine magic that ran through her veins. In the dark of the night, her runes glowed rust-red like a beacon, guiding her path as she sprinted for the line.
