Archive of Our Own

Ichor thinks she will be forever indebted to the party for their help.

The eladrin just wants to get their friends Ireena and Ismark somewhere safe, whether it be Vallaki or Krezk or anywhere else.

(She wishes they could get them out of Barovia. They wish, they wish.)

By some stroke of luck though, they had met the others, who agreed to help. (The others, who don’t know the harsh reality of Barovia, who don’t know about him–)

Ichor’s tried to not get too close to them; they know what happens when they do.

They won’t have it happen again.

Yet, for some reason, all the others seem to do is try and get closer to her.

—

It’s Fla’chel—just Chel, they remind themself—that comes up to them first.

Ichor really isn’t close with her; she’s barely had a one-on-one conversation with the wood elf, but they’re still the first one to confront the eladrin.

They don’t know when the wood elf ended up next to them until they hear her voice: “Do you want a fish?”

Ichor doesn’t want to admit it—so many worse things have scared her—but she startles at the other’s voice. It takes them a second to process their words, yet all she can muster to say is a stuttering, “What?”

Fla’chel—Chel—only seems to radiate patience, as Ichor scans her over for anything out of the ordinary. As always, their ombre green hair sits nicely wrapped in the wood elf’s customary red bandanna. 

The group had stopped by a river for a small moment to look around, and now they’re all doing their own thing—even Ismark and Ireena. Ichor is only sitting in the grass by themself. So, just why is the other elf here?

“Do you want a fish?” Chel only asks again. “Trout noticed you were by yourself.”

Ichor’s still confused, but then she notices the osprey in question nearby as well.

(He looks nothing like them. He’s not watching. It’s okay.)

Then, with a small jolt, they realize they still haven’t answered the other’s question. Ichor shakes her head no; she’s never really that hungry. “It’s okay,” they reassure Chel.

Ichor can tell that Chel still seems suspicious, but she quickly covers it up with the carefree demeanor they’ve seen from her on their travels so far.

“The offer’s always open if you need it!” Chel only confirms, smiling. Her brown eyes crinkle against their light green complexion.

Hesitantly, Ichor smiles back, but it feels more like a grimace, even to themself. She has to keep herself from closing her eyes in embarrassment; they have to get a grip, already. They know what happens when-

Ichor’s line of thought is cut short when Trout suddenly pecks at their knee. She can tell it’s not enough to break skin through their clothes, but it’s still enough to bring them back and focus on the conversation at hand.

They look at the osprey, with a feeling they can’t describe. Trout only stares back, head turning about, looking as guiltless as a bird could be in this situation. Ichor slowly drifts their gaze back to Chel and sees that-

Ichor only sees a fond understanding in Chel’s eyes. Sure, her grin could be seen as amused, but there’s no malice. Ichor knows malice, knows venom-laced smiles and heartless laughter, as he figures out what to do with whoever is next in line, but Chel doesn’t remind Ichor of any of that.

Chel just smiles again. “You should come fishing with us by the river bank,” she says. Trout flutters to one of the bands on the elf’s arm in what seems to be agreement.

As enticing as the idea may be, Ichor still shakes her head.  It doesn’t matter if Chel is genuine; they won’t bother her with their presence.

Ichor tries not to wince at the small disappointment she can see behind Chel’s eyes. She’s good at covering it, but Ichor can still tell it’s there. 

“That’s okay,” the wood elf assures them as she stands—probably preparing to head to the river.

She carefully readjusts the bandanna in her hair with her free hand, and Ichor notes that it’s with a sort of confidence that one could only get with lots of practice of doing so one-armed.

Before leaving, though, the wood elf says, “You’re always free to join us, you know. We can’t collect everyone else’s taxes without you.”

And the elf and her osprey just leave, as if they haven’t just gone against everything Ichor is used to in Barovia.

There’s no real companionship between anyone here; one can put their trust in someone else but it’ll always be fickle.

There’s so much fear in every corner of Barovia, but Chel doesn’t seem to be affected by any of it.

They’re stronger than Ichor originally credited them to be, strong enough to start to break through the walls she’s tried so hard, been so careful, to put up.

(The cracks that have started to form in them worry them less than they should.)

—

Ichor ignores it. They’re okay with being the odd one out of the group. That just means she’s less likely to hurt anyone.

It’s fine. She’s fine.

It’s not like she starts to refrain from even sticking with Ismark and Ireena, the two she should trust the most in the group.

Ichor knows them the best out of everyone here, but, still, they don’t know Ichor.

They barely know of the life Ichor was forced to build for themself here, much less the one they had before Barovia, before him, and before the fog.

So, realistically, it makes sense that they’re okay with her drifting away from them as well, but a tiny, tiny, part of the eladrin just wants them to care.

In hindsight, they might have been too obvious without meaning to, though, because it’s Alyyra who comes up to them next.

Ichor thinks they trust the bard—as much as you can trust someone in Barovia, that is. They recognize that she’s observant and respect her for it.

They‘re fairly certain that she’ll keep the group safe from Barovia and the dangers that will come with staying here when this is all over and Ichor isn’t there to help.

Still, Ichor has slowly grown to appreciate Alyyra’s sense of humor and the way she seems to easily switch from being reasonable to lighthearted. The eladrin just hopes Barovia doesn’t snuff that out, with the way it drains its people.

That doesn’t mean the eladrin is ignorant of the struggles the half-elf, or even the rest of the party, seems to have been through, either. 

They keep this in mind when Alyyra pulls them aside during their trek to Vallaki, drifting towards the back of the group, where Ichor usually spends their time.

They’re fully expecting to be interrogated by the half-elf, poked and prodded at for hiding and lying to them when they could have–

“How have you been, Ichor?”

…What?

Something about her confusion must be visible because Alyyra lets out a small laugh–not unkind either, which makes no sense–before smiling, face pleasantly wrinkling against their tanned skin.

“I want to make sure you’re doing alright. I’m sure you didn’t expect so many of us to be helping your friends on their journey.”

All Ichor can manage is a small shake of their head. She really hadn’t.

“Well, we’re here to help you too, okay? We would've gotten sidetracked or lost ages ago, if you weren’t here. It’s the least we can do in return.”

They’d.. help Ichor?

They don’t need to do that. They shouldn’t need to do that. They shouldn’t do that at all.

Ichor just shakes her head again. The others don’t need to thank her or whatever Alyyra is getting at; the eladrin just wants to make sure the Kolyanoviches get to where they need to be, so they can go back to their os’nys, and if this group helps her do that, then they’ll do whatever they can to make it happen.

If they help the group along the way, that’s just her doing what she would’ve wanted. What she would’ve done.

“Still, we’re here for you. Just…” the half-elf says, trailing off.

Ichor glances back at her in confusion, catching her expression. She still wears her kind smile, insistent on proving her point, but Ichor can tell.

There’s something else building behind her eyes.

Her usual calm, silver eyes, contrasted by her dark hair and skin, are now a stormy grey, dark with worry and paranoia.

Somehow, Ichor can tell it’s not about them, although some of it is likely to be, however much they dislike the notion.

“Are you okay?” she finds herself asking.

It must be sudden to hear, since Ichor knows how quiet they usually are, as Alyyra startles at the eladrin’s words.

“Um.. Yes?” she says, uncertain.

Ichor holds her gaze; they know they don’t have to say anything further as the two walk.

Slowly, Alyyra’s resolve breaks as she turns away from Ichor. “Okay, yes, I’m fine, I’m just-”

Ichor waits.

“I’m just worried,” Alyyra admits softly. “About what happened back at the camp, with everything Madame Eva said.”

Slowly, the eladrin nods. She remembers. (How couldn’t they when that woman had-)

The eladrin had been next to Alyyra during the whole ordeal. And, while they hate to admit it, they still felt a pang in their heart when they recalled the exchanged words between the half-elf and the woman.

“I want to know if I killed them.”

“…I cannot answer your question; I figured you’d rather have the hope than none at all.”

Ichor hurts at the mere memory because she knows what it’s like.

It’s why she had reached out to the half-elf at the time, holding their hand out in comfort—something that they had made known they disliked without specific circumstances.

(Looking back, they didn’t seem to care in the moment. They just wanted Alyyra to be okay.

Maybe, that scares her more than Madame Eva knowing their secrets ever would.)

Ichor can only trust that Alyyra’s hope pulls through this time; it feels different. It feels like it will.

(And yet, if worst comes to worst, Ichor will be there for her. They admit they don’t think they’d be able to convince themself to do otherwise.)

“I think,” the eladrin starts. “I think they’re okay.”

They can see the frustration building in Alyyra’s eyes, so she quickly continues.

“She said they were fine, didn’t she? And- And, as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think she’d lie so blatantly to us like that.”

(Oh, how they wish what she said was a lie. Because it had to have been.

And if it wasn’t?

The last part of the eladrin’s own resolve might be broken right then and there.)

“Remember what I said?” Ichor asks.

(A whisper. An admission. A comfort.)

Brows pinched in a sad longing—one so familiar, too familiar—Alyyra nods.

“Then trust me when I say this is different.” Ichor finally faces away from the half-elf.

“Your brothers, while missing, are out there somewhere, Alyyra. You’ll find them.”

The eladrin notices a small feeling of discomfort in their throat; they don’t think they’ve spoken this much without waiting for a response for much too long.

Alyyra is quiet for a moment, taking in Ichor’s words. Then, she walks ahead slightly to be in the eladrin’s field of vision again.

“Hold up,” she says, holding up a finger at the eladrin while walking backward. “Hang on! I was supposed to talk to you about how you felt; how did this happen?!?”

Ichor can’t help it—the incredulity in Alyyra’s voice forces a small giggle to bubble up from their already sore throat. (First, a smile earlier at the camp, but now a giggle? Just what has gotten into them?)

Somehow, she doesn’t break into coughs. It still hurts, but the smile mixed with Alyyra’s disbelieving expression makes Ichor feel like it’s worth it.

 “You have a nice laugh,” the half-elf comments softly, finally lowering her hand and walking in tandem with Ichor once more. The eladrin stares at her, wide-eyed, before tearing away her gaze.

They have a moment of silence—it’s nice. Ichor can tell Alyyra wants to ask more—to take care of them, even—but they’re also comfortable in the quiet.

They like it.

“I did mean what I said before, Ichor,” Alyyra eventually says, breaking the silence. 

Ichor looks back at her—she’s retying the bright red ribbon in her hair, popping out against the black that looks almost dark blue in the light (not sunlight, never sunlight, not here, not ever again—).

Alyyra meets her gaze again. The storm in her eyes has quieted; Ichor can see that there’s still the risk of one, but it’s kept away for now, and it seems to be good enough for her.

It’s good enough for Ichor, too, then.

“I didn’t catch what Madame Eva said to you, but I do know you weren’t happy with it either. You’re going to be okay, too, alright?”

The half-elf speaks with such confidence that Ichor doesn’t know if they can do anything but nod.

Alyyra nods back at her. “Good,” she says. Her gaze drifts to the flower still tucked in their hair, smiling.

(Ichor is momentarily reminded of the way their heart seemed to stop in its tracks at the sight of— Of the thing she saw at the gallows.

She wonders if they’ll ever get an answer as to why they saw what they did—was it because of what almost was, all those years ago?

But then, they remember how the half-elf walking beside them now immediately jumped into action to calm things down, to help.

They’re reminded of deep breaths, an offer of held hands, and a glowing flower.

Ichor has always been scared when it matters, but for once the fear doesn’t overwhelm them.

It’s a nice feeling.

They hold it close to their heart, vowing to keep it with them, long after the others have left her.)

“I’ll be up ahead if you need me, okay?” Alyyra says finally, walking up ahead to the others, but now notably keeping the distance between them and Ichor in mind.

The eladrin looks at the back of half-elf who’s a walking reminder of the one person she might be able to say she trusts—she calls home—and knows the party is in good hands.

The hands of someone who will be able to handle their own needs, without drowning in those of the others.

Ichor wonders what that’s like.

They won’t stick around long enough to know, they suppose.

—

Ichor’s starting to think that the others are planning this because there’s no way it has happened again.

Well, there is, but that doesn’t mean Ichor wants there to be. They’re not supposed to get close to the others, especially since it’ll be her that they blame once they realize what the devil—and though Ichor knows what he really is, they find the name too fitting—has done.

They just couldn’t handle it. They had woken up from visions of him plaguing their mind, heart racing from old memories of adrenaline running through their veins, and they could have sworn they saw her wandering in the woods nearby, and even though it wasn’t—though because Ichor is so scared of if it’s truly her—she knew they had to follow.

She didn’t care–they did, they did–if she was leaving the party behind. They just needed to get away.

(They had left in such a rush that they hadn’t noticed that there was someone else missing from their sleeping group.)

Ichor has always been careful not to make noise in the woods. They had been too young for it to be taught to them officially, but she’d always teach her whatever she’d learned, so they still knew.

So, while they run and run further into the woods, they’re still careful not to step on any stray branches or leaves, half in subconscious honor of her lessons and half to keep themself safe.

And though still looking for her (find her, find her, they can’t lose her again), Ichor could feel themself relax, eventually slowing down under the small bits of moonlight peeking through the leaves of the trees.

She ignores the poor connotations that they could associate with it now. All they let themself think of is running through forests just like these with her.

And maybe that’s why they end up seeing her.

They turn around a corner, and it was as if the trees parted just so they could see what was in front of them.

The figure in front of them is almost wispy, distorted by the distance between her and the eladrin. She looks like Ichor used to, with her auburn hair nearing on ginger and the eye color they now shared that Ichor couldn’t stop herself from hating when they saw it in their reflection.

(Ichor doesn’t know if it’s for better or for worse that her now white roots differentiate them from her. It had hurt to look like her, to have that physical reminder of what she caused, but it feels like a part of themself is missing now that they’ve started not to.

She wonders if she will ever get it back, if they will ever look like her again.

They don’t know if they want to.)

Even from so far away, even with how the figure’s features are pale in a way the eladrin wishes they weren’t, Ichor feels like a child again. They push away memories of direwolves and tears streaming down their face and pleas of no, no, don’t make this decision for me, and slowly step closer to the figure in front of her. 

She’s smiling at them, just like she used to. Then her eyebrows raise, and Ichor stops in their tracks. Her smile turns more melancholic, eyebrows softening, as her gaze quickly shifts from somewhere back to Ichor.

“Behind you, little ithlil.”

Her voice was as clear as day, even from so far away.

Then-

Snap.

Immediately, Ichor turns towards the noise, reaching for and arming her crossbow. Mentally, they berate themself for letting their guard down so easily; it’s not like she was real. She’s never been real, she can’t have been.

Since when had they let themself get so distracted on their own? They grit their teeth as they frantically search for whatever is nearby.

But it’s then they realize: Ichor’s on their own.

They didn’t tell anyone where they were going.

They’re in the woods, alone, with something nearby and no one knows where they are.

They ignore the slight shaking of their hands and crossbow.

Ichor can take care of herself. She’s fine.

They dealt with him for years on end; she knows how to deal with unexpected fights.

It doesn’t matter that the moonlight has stopped seeping through the trees. It’s not like Ichor can’t still see, so it doesn’t matter that the darkness that the lack of light should bring continues to set them on edge.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

She hears a rustle again and sharply turns towards it.

They ignore how they can only hear their heartbeat with how fast it’s racing or their panting as they try to get a semblance of control over their breathing. They ignore it all because something is in these woods with her, and, though she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s scared.

Ichor’s scared, even though they know they’ve faced things far scarier and that worries them more than anything.

It always has.

But Ichor has their crossbow and their battle ax. They can defend themself. And if worse comes to worse-

Well. They won’t like it, but they’ll resort to it. No matter how they’ve refused to since then, and no matter the memories of him.

She hears one more rustle, from where she first came from, but it’s distinctly much closer than the others.

If it’s an animal, it would have attacked them by now; she’s lived in Barovia long enough to know that.

If it’s a person, or something similar, they can handle themself.

So, finally, Ichor decides to call out. “Who’s there?”

They tighten their grip on their crossbow as the snapping of branches and crushing of leaves get louder and closer in front of them.

Ichor could’ve said they were prepared for anything, for the worst, but they were in no way prepared to hear a familiar voice call out: “Ichor? Is that you?”

And from the bushes peeks out Temerity, with a curious grin on their face. Their black hair is covered in twigs and leaves, somehow still up in the tiefling’s classic twin buns–no matter how messy; Ichor has to stop themself from letting out a startled, bewildered laugh at the sight.

(And isn’t that a funny thought? When was the last time she consciously, properly laughed?)

They lower their crossbow slightly, nodding, to confirm. “It’s me, Tem. What are you doing here?”

Temerity just shrugs, like it’s no big deal that he was also wandering alone despite having less experience in these woods than Ichor. “You know,” they explain, like it’s completely obvious.  “Just exploring.”

“At this time of night?” Ichor can’t help but point out, baffled.

The tiefling finally gets out of the greenery in its entirety and starts patting themself down to get rid of any stray bugs or twigs that seem to have latched onto him, as Ichor just stares.

“Yup!” they say, smiling at Ichor as they ‘finish,’ completely missing anything that is in their hair.

Sighing, Ichor puts their crossbow away completely and walks over to them. Quietly, they ask the tiefling, “There’s still a bunch in your hair. Can I?”

Temerity seems.. startled, in a way that Ichor doesn’t quite understand (doesn’t want to understand, more like; she can see the faint darkening of the tiefling's cheeks in the moonlight, but they don’t let themself think about it further; they can’t; they won’t).

He lets out a small noise that probably shouldn’t be possible from someone with her vocal cords, tiefling or not. “Uhm,” he starts, choked, and Ichor worries that they overstepped before they quickly continue. “I guess??”

With a reassuring nod, Ichor slowly cleans out Temerity’s hair, hues of black and purple and blue, mesmerizing like the night sky above them, as he bends his head down to let them reach, careful not to pull too hard or suddenly. They’re aware of the tiefling just watching her, but she ignores it. (The staring isn’t new, she knows. They had seen it even on that first day she had met them all; now, though, she can tell that he’s taken note of something specific. Something noticeable. Something different. They just don’t know what, yet.)

“What were you doing out here?” he asks her. Ichor stops in their motions momentarily, not because of the accusation, but because it wasn’t one.

The eladrin takes their hands away from the other’s hair, more cautious as they realize this is one of the first moments they’ve had with the tiefling where it’s just the two of them. 

(Maybe, if they were a better person, they’d take the moment in.

Maybe, if they were a better person, they’d let themself enjoy this.

Maybe, if they were a better person, they’d make this a memory to cherish.

But Ichor knows who she is, knows themself to their core.

They aren’t, and won’t ever be, better.)

Their eyebrows furrow as they remember what they had been here for.

Ichor turns back to where she had seen her, but there’s nothing there. She pretends it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.

“Ichor?” Temerity prompts again; this time the concern is more noticeable in their voice and expression, as the former wavers and the latter is pinched with worry.

Ichor faces the tiefling again, only glancing back at the clearing. They shake their head once more, motioning to continue to fix the other’s hair.

Thankfully, he lets them.  She only finishes within a small moment, so they say, “I thought I saw something. It was nothing.”

They pull away and give the tiefling a small smile, something they’ve done more with the party than they have in all their time in Barovia. “Don’t worry,” she adds, just for good measure.

Ichor should’ve known the tiefling wouldn’t let it go, though.

“Are you sure?” she insists, looking down at Ichor. Their tannish, pink-brown skin looks weirdly pitch black in the moonlight. 

Of course not, Ichor wants to cry out. Still, they face back towards the clearing, humming in affirmation.

The tiefling is quiet for a moment. Then, they step in front of Ichor so she can see him again. Their eyebrows are furrowed in determination, yet his squinting diamond-colored eyes, clearer now that they aren’t obscured by triangular glasses, have a gloss of worry that Ichor is too scared to take apart and understand.

“You’ve been-” Temerity cuts himself off as they take a deep breath.

He makes sure to look directly at them as they say, “You’ve been avoiding us, Ichor.”

And the eladrin doesn’t know what to say. They feel their lips pursed, as they scrunch their eyes to prevent them from watering at something so stupid. She looks away to the side at the ground before she opens them again.

(It’s then that they finally notice she’s not wearing their usual bandanna around their eye. She prays, prays, Temerity hasn’t noticed the different color, but, deep down, they know how noticeable it is from her usual hazel. And they know Tem is observant. Mother Night, he knows.)

“I haven’t,” they manage to muster. “Let's head back.” She wants this over and done with because while she knows what she’s been doing, they don’t want it to be said right to their face.

Temerity stops them as they start walking away, grabbing them by the arm. It’s the first time Ichor’s been touched without their permission first, but it’s gentle.

The tiefling doesn’t want to hurt her, but Ichor is so so scared he will.

“Let me go, Tem,” Ichor says, reluctantly facing the tiefling again. Their voice is no louder than a whisper, yet the two can hear her perfectly in the silent woods.

And they both know she doesn’t just mean her arm.

“Please, Ichor.”

Ichor shakes their head, blinking back tears. They can feel Temerity soften his already kind grasp on her arm, and the eladrin takes the opportunity to escape from it.

“Barovia isn’t-” they start. They look back at the ground in front of them, forcing themself not to check if any part of her arm is bruised, because she knows it isn’t.

She knows it isn’t but it’s been ingrained in them to check for so many years.

“Barovia isn’t what you think it is, Tem. Nothing-” Their voice breaks, and they hate it. “Nothing’s really safe here.”

“But we have you, Ichor,” the tiefling tries. “You know this place better than any of us.”

Ichor hardens their gaze as they look back at the other’s face. He’s trying to smile, but Ichor can tell it’s not quite reaching his eyes.

“I do,” they mutter.

Temerity looks puzzled at their response. “H- huh?” they stumble.

“I do know this place better than anyone traveling with us,” Ichor revises. They’re not boasting; they’re just stating a fact.

And looking into the concerned pitiful gaze of the tiefling, Ichor continues.

“And I know that it means you can’t trust anyone here.”

Ichor finally turns away from the other. She starts to walk back to where the rest of the party is, outside of the woods.

“Ichor, we can trust you,” Temerity stresses from behind them. “That has to count for something, right?”

That stops Ichor in their tracks. They’re not going to lie to the tiefling.

“Let’s just go, Tem,” is all they say, continuing on the way back and making it clear that they’re not going to talk about the matter any further.

And the two head out of the woods, silent and knowing that something is wrong with Barovia.

—

It wasn’t often that Ichor prayed.

They hadn’t when the group had stayed at the church overnight the first day of the others’ travels—while Temerity and Kairis encountered Strahd of all people; Mother Night, their heart still pangs at the thought, the two could’ve been hurt—but she still does, sometimes.

This was one of those nights.

Praying was something they did more during their first few years of living in Barovia. She had reached out for guidance, for reassurance, for someone, anyone, to give them a sign that things would be okay.

There was never any answer.

Still, Ichor found themself a ways away from where the party had settled for the night, kneeling in the field.

The field is nothing special. There isn’t much color in Barovia, and the weird sunlight—if one could even call it that—doesn’t allow for an abundance of plant growth.

But it gives Ichor a moment of solitude.

They don’t quite know what they’re praying for tonight.

Most times they don’t.

But despite that, and despite the awful memories associated with it, Ichor prays.

She prays, at the very least in honor of her. 

Ichor has always been quiet since their time in Barovia, but praying makes them silent.

Silent in the lack of audible prayer; silent in the lack of any movement at all; silent, silent, silent.

It allows Ichor to hear the faint whistling of wind, brushing against the leaves and branches of the woods nearby, or the crackle of fire from where the others have set up camp, or—

Or the rustling of someone walking through the grass behind them.

Furrowing their brow slightly, Ichor rushes their prayer to an end with a quick bow of their head. She opens her eyes and turns to their right, where the footsteps had sounded.

There stood Oranzin; the aasimar must have stopped in her tracks at the eladrin’s movement, and the look of perplexion on her face from being spotted while being a good distance away would have been amusing if Ichor wasn’t so curious as to why she was there.

It wasn’t as if Oranzin and Ichor didn’t get along. Ichor suspects that they both had more in common than first thought, in actuality.

Still, if Ichor had to be honest, they still had an instinctive, fearful mistrust of the aasimar.

All Ichor felt was cold.

Not that they usually weren’t, but this cold was present all throughout their body, throughout their blood.

In a movement that wasn’t out of their own volition, Ichor turned to face the aasimar she had been fighting alongside.

Ichor could see the fear in Oranzin’s fully-white sclera. She seemed to frantically search Ichor’s own face–just what had the ghost done to them?–before her expression went blank.

“I don’t have another spell to help. We have to-” The aasimar turned to face the others, cutting herself off. She only looked more determined.

“We have to do whatever it takes to get the ghost out.”

Ichor blinks hard to rid herself of the memory. It’s fine. They’re not angry at the aasimar for their decision; she understands that it had to be done.

(It doesn’t stop them from wincing or flinching or hitching their breath now when the aasimar readies herself to attack another opponent.)

The eladrin looks at the aasimar for a few more seconds. Her purple and white hair has been let down, reaching her waist. She doesn’t have her wings out either; she’s clutching her violet cape close to her.

Ichor can sympathize. Barovian nights can get cold.

“Oranzin?” they finally decide to call out.

Her voice seems to shake Oranzin out of her small stupor. With a small headshake–and Ichor has to wonder, what had been going through Oranzin’s own head?–the aasimar starts heading toward Ichor once more.

“Ichor,” Oranzin addresses the eladrin as she stands next to them. “May I sit?”

Ichor nods. Oranzin does.

“Might I ask why you’re here, Ichor?”

Ichor studies the aasimar. Her pale skin is complemented by the moonlight; she swears she sees a faint sparkle of stars where the aasimar’s wings would be had they been let out.

The eladrin also can’t help but notice how she makes herself seem so small as she’s kneeling in front of them.

Ichor may be scared of the other, but they know that Oranzin never intended to hurt them for the sake of hurting them.

“To pray,” Ichor answers. They let their gaze drift back towards the field, only briefly catching the raised eyebrows of the aasimar.

“Excuse me for doing so,” Oranzin starts. “But, I was under the impression that you.. weren’t religious.”

Ichor lets a faint quirk of a smile settle on their face as they look back at the aasimar.

“Nothing to be excused. My family was, many years ago.” Ichor pauses, letting their smile drop into a small frown.

“And…” Ichor doesn’t know how to phrase what she wants to say. 

Do they really trust Oranzin with this?

(Ichor thinks back to how the aasimar reacted to Old Bonegrinder. To the true nature of that place.)

Ichor thinks that they do.

“And those I grew up with here raised me to worship Mother Night.”

Ichor doesn’t know if Oranzin read through the lines of that sentence as the aasimar furrows her brow at their words.

They can see her eyes widen though, so subtle that the eladrin wouldn’t have caught it if they hadn’t been worried about a reaction.

Ichor can’t tell if it’s surprise or fear, but they note to themself to not mention Mother Night too much in the aasimar’s presence. 

They wouldn’t want to hurt Oranzin.

They’ve hurt enough people in their life.

“But, that doesn’t matter,” Ichor continues. “What brings you out here, Oranzin?”

“Oh,” the aasimar starts. Oranzin seems to look over Ichor, as she brings her fidgeting hands ever closer to her. 

The eladrin wonders what her reasoning is. It’s not that she and Oranzin don’t get along; they just never really have the chance to talk on their travels, and when they do, neither of them seems to know what to say.

“I have noticed that you’re inclined to… drift away from the rest of us once the sun starts to set, Ichor.”

Ichor blinks. They weren’t expecting that as a response.

They hadn’t thought Oranzin would care to note what she did when the party settled down for the night.

The eladrin opens her mouth to respond, but–

“And I understand the need for space,” Oranzin carries on. A small, almost timid, smile graces the aasimar’s expression.

“I… I only quite wanted to know if you would also be inclined to… Go for a walk, perhaps. Though, I also understand if you happen to dismiss my proposal.”

Ichor feels their eyebrows raise as they think over the aasimar’s words.

“Okay.”

Oranzin’s face scrunches slightly. “...‘Okay?’” she repeats.

“We’ll go for a walk,” Ichor says, reaching their hand out for Oranzin to hold.

Oranzin looks from Ichor’s face to their hand. The eladrin smiles encouragingly at the other teen.

(And isn’t that a weird line of thought? Technically speaking, not one member of their group is over the mental age of twenty-three.

Whether they like it or not, they’re all so young.)

Oranzin slowly takes their hand.

Ichor lets their smile grow ever-slightly bigger, even more so when Oranzin smiles back at them in return.

Together, they raise themselves off the ground. Ichor turns in the direction of the open field, in the opposite direction of the rest of the party, and gestures ahead with her free hand.

“This way?” the eladrin asks. “We’ll be back before midnight.”

Oranzin stills, but, as Ichor looks over her expression, the aasimar doesn’t look upset; only curious. She lets go of Ichor’s hand to look at them head-on.

“Yes, but. Just a moment,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her once more. “If I may ask–”

The aasimar cuts herself off, taking a deep breath.

“Do you still happen to possess the flower Alyyra had given you within the initial days of your travels with us?”

Ichor wouldn’t dare get rid of it. “I do.”

“May I have a look at it?”

“Of course.” Ichor reaches behind their head. They detach the blue and red flower from where it’s woven together with her prized camellias in her let-down hair.

“Here, Oranzin,” she says as they hand the flower to the aasimar in front of them.

If Ichor hadn’t known better, they would have thought that there was a small flicker of mischief in the aasimar’s eyes. A faint quirk up of her lips in a smirk.

And truly, Ichor can’t quite tell if she knows better or not.

So, they stand in front of the aasimar, anticipating what she will do with the flower in her hands.

“Let there be light,” she whispers with a small smile on her face, cupping the flower in one hand and passing the other over it as she speaks.

Once uncovered again, the flower glows. For just a moment, Ichor is blinded, but they quickly blink back into awareness and adjust themself to the change in the light level of the once-dark field.

Oranzin looks back up at Ichor, holding the flower out for her. “To give us a clear view.”

Ichor gently takes the multicolored flower from the aasimar. She hesitates, until getting a nod from the other, after which they weave it back into their hair–this time, behind their ear so they and Oranzin can see ahead of themselves.

Ichor smiles. “We can go find more flowers, if you’d like.”

“I would.”

(And while walking with Oranzin, Ichor thinks—

Oranzin may terrify Ichor at times, but she isn’t terrible company either.)

—

Weirdly enough, it’s when Ichor seeks Kairis out that it happens once more.

There was, of course, no ulterior motive as to why it was Kairis Ichor found; he just happened to be the most nearby to the eladrin and well-

Ichor needed help, and they needed someone they knew who could.

Maybe she could’ve gone to Chel or the party as a whole, but they also didn’t want to bother any of them. They felt bad about bothering Kairis as well, but, after the Vistani camp and after what Ichor had told the tiefling, the eladrin was at least partially sure the other wouldn’t mind.

Partially.

“Where are we going?” the tiefling in question asks, breaking Ichor out of their thoughts.

They didn’t even realize they had forgotten to tell the other what was going on, just worriedly asking him to follow, if he didn’t mind—yes, she was okay, no, she wasn’t hurt, they just-

“Sorry,” they mumble, still guiding Kairis through the woods, and not quite entirely sure if he could hear her.

“Just a little further. You’ll see.”

Ichor expects some sort of protest or demand to know where the eladrin is taking Kairis, because there’s no way he trusts them already, with how short it’s been since they first met.

Ichor doesn’t expect the simple “okay” from the tiefling, almost so accepting to the point that they have to remind themself to keep leading the other and not suddenly stop in befuddlement.

A small whimper reaches Ichor’s ears, notifying them that they’ve just about made it.

She tries to ignore the small pang in her heart at the sound; instead, she says, “Just around this corner,” sparing the tiefling a small glance behind her before locking onto what brought the two here in the first place.

They kneel in front of the pup, careful not to wake it and scare it off. It hasn’t moved from when they first found it, still huddled under a particularly large beech-fir tree.

“Oh,” Kairis says. Ichor looks back up at them, hoping, hoping, that she made the right decision.

“Is this why you brought me here?” he continues. He’s looking at the wolf pup, eyebrows furrowed and lips in a frown. 

Maybe Ichor did okay.

“He-“ Ichor starts, but cuts themself off. “It’s hurt. Separated from the pack during a hunt, I’m assuming.”

“Can’t it get back on its own?” Kairis is still hesitant, but the question is gentle. Only curious.

The eladrin shakes their head. Without touching the pup, she points at its front leg. It’s bent slightly, looking wrong. “Even in its sleep, it’s refraining from putting weight on it. I think-”

Ichor’s cut off by another whimper. She spares a glance back at the pup, who has shifted over slightly, and tries to ignore the minute quiver in their lower jaw, opting to bite on the inside of their cheek.

They won’t get emotional over a random pup. They won’t.

(But he’s alone, and he’s hurt, and who else in Barovia is going to help him?)

Ichor breathes deeply, locking eyes with Kairis again. Are his amber eyes glazed as well or is that just her?

“It must have sprained it trying to find its way back. But only being a few months old…” Ichor trails off.

“Okay,” Kairis responds. He says that a lot, Ichor notes, but they’re not sure if it’s to reassure them or himself. Maybe both of them. “What do you need me to do?”

“Could you..” Ichor pauses, looking away from the tiefling and towards the pup between them. He’s so small. “Could you shift into a direwolf?”

Their voice is no more than a whisper, but Ichor knows Kairis heard her if the hitch of his breath is any tell.

“But you said–”

“I know what I said, Kairis,” the eladrin snaps, locking eyes with those of the tiefling. They look so much like-

Ichor takes a deep breath, slowly, carefully, running her fingers through the fur of the sleeping animal. There’s a small white patch of its fur that stretches from the crown of its head to its back that she does her best to detangle, picking out small twigs, leaves, and other forest residue.

“I’m sorry,” they say, lowering their head once more. “I just want to make sure the pup gets back okay. I’m sorry.”

Kairis kneels as well, now at eye level for Ichor. The eladrin belatedly realizes they don’t comment on what she had called the pup. They don’t say anything, but they appreciate it.

“I know,” the tielfing says after a moment.

“It’s okay.” He pauses again. “But are you sure?”

Ichor lets a small, grim smile form on their face.

“I’m not.. fond of wolves. Much less direwolves, like I told you.”

The eladrin stops petting the pup and looks back up at the tiefling.

“But I’m not going to leave it here. There are-” Her breath hitches. “There are so many dangers in these woods, Kairis.”

Their smile, still small, becomes more genuine, if bittersweet. “But, it has us here to help it.”

Still locking eyes with the tiefling, Ichor can see how his eyebrows scrunch up and his eyes almost frantically glance around their face and their hands that are near the pup, searching their face for something.

Uncertainty? Insincerity? Numb acceptance?

Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to find it. He smiles back, mirroring one of their first one-on-one conversations. Yet, this time Ichor doesn’t instinctively hold back their smile.

Kairis nods their assent, though something is off, as his smile wavers slightly at the idea of shifting. Ichor doesn’t understand it.

“Ready?” the tiefling asks, quietly. Ichor doesn’t trust their voice, just nods, looking back down at the pup.

It only takes a few seconds, which is confirmed by something wet coming into contact with the eladrin’s forehead.

Ichor snaps their head back up at the tiefling, now direwolf, and fails to process their mind screaming danger dangerdanger at them in favor of-

“Did you just lick me?” They can’t quite hide the bafflement in their voice.

Kairis’ still-amber eyes crinkle against the scar that slashes across his face, and somehow, it displays their amusement, even as a direwolf. Or maybe it’s just due to-

And though Ichor can now start to feel the bubbling of panic in their gut, the way she wants to run so far away from the animal in front of them, they know they’re safe.

This isn’t an animal. This is Kairis. Their friend.

“Hi,” the eladrin says quietly, resisting the urge to wave. They’re smiling again; how long has it been since they’ve smiled in the presence of a sentient, sapient wolf?

Careful not to touch the pup, Kairis lightly bumps their nose to Ichor’s hand, now that it’s no longer on the pup itself.

Ichor can’t help the flinch that happens at the movement, but they also can’t help the small huff of laughter that leaves them either.

However, the movement does work to bring the eladrin back to reality—back to why they’re here with the tiefling in the first place. They take a deep breath and blank their expression.

“Okay,” they say, slowly standing back up. “I’m not sure if you know how, but you’re going to want to bite the scruff of the pup.”

Suddenly, Kairis steps back away from the pup; his ears flatten against his head and he yips quietly. The pup shifts at the noise, releasing another whimper, but ultimately doesn’t wake just yet.

Ichor furrows their eyebrows. Is Kairis okay? They can practically feel the panic and worry radiating from the other if their reaction wasn’t any giveaway. But reaction to what? All Ichor had said was-

“Oh.” Ichor gives the tiefling another small smile as they bend down to level themself more with the other. “You’re not going to hurt the pup if you do that, Kairis.”

The direwolf shakes his head, lowering it so he doesn’t quite meet Ichor’s eyes.

Slowly, Ichor rests their hand on the snout of the other. They ignore their own racing heart, and how Kairis can probably hear it, ignore the quivering of their jaw and their smile, ignore everything.

They move their hand toward Kairis’ scruff, with the same, careful movements. They grasp at it gently.

“See?” Kairis blinks at them, likely processing the feeling. “It’s okay.”

Ichor lets go and stands back up, still keeping their eyes on the direwolf, so he knows they’re sincere. “It’s- It’s supposed to be instinct to hold the pup that way. Your teeth won’t hurt him, I promise.”

The eladrin watches as Kairis seems to contemplate what to do next. 

“I know the pup looks tiny, especially in comparison to you now as a direwolf. But, it’s better if you have more muscle to carry the pup if we run into the rest of the pack unexpectedly. All we’re going to do is help, okay?”

Kairis spares another glance at Ichor, before quickly nibbling at their hand in gratitude at the reassurance.

They ignore the sudden spike of longing that the action brings. She just gives the druid another tiny smile in response.

After moving around to better position himself, Kairis finally picks up the pup. Thankfully, it doesn’t wake, despite the longer whine it gives at the movement. It rests once more, now no longer at the risk of jostling its hurt leg on its own.

“Do you think you could track where the pup came from?” Ichor asks.

Kairis looks up at the eladrin, seemingly thinking for a moment and probably trying to figure out the old impressions of the pup’s scent. Then, they nod, careful not to jostle the pup too much.

Ichor pats the druid on the head in appreciation. “Good,” she says. “Lead the way?”

Kairis lifts his head slightly to show he heard her, as he turns and heads off in the supposed direction of the whereabouts of the pup’s pack.

There isn’t much for Ichor to do except to follow, especially now that, as a direwolf, Kairis wouldn’t be able to verbally respond to any she might say to pass the time.

So, there also isn’t much for Ichor to do except be left with their own thoughts.

If Ichor were honest, they’d be lying if they told anyone, anyone at all who could hear, that the movement of Kairis’ fur out of the corner of her eye didn’t set them on edge.

All it serves to remind them of is the screams.

The screams, the feeling of running with no destination, the blood, the knowledge that they are coming up behind them and the others, closer and closer until-

Until him.

He found Ichor and subjected them to learning how to survive at a time when all she should’ve been worrying about was what berries to make into pie the next morning.

He exposed her to horrors they still have trouble realizing they weren’t supposed to endure, not only at such a young age but ever.

He made them into who she is now.

..Into what she is now.

A monster.

Ichor’s really no better than the wolves she’s so terrified of and hates so much. They might even be worse.

(And really, she knows they’ll never be as bad as him, but they were the one that made it so they were left all alone. It’s their fault, and they’ve been punished for it by her ever since.

It still doesn’t feel like enough to pay for what they did.)

Earlier, while planning this walk, before having gotten Kairis to follow them into the woods in the first place, Ichor had told themself that they wouldn’t look at the other, on the notion that he would agree.

Ichor had told themself plenty of things, plenty of lies, over the years, too.

So, it was no surprise that, with her mind swimming with memories of the paralyzing fear they had felt, only saved by her and her quick thinking, Ichor found their gaze wandering toward the direwolf-shaped druid.

There aren’t quite scars on the other, save for the one on his eye that is also present as a regular tiefling, but Ichor can see the aftermath of fights and attacks splattered across his fur. She knows where to look.

It hurts to look at.

The aftermath—the stains—left behind by the scars Ichor knows had once painted Kairis’ skin remind them of the creatures of Barovia, of the poor townsfolk, of-

Of themself.

And it makes Ichor realize—maybe they and Kairis aren’t as different as first thought.

The thought itself makes a pang of something burrow itself in her chest.

She doesn’t want the two of them to be similar. She doesn’t want Kairis to have been hurt in the same way they have.

He doesn’t deserve it. 

Ichor knows he has his own secrets, knows that he, much like the rest of the party, may not be exactly what or who they paint themselves to be.

She knows that they’ve taken a gamble in trusting each of them.

Still, none of them deserve any pain even remotely similar to what the eladrin went through; not like they do.

Ichor is broken out of their thoughts by Kairis suddenly stopping beside them. Immediately, she prepares herself to take out their ax.

The druid’s eyes are narrowed; he’s been alerted by something nearby. 

“Kairis?”

Then, she sees it. If they hadn’t lived in near these woods for as long as they have, hadn’t known, they might not have.

But in the trees ahead, a pair of yellow, almost glowing, eyes peer at the both of them through the darkness of the wood. Then another, and another, and another, until there are too many of them to count.

Ichor catches Kairis’ gaze for a moment. They both know they won’t be able to fight against the wolf pack on their own. 

(Well, Ichor might.

They’ve almost managed it before.

They don’t want to do it again.)

A low growl sounds ahead, from the first wolf they had noticed. And as they look right back at its source–

Ichor whispers–

“…Leave the pup, Kairis.”

Justifiably, Kairis turns his head over to Ichor in alarm. She can tell he wants to know why.

She doesn’t know how to explain it.

But then, the growl ahead of them gets louder. The one they had seen–the leader?–has left the safety of the shadowed woods.

It steps closer to them, and–

And there’s a white patch of fur on the crown of its head, directly matching that of the pup.

“See?” she whispers to Kairis, kneeling down to match his level and show the pack that they aren’t a threat. “This is the pup’s pack. It’ll be in good hands. Okay?”

Kairis holds their gaze again, before nodding. Once more, they face the pack, who have stopped in their tracks, almost waiting for what they’ll be doing, and carefully rest the pup back on the ground.

Ichor lets her own gaze drift back to the pup. He’ll be okay, they tell themself.

He’ll be taken care of.

They pat the fur on Kairis’ back lightly, murmuring, “Come on,” as they still find themself unable to look away from the pup.

Slowly, they back away from the group, and, distantly, Ichor thanks Mother Night that the pack hadn’t decided to attack them. They had gotten lucky.

Despite their growing distance from what must have been the pack’s territory, Kairis stays at Ichor’s side as a direwolf. He seems to be thinking about something.

It’s worrying.

Soon enough, they reach the edge of the forest. Not much light has been lost, Ichor notes. They can see where the others have set up camp in the distance.

Kairis shifts back, finally.

Though it shouldn’t be, something is different from before.

Sure, the tiefling’s hair is a little more ruffled, yet.

Yet.

Ichor thinks he looks sad.

“Kairis?” they prompt. His amber eyes refuse to meet hers, as the eladrin bites their lip in anticipation and tries to ignore the growing pit in their stomach.

He’s silent. Ichor can feel their too-sharp teeth break the skin of their lips, and Kairis remains silent.

“Why?”

Ichor hadn’t been expecting that. (She must have messed up; oh stars, what did they do–)

“...Why what?”

“Why have me shift?”

And oh.

Stars, Ichor didn’t think this through, did they?

“…What do you mean?” They need to pretend for a little longer; they can’t have him know, they can’t—

Kairis finally looks back up at them, and his eyes are full of this concern frustration that terrifies Ichor to their core.

“We both know what you told me about what happened with those wolves, Ichor. I don’t-”

The tiefling cuts himself off, mouth quivering in a loss for words, refusing to look away from the eladrin.

“We agreed that I wouldn’t shift into a direwolf again. Why would you subject yourself to that? All for-”

The druid in front of Ichor takes a moment for himself, breathing harshly.

The eladrin doesn’t know what to do.

There’s a pang in her heart at the faint glimmer of tears in Kairis’ eyes. Their own lip is quivering from how she is desperately trying not to break the skin further from the sheer forcefulness of her bite.

They don’t understand why Kairis cares.

Still, his eyes widen minutely and his brows straighten, as their expression softens, ever so slowly

“All for the baby wolf.”

Ichor purses their lips as they finally look down, away from the tiefling. The motion hurts, but it’s a motion she’s used to.

She just can’t look at him. 

They hear him move towards them, crunching leaves and twigs in a way that she knows is unnatural for them.

“Ichor.”

They glance up at him, intending to look back down again, but she finds that she can’t look away.

His eyes are still glassy with unshed tears, but it’s the shaky smile on his face that stops them in their tracks.

“I know you care,” he starts, before the smile crumples before the eladrin’s eyes.

“And I don’t understand why. But- But, even though I won’t push, I can’t see why you’d prioritize something like that over yourself.”

Ichor brows furrow, “We couldn’t have just left him there—”

“Nor did you have to put yourself through that for his sake.”

The eladrin’s breath hitches at his words. She knows, she knows that they shouldn’t have, but they couldn’t bear to see the pup like that, not when they had the resources to help.

(Not when he reminded them of themself, broken, tired and always, always alone.)

There’s a moment between the two, eladrin and tiefling, where they just breathe together. Kairis wears a tiny smile again, waiting for Ichor to recollect herself.

“I panicked,” she eventually admits, quietly. “I just wanted to help.”

They let out a soft, mirthless laugh. “I didn’t know what else to do. You could’ve changed into so many things that would’ve helped, but I wanted-”

Her words stutter. Kairis, patient Kairis, miraculously lets them continue.

“I wanted something familiar for him, because Barovia is terrifying on its own, but especially when it’s unfamiliar.”

The eladrin breathes in, and out. “And I knew, if he had ended up waking, you could’ve potentially given that to him.”

Neither of them say anything after that. Until-

“…Can I hug you, Ichor?”

Ichor blinks. Yet, before they realize what they’re doing, they find themself nodding.

Kairis’ smile bursts into a beam. Quickly, but oh so gentle, the tiefling wraps his arms around the eladrin.

He’s not much shorter than Ichor, but he still manages to curl into them, as they freeze at the contact.

Then, they remember what to do, and slowly, she hugs the other back.

She doesn’t know what to do with her arms at first, but then they hold the tiefling tightly, tightly, tightly.

And the two stay that way, breathing in each others’ arms, slowly, silently admitting to each other that, no matter what, they’re here.

—

He’s facing them.

The monster that started this.

That made Ichor into what they are now.

Mother Night, Ichor had thought facing Strahd momentarily in the graveyard behind Donavich’s church was terrifying; they were so wrong.

They were wrong because he’s here, in front of the party, in front of Ichor, and they’re stuck.

Stuck in memories of get up, of again, of cruel, cruel laughter at their pain.

Ichor feels like they’re a child again.

They’re gripping their battleax, standing in front of the rest of the party, so that he doesn’t hurt them.

(Ichor knows that there are others behind him, ready to strike.

She also knows that they won’t do anything unless he tells them to.

They just have to keep him distracted.)

They can see the tips of their fingers grow blue with their increasing fear.

They know he can see it too as he smiles; it’s full of mirth and pity and sadism.

“Taking a trip down memory lane, are we?” he says, not keeping his eyes off of the eladrin.

(It’s reminiscent of a cat playing with its food.

It knows it’ll win. It just wants to relish in the satisfaction of having caught its prey.)

“And you’ve brought other weaklings with you as well.” He bares his teeth as he starts to grin.

(It helps that Ichor has escaped this particular cat’s grasp before.

They won’t be his prey again.)

“Don’t call them that,” Ichor responds, trying their hardest not to bare their teeth in turn; they’re better than that. “I won’t let you hurt them.” 

(Especially now that they have others they want to protect.)

“Interesting. You care.” The monster in front of Ichor raises an eyebrow. Ichor knows him enough by now that he’s amused by her being here. They hate it. “You care, yet you know you aren’t strong enough, Ichor. You never have been.”

(And this time they won’t fail.)

“I’m not the same child you once knew,” the eladrin affirms, still keeping their eyes on him too. They despise having to face him again after all these years.

But they have others with them this time. Others they know will help.

She raises her ax.

And she swings.