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Shink… Shink… Shink…
The whetstone glided over the blade with a familiar metallic rasp. Lae'zel found the noise reassuring. It was the sound of time not being wasted.
Shink…
She was a gish; as such, her weapon was a reflection of herself. It was unacceptable for it to be dull. Her hands moved in practiced strokes, her mind narrowing down to the task at hand in a way that could have been described as meditative, had Lae'zel ever bothered to give it a name.
Shink… Shink…
"Here's the twine you asked for." Wyll's voice pulled her back into the moment. The sensations blocked out by the whetstone against the steel rushed back in: the breeze on her skin, the chirping of the birds in the nearby tree, the smoke and the crackle of the campfire. She blinked a few times into the afternoon sun, disoriented for a split second, before her eyes refocused on Gale and Wyll. The two men were standing around a small table, on which sat a pale, plucked chicken carcass.
"Excellent!" Gale took the twine out of Wyll's hands and measured it loosely against the chicken. "And it has the right length, too!"
Lae'zel narrowed her eyes. "The feathered foe is beheaded and gutted already. Why bother securing it with rope?"
"The correct term is truss, my dear gith friend. This step may seem superfluous, but it is essential to ensure that the bird is cooked evenly. If not trussed, the wings and legs burn easily. The breast dries out before the thighs can have the required time to cook. A disappointing experience for the taste buds, all things considered."
Wyll grinned at the wizard. "Cooking in the Hells was limited to skewering things on a stick and holding them over the fire until they were charred at the edges. Trust me: after Avernus, even the driest chicken tastes like fine dining to me."
"In that case, would you like for me to teach you the proper method? I sense a learning opportunity here." Gale was in his element, combining two of his favorite non-magical activities: cooking and liberally dispensing knowledge.
Lae'zel watched as Wyll manhandled the chicken under Gale's careful instructions. Fold, slide, crisscross the string, pull it taut, crisscross again. Flip the bird, wrap the string under the wings, crisscross again, flip back, tuck the wing tips in, and tie the string off over the breast. Lae'zel listened, equal parts fascinated and annoyed, as Gale kept gushing on about the technique.
"See how the wings are held close to the body and the breast has popped out? We have started with a bird splayed out ungracefully, whereas now it's a neat package, prim and proper, ready to be primed with best oils and dry rubs."
At that, Lae'zel couldn't suppress a huff anymore. "Are you trying to cook this chicken or to mate it?"
Both men gawked at her for a single speechless second.
"Why would you say that?" Gale was first to find his bearings again.
If I roll my eyes any harder, Lae'zel thought, they'll get stuck in the back of my skull. "Listen to yourself speak, istik, then you'll hear it, too."
"I happen to be using the correct culinary terminology, which is precise and succinct, thank you very much!" Gale turned back to Wyll. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The right marinade and a refined roasting setup will ensure that the bird is just dripping with the most delicious juices you've ever tasted!" He broke off abruptly and turned to Lae'zel again. "Alright, fine, this time I heard it."
Lae'zel shook her head and turned back to the greatsword in her hand. She didn't cook, of course. She wasn't a g'lathk to concern herself with such banalities. Yet even she had to admit: Gale had perfected the menial task to an art form. She respected him for his dedication.
The next time Lae'zel put the whetstone down, the sun was already dipping into the crown of the tree. A mage hand was diligently rotating a spit with the chicken on it; a large pan underneath held enough potatoes with rosemary to feed the whole camp, and then some.
A few of her comrades-in-arms were standing together, discussing something in tense voices. She got up to join the group, noticing Astarion a little to the side at the washbasin, scrubbing his hands vigorously with a soaped sponge. Before she had time to wonder what brought on such a strange behavior, Halsin's voice reached her:
"…likely means a delay of five days at least. Probably seven, if we are being realistic."
"Chk! What is this talk of delay? We don't have time to laze about!"
Halsin remained as patient as ever. "We don't have much say in the matter, I'm afraid. An illness is spreading in Baldur's Gate that does not respond to the healing magic. The four of us," he gestured to Shadowheart, Karlach, and Astarion, "happened to come into close contact with the unfortunate souls that are already ill. It is very likely that we are infected now and have brought the illness with us here to the camp."
Anger rose from deep within her. "Tsk'va! Why would you do such a thing? We already have one incurable infection; a second one is not going to help us!"
"Calm down, Lae'zel!" Shadowheart chimed in. "We didn't choose to get infected. Besides, unlike the tadpole, this infection does not seem deadly. Yes, we will lose time, and there's probably not much we can do about it, seeing how healing doesn't work on it. But other than that, you'll be just fine after a few days."
"I have neither time nor patience for this!" she replied, fully aware of how irritable her voice sounded, yet not caring much. "It is unbefitting of a warrior to succumb to anything but a weapon!" She turned on her heels and marched off towards her training dummy. A faint huff from Shadowheart chased after her, followed by a muttered Let's hope that she doesn't get ill, or we won't hear the end of it. She ignored it.
The next morning, Lae'zel was greeted by the news that Karlach had fallen prey to this new weakness. She hovered around the tiefling's tent, listening to the discussion between the druids and the cleric. Medical terms like incubation period and viral load were being traded like secret paroles. She understood little of them. She wasn't a ghustil, after all.
"Is Karlach going to recover soon?"
Shadowheart looked up at her with another sharp quip nocked and ready to fly. "Why, is our fearless warrior actually worried about a friend?"
"Of course. She is a valuable ally on the battlefield, a menace to anyone who stands in her way. And a friend."
Karlach grinned at her from where she was curled up on her bedroll. "Awww, I love you, too, Lae!" She groaned as she shifted around a little. "Guys, really, I'll be fine. I survived Avernus, remember? A bit of fever and shits won't kill me."
Lae'zel sincerely hoped that Karlach's assessment was correct.
The rest of the day passed in a succession of training routines. Wyll joined her for several rounds of sparring, which she appreciated. Doing solo training only got her so far, whereas having a training partner whose fighting style differed so vastly from her own gave her a nice challenge. Wyll was a worthy fighter in his own right and had earned her approval on numerous occasions. While entirely predictable, coming out on top in their sparrings was still quite satisfying.
She woke up in the middle of the night to a horrible feeling of being drenched in her own sweat. In the darkness of her tent, the air weighed her down, laden with an indeterminate threat she couldn't grasp. With a shaking hand, she tried to wipe her forehead clean, to no avail. Sharp pain was shooting through her abdomen, churning in her bowels like a beast trying to claw its way out.
Lae'zel knew what was happening.
Doing her best to subdue the tremors in her body, she opened her tent and took an unsteady step out. Her stomach did not react kindly to the change of position, affording her mere seconds of warning. She barely managed to reach the nearest bushes before the evening's meal of roasted vegetables and sausage departed violently. Straightening up again, she wiped her mouth and felt for the dagger at her side. Still there. Good.
She found Wyll in his tent, as expected. He slept sprawled out on his back, looking like he had not a single care in the world. Just as she knelt next to him, about to shake him awake, he opened his eyes and sat up with a jerk.
"Lae'zel? What's wrong?"
"Everything!" Her chest heaved with laborious breaths. "It has started. I'm turning into a ghaik!"
"What?"
Even in her addled state, she felt a twinge of annoyance. Why was it so difficult for him to grasp the obvious?
"Ceremorphosis. I thought I could escape it, but it seems I was wrong." A distant corner of her mind found amusement in the situation. They had come so far. She had come so far. Yet here she was, facing a dishonorable death nevertheless. How ironic.
She reached for her dagger and held it out to Wyll. "You have fought admirably at my side. I trust you to end my life quickly and without unnecessary suffering."
Wyll eyed her, comprehension slowly setting in. He was wasting precious time, time she didn't have anymore.
"Do not dither! Ngh!" She clutched at her stomach, as it gave a bubbling growl. "I will turn any moment now! Everyone will be in danger!"
Slowly, he took the dagger from her hand, then put it on the ground next to him.
"Lae'zel, this isn't ceremorphosis. This is the same infection that Karlach and Shadowheart already have."
She sat back on her heels, suddenly lucid. "What? That's impossible."
Wyll chuckled at that. "Why do you think so? Is it truly so hard to believe that you are not immune to something as pedestrian as a simple illness?"
Why was he ignoring the obvious again? She couldn't understand.
"Do not waste what little time is left with idle chatter! End me now, before it is too late!"
Instead of doing as asked, Wyll took her hands into his. "Look at me, Lae'zel. You are not turning. I see no tentacles, no slime, no purple skin whatsoever. You are just ill. Come, I'll bring you to your tent."
She followed him, entirely unconvinced. Settling into her bedroll, she looked up at him, seeking the truth. "Are you sure that this isn't ceremorphosis?" Any relief she might have felt at not turning into a ghaik was greatly overshadowed by the present infirmity of her body. This affliction was both an insult and an injury.
He snickered, barely audible, before answering, "Very, very sure. If I catch even a glimpse of tentacles come morning, I promise to end your life so swiftly you won't even notice the flash of the blade."
"You can try," she huffed, "but we both know that I have bested you in our sparring sessions."
"In most of them, but not all," he shot back with a smirk, placing a water bottle next to her. "Try to get some sleep now."
The next day greeted her with a body that didn't feel like her own. Headache, shivers, stomach still churning away angrily, a horrible taste lingering in her mouth - was this truly just a trivial infection and nothing more sinister? Lae'zel felt her jaw with both hands. Still there, no tentacles. The hands had five fingers, and the toes on her feet were still encouragingly numerous.
Well, then. No ceremorphosis today.
Lae'zel stumbled out of the tent and blinked into the late morning sun, realizing to her discontent that she must have overslept quite a bit. Scolding herself inwardly for dallying, she thought briefly of getting breakfast. A drawn-out rumble from her midriff announced loudly what her body thought of the idea. She discarded the notion. On to the training, then.
Her greatsword felt particularly heavy today. Logically, Lae'zel knew that this was nonsense, yet she couldn't ignore the way her hands slipped on the grip, and her legs trembled from the exertion. After a few laughable attacks on her training dummy and even less impressive feints, she had to pause, bending over and leaning on her knees heavily for a break. She was covered in sweat already, chest heaving, her heart beating away a frantic rhythm as if she had just run for a few hours.
This was humiliating.
"And what do you think you're doing?"
She straightened up and turned around slowly. Wyll was watching her, arms crossed in front of him.
"I am doing my daily training."
Wyll arched a single eyebrow — an expression that irked her to no end, mainly due to the fact that no matter how hard she tried, she didn't have the same level of control over her facial muscles.
"It was a rhetorical question. Why are you out here at all? You should be in your tent, resting, like everyone else."
Lae'zel blew out an exasperated breath. "If I am not killing the absolutists, I should be spending my time with useful tasks like training or weapon maintenance, at least." She picked up her greatsword, shakily aiming for the dummy again.
"You are in no state to be strutting about, let alone training!" Wyll took the greatsword out of her hands and placed it on the weapon stand. "Come, let's get you back into your bedroll. Your body needs rest so that it can fight off this infection."
The fact that he so easily succeeded in disarming her did nothing to improve Lae'zel's mood. "Kaincha! How am I supposed to battle off something I cannot see? A gish, subdued by an enemy too small to fight with a sword! I will be the laughing stock of my clutch cousins!" She turned and made a step towards the weapon stand—
"Lae'zel of crèche K'liir! Will you listen to reason for one bloody second?"
She stared at him. Try as she might, she could not recall whether she had ever seen him this… agitated.
"Tsk'va! Be quick!"
Wyll planted himself in front of her, fists on his hips and a livid expression on his face. "You're sick! Whether you like it or not, you need to rest! Now stop hissing at me like a threatened frog and go lie down in your tent, or I swear to gods, I'll truss you like that chicken and put you there myself!"
For a moment, she reeled with anger. Wyll dared to threaten her? With restraints, no less? The audacity!
The thrill!
Yet deep down, she couldn't deny that there was a grain of truth in his words. She was in no state to fight or train. With one final Tsk'va! aimed at no one in particular, she stalked towards her tent and closed it behind her.
To Lae'zel's endless chagrin, the next day didn't bring much improvement. She felt as frail as a fresh hatchling. She had barely made it to the weapon stand before she needed the first break.
The familiar voice put an untimely end to her plans of diligence.
"Lae'zel, please tell me you are not attempting to start another training!" Wyll stood behind her with a menacing gleam in his eye. He sighed as she failed to give an answer. "Please, we've been over this. You need to rest."
"What I need is something useful to do!" she protested through clenched jaws.
"Trust me: in a few days' time, there will be plenty of Bhaalists you can very usefully dispose of! Do me a personal favor and rest for now, will you?"
Lae'zel squinted at him. "How is it that you are not sick?"
Wyll gave a chuckle in response to that. "Oh, I'm sick alright, just not as sick as you!"
"There's no reason to taunt me with that!" She couldn't keep the indignation out of her voice. "A gith body isn't as adapted to the peculiarities of material planes as a human one. This is no fault of mine!"
Wyll took a step towards her, immediately changing tone. "I wasn't implying that at all. It's not your fault, or anybody else's, for that matter. Sometimes these things just happen." His voice was kind, too kind almost. "Now. Will you go back to your tent voluntarily, or do I have to fetch a rope to help you settle down?"
She gave him a long look, assessing the thinly veiled threat, before nodding.
Wyll smiled brightly. "Great! An exhausted warrior is an ineffective one. Surely you know that?" He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and guided her back to her tent. "Off to your bedroll with you!"
Lae'zel grumbled quietly in Gith while letting herself be shepherded along. Once she was stretched out inside and somewhat comfortable, Wyll brought her a water bottle and some vegetable broth.
"Here, drink this. You need to stay hydrated." He held out the mug and grinned at her as she took it. "I'm looking forward to our next training, once you feel better."
"And I am looking forward to besting you again." Even to her own ear, the words sounded weak, yet Wyll indulged her with another grin, flashing his even, white teeth.
"I'm sure you will. Until then: rest. Now. No arguments!"
The remainder of the day passed in attempts to find some comfort, intermingled with short bouts of restless sleep. Her dreams were filled with swords, ropes, and warm hands on her shoulders, while a clear voice uttered indistinct commands into her ear. The visions left her feeling confused and agitated at the same time. Lae'zel caught herself glancing towards Wyll's tent more than there was any plausible reason to do so. Through the open entrance flaps, she saw that he was sleeping, with one arm thrown over his head, toned planes of his bare chest and stomach displayed heedlessly. A twinge of smugness stirred in her chest at the sight of a thin sheen of sweat covering his skin. Wyll wasn't as unaffected by this strange illness as he let on.
Astarion interrupted her ruminations with the offering of tea with honey. She mildly disliked the intense sweetness, but had to admit that her stomach wasn't yet ready to accept any solid food.
"Of all the people to be immune to this blight, the undead vampire spawn is the one? Why is that so?" The matter did pique her curiosity, even if it bothered her.
Astarion laughed, airy and noncommittal as always. "I don't know, darling. It's one of the many mysteries surrounding my fabulous person. Perhaps I'm too beautiful for something as ugly as a stomach bug to stick?"
"Bah! You take too much pride in your looks! Even Wyll is ill, and he— "
"Oh, so you think Wyll is better-looking than me?" Astarion interrupted her. "Darling, I'm hurt! I don't blame you, though. He's strong, fast and righteous, and can pull off wearing almost anything — even the horns!" He turned and looked at Wyll, who was still asleep in his tent. "Ah, that man! If I weren't well and truly off the market, I'd likely provide you with some competition for his bedroll, give you a real challenge."
"Chk! Stop this! I'm not trying to entice him!"
"Of course you aren't! Don't worry, dear," he winked at her, "your infatuation will be our little secret, perfectly safe with me!" With that, he left her alone with her thoughts.
Wyll turned around in his sleep, placing his muscular back in her direct line of sight.
She lay back, thinking about Astarion's parting words. Was she infatuated with the Blade of Frontiers? Before Wyll joined their group, she sought Gale's company, yet the wizard had more desire for conversation than carnal pleasures. Lae'zel suspected that he lacked the imagination to know what kind of bliss was within his arm's reach. After that, she concentrated on her mission. Had she missed an opportunity for relief? She tutted into the growing darkness of her tent. These deliberations were best left alone until her body was strong again and her mind sharp.
While the night brought some long-awaited improvements to her physical well-being, her dreams did little to clear up her thoughts. As she sat near the campfire in the morning sun, sipping her broth, she tried to recollect the images, to make sense of them. Yet no matter how much she chased them, all she had were diffuse impressions that involved more hands, ropes, overt threats, and an occasional Lae'zel of crèche K'liir!, spoken vigorously in a clear voice that sent anticipatory shivers down her spine.
She kept stealing glances at Wyll, who sat on the opposite side of the fire with his own mug in his hands, chatting amicably with Jaheira. Every so often, he would glance back at Lae'zel, his eyes locking on hers, lingering for a moment, yet he never broke his conversation off. She caught herself watching him later that day, as he sat in front of his tent, an oiled rag in hand, tending to his armor. And when he stood up and stretched, firm muscles rolling under the dark skin, his cropped shirt lifting high enough to show off his perfectly defined abdomen, she broke off in the middle of her conversation with Astarion and forgot entirely what she was about to say. When the elf chuckled in knowing amusement, she found herself at a loss for a sharp rebuke, which was even more concerning.
A light touch on her forearm startled Lae'zel out of yet another confusing dream. In the darkness of her tent, she could barely make out a familiar outline. She propped herself up on one elbow.
"Wyll?" Her voice was rough with sleep, or maybe not sleep at all.
"Shhhh-sh-sh." He pressed down lightly on her shoulder until she was lying flat on her back again. "I lead. You follow." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet the underlying commanding inflection was as present as ever. "Put your arms up above your head."
Lae'zel noticed a fine red rope in his hand, rolled up neatly, and felt her mouth go dry in an instant. Without breaking eye contact, she did as she was told, unable — unwilling — to disobey.
Wyll leaned over her, so close that she could smell the faint musk of his body. She inhaled deeply.
"I've come to sate you, and be sated." His hot breath washed over her ear, sending a wave of tingles across her skin. His deft hands worked above her head, wrapping multiple loops of rope snugly around her wrists and securing them to the support pole of her tent. A knife glinted in a stray moonbeam. With careful precision, he set the tip at the straps of her chest harness, then cut through them with swift movements, baring her breasts. Her pants followed, until she lay naked in front of him, bold and unashamed and utterly under his spell.
Wyll hovered above her, lips just a hairsbreadth away from hers. "I have known your body in a fight. Tonight, I will know it in pleasure. Close your eyes — and submit."
Lae'zel could not imagine disobeying this voice right now. With a final flutter, her eyes shut, and other senses took over. She felt him move downwards along her neck, lips so close to her skin but not touching, while his hands roamed over her upper arms and then down along her sides. Wyll was teasing her with a slow build-up of desire, brushing his nose along her breastbone and down to her navel, and yet denying her his lips. Come morning, I'll make him pay for it, she thought absently. Her heartbeat thrummed frantically against her ribs, loud enough that she thought Wyll surely heard it, too. Or was it his wild heart that she was hearing?
He moved back up, marking his way from her belly to her throat with a trail of kisses, featherlight yet searing themselves into her skin. He reached her lips again and hovered there, not touching, whipping up anticipation to new heights, until finally — finally! — she felt him lean closer—
She woke up, alone in her tent, chest heaving, heartbeat throbbing in her ears and between her legs. For a moment, Lae'zel blinked into darkness, disoriented and breathless, as the vestiges of the dream slipped away. Her hand stroked over her abdomen, tracing the line where the dream kisses still burned against her skin, then dipped lower under the waistline of her pants. A groan escaped her as her fingers slid into hot slick and rubbed in a firm circle. The sensation left her wanting more, wanting something else entirely.
She sat up and rummaged through her pack. Armed with a coil of rope (disappointingly not red), she stepped outside and marched over to Wyll's tent. Just like the other night, he slept on his back, chest rising in a slow, even rhythm. The rustle of the tent canvas was enough to wake him, though. His time in Avernus had made him a light sleeper, she guessed.
"Lae'zel? Are you feeling ill again?"
She considered him for a moment, her eyes slowly adjusting to the near-complete lack of light in his tent.
"I have decided that you should make good on your threat."
She heard rustling as Wyll fumbled around, and then a sharp rasp of a match. In the next moment, a candle on a low stool lit up. The little tongue of flame felt too bright.
"You have to help me here, Lae'zel, because I have not the slightest idea of what you are talking about."
She held the coiled rope out towards him. "You have threatened to tie me up. I find the thought strangely enticing… satisfying, even."
"I— What?"
"You have proven yourself countless times, in battle and outside of it." It seemed she would have to spell everything out for him, after all. "Your dominance stokes the fires of my yearning. When I come near, your odor alone is enough to make my neck sweat and my hairs stand on end."
Wyll was staring at her with wide eyes. A sliver of comprehension, she thought. Finally. She took a deep breath. "I will be plain: I want to taste you. Now. I want— "
"Lae'zel, wait." He cleared his throat. "I don't know if I have inadvertently given you the wrong idea, but… uh… A meaningless tumble isn't what I'm looking for."
She remained quiet. This was not at all how she expected this conversation to go.
Meanwhile, Wyll continued. "I'm a bit old-fashioned on these matters. Always have been, I suppose." He ran one hand over his horn nervously. "I'd like to do it the way of the old romances sung by the bards."
She blinked at him. "You want to sing me a ballad before our coupling?"
"No! Yes— That's not what I—"
She stood up. "I may have made a mistake by coming here. But it will be you wondering how my lips might have tasted, how my fingers on your skin might have felt." She turned for the entrance, rope still clenched tightly, when Wyll caught her hand.
"Don't go just yet." He pulled her lightly until she sat next to him again. "What I meant is — I'd like to do this the proper way."
"And what does the proper way entail, exactly?"
Wyll stared at her. "Surely you have been courted before?"
"No."
"Really? Never?"
"I do not know how courting is done. Is it a Faerûnian coupling technique?"
"Well, uh, not exactly. It usually precedes the, uh… coupling."
Why is Wyll stammering this much? Surely he isn't a virgin?
"So it's a mating ritual? Fine, then. Tell me what to do."
"Well, hrrm," Wyll cleared his throat again. "When two people are courting each other, they spend time together in order to get to know each other better."
"We have trained together and fought together on numerous occasions. I trust you in a battle and you trust me. What more is there to know?" The way Wyll chuckled at that made her wonder whether she had said something funny or inappropriate, even.
"For example: what's your favorite color?"
She was taken aback momentarily. "It has never occurred to me to pick one. How will knowing my favorite color make our coupling more enjoyable?"
"That's not the goal! We ask these questions in order to learn more about the person we like."
"So… conversation?" She was mildly annoyed that of the two people she had wanted to bed, both were more interested in talking rather than taking pleasure in each other's bodies. It seemed so… timid.
"Yes! Sharing food is also an important part of courting. And dancing! Especially if there's a ball."
Lae'zel doubted that any of those activities would be as satisfying as a shared bliss or a successful battle.
"Is sword fighting not a part of courting?"
Wyll grinned at her. "Usually not, but I'm sure we can make an exception." He seemed to come to a decision. "I'd much rather show you what courting is about. Don't worry!" he added quickly, as her doubtful expression registered to him. "It's not as complicated as it may seem to you. Meet me today in the evening, at five. If you don't like it, we can always go back to sword fighting."
She considered his proposition before saying, "Fine. I will court you with my sword."
She stood again and took a step outside. Before the entrance flaps fell closed, she heard Wyll call out after her, "It's a date!"
"Karlach? What's a date?"
Karlach nearly spat her vegetable rice into the campfire. She bumped Lae'zel with her shoulder, none too gently, grinning like a maniac.
"Did Wyll finally ask you out? That's so sweet!"
Lae'zel just stared at her, not sure how her friend knew. Did she overhear them somehow?
Karlach saw her confusion; her grin grew even wider. "Don't look at me like that! We've all been wondering how long it was going to take the two of you to do something!"
Lae'zel finally found her voice again. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, honey, we all have eyes and know how to use them!" That did not clear things up. "Look, you and I have travelled together for a while now, and we have trained together a fair number of times. Believe me when I tell you this: your sparrings with Wyll are not just about training, you know?"
"No."
Karlach blew out a frustrated gust of air. "Alright, I'll say it in Gith: He. Likes. You!"
"That's not Gith."
"Not my point, Lae! He has liked you for a while now! Don't tell me you haven't noticed?"
Lae'zel pondered over that, her thoughts inevitably circling back to their nighttime conversation. She had to admit that there may have been something… more.
"What are you going to wear, darling?" Both women turned around abruptly to see Astarion leaning against a tree behind them, arms crossed and an amused smile playing on his lips.
"Are clothes not the right answer here?" The longer this conversation went on, the more Lae'zel felt out of her depth. Navigating Faerûnian mating rituals was proving more difficult than communicating with a tl'a'ikith.
"You can't just wear your dusty travel pants when Wyll Ravengard, son of Duke Ravengard, asks you out on a date!"
She considered this new bit of information. "Is this also a part of courting?"
Astarion ambled around with the easy confidence of someone who was well aware of his own charms. He sat down at her other side.
"Lae'zel, dear, that is something you do for yourself. Wear what makes you feel comfortable and confident! Maybe add an accessory for a nice accent?" He twirled one end of his sky-blue scarf in his hand.
"Fine. Noted."
"Oh, and maybe some perfume? Just a dab on your neck, wrists, and belly button. For that extra whiff of promise, you know?"
She wrinkled her nose at that. "My odor is enough of a promise."
She had not seen Wyll all day, as he had suspiciously disappeared from camp. But when Lae'zel stepped out of her tent, shortly before the agreed-upon time, he was already there, backpack slung over his shoulder, waiting for her. His eyes widened for an instant as he took in her appearance. This had to be a good sign, she thought.
Wyll gave a short bow in a courtly manner and stretched out his hand towards her. She wasn't sure why he wanted to shake hands as if they'd just met for the first time — was it another courting ritual? She reached out, but before she could grasp his hand, he took hers, turned it palm down in one fluid motion, and placed a single kiss on the back, just above the knuckles.
"Lae'zel, you look particularly… impressive today!"
"I had the whole afternoon to polish my armor to perfection." From the corner of her eye, she could see the rubies that studded her breastplate gleam in the setting sun. She was pleased with the result of her work.
"And you are wearing the Aberration Hunters' Amulet!"
"Yes. It was Astarion's suggestion."
"Oh?"
"He told me to wear something that makes me feel comfortable and confident."
Wyll broke out in a peal of laughter. "And here you are, wearing your most intimidating armor!"
"Is it the wrong thing to wear for courting?" She suddenly felt self-conscious, like she was found lacking despite her best effort.
"Oh, no, no! Astarion is right about this, you know. If it makes you feel good about yourself, then by all means!" He was still smiling at her, entirely undeterred. "Come! We don't want to miss the show."
"What show?"
His smile shifted to a conspiratorial grin. "You'll see."
They left the camp and for a while hiked through the wilderness, side by side. The silence stretched between them, in the same comfortable way it did during numerous evenings of sitting next to each other near the campfire, tending to their respective weapons and armor. Occasionally, Lae'zel stole a glance towards Wyll. He chose to wear simple black pants that weren't too tight as to hinder the freedom of movements in a fight, yet tight enough to highlight his form in a way that made her mind flash to her dream for a moment. The sleeves of his beige cotton shirt were rolled up to the elbows, showcasing his well-sculpted forearms, while the two open buttons revealed a triangle of his chest, covered with dark hairs. She caught herself wondering whether they would feel as soft as they looked, and whether the ridges, unwanted though they may have been, would be sensitive to the touch.
They climbed up a hill that jutted slightly out into the course of the river, allowing for a sprawling view of the surroundings. On the opposite side of the river, the entrance to the harbor opened wide. Quite a few ships of all sizes were steering towards it, eager to find a safe landing pier before nightfall.
Wyll dropped his backpack and pulled out a rolled-up blanket from it. Lae'zel's eyes snagged on the rope it was secured with — red, of all things. She followed every movement of his hands as he untied the knot and straightened the blanket out, then sat down and patted a spot to his right.
"Come, sit with me."
Lae'zel followed his lead and made herself comfortable. Her greatsword sat next to her within arm's reach.
"What exactly are we doing here?"
Wyll looked over towards the harbor. "When I still was a proud resident of Baldur's Gate and not just a visitor, I used to hike up one of the hills and watch the setting sun. It's always a moment of beauty, and no two sunsets are ever the same." He didn't meet her eyes, yet she recognized a sliver of sadness in his voice. Perhaps because it was the same sadness she carried with her wherever she went, caused by being separated from her crèche, from her people.
Wyll was unpacking more things as he talked: a bottle of wine, two cups, a few paper bags, utensils, and even napkins.
"I went to several places that serve some of my favorite dishes in Baldur's Gate. I'm sure Halsin would strongly disapprove of my meal choices for the evening, probably even lecture us about how we need a diet of light food after our illness. But I suspect you're as tired of broth and tea as I am," he grinned at her with a mischievous spark in his eye. She couldn't help but grin back.
"So this is what courting is about? Hiking, eating foods, watching sunset?"
"If I suggested hiking to anyone whom I met in the ballrooms of Baldur's Gate," Wyll said, snickering, "I would not have been invited to those events much longer. No, this is nothing the fine ladies of the upper society would do. But it is something I thought you might enjoy with me."
He held out a bowl filled with something coated in a reddish-brown dip. A cautious sniff revealed roasted meat and vegetables, liberally covered in a sauce that smelled spicy, sweet and tangy at the same time. The mix made her mouth water instantly. Meanwhile, Wyll was arranging a few more bowls between them: fragrant rice, pieces of something battered and deep-fried, skewers of fresh fruit and vegetables, shrimps in crispy crust. He picked up another bowl, spooned out a single dumpling, and held it out to her.
"Here, try this first."
The dark sauce covered her tongue with a strong flavor she had no words to describe. Lae'zel bit into the steamed dough of the dumpling and savored the juices it released in her mouth. Wyll was right. She missed solid foods more than she had realized.
He was watching her with an expectant smile. "Is it good?"
She was too busy chewing the hearty delicacy to answer him properly, but did manage to utter something between an enthusiastic grunt and a delighted purr. Wyll's face lit up at the sound.
"I thought you might like it. A lot of people are deterred by the intense taste of the sauce. Too strong, too dominant, too garlicky. Which are incidentally all of the things I enjoy about it!"
For the next half an hour, they traded the bowls of food back and forth between them, sometimes commenting on the different flavors, but mostly just enjoying the meal and each other's company. The sun was slowly dipping lower towards the horizon, letting the clouds shine in all shades of reds, pinks, and oranges.
"Wyll?"
"Hmm?"
"What's your favorite color?"
He smiled at her, then turned back to the setting sun. "Look at all of these," he waved in the general western direction. "How can I pick just one when there's so much beauty around me?" He was quiet for a moment. "Right now, I especially enjoy how the sun spreads golden dapples over the water. The color reminds me of your eyes. They are the most extraordinary I've ever seen."
The compliment left her grappling for an answer. Only a few tendays ago, Lae'zel would have scoffed at it, probably replied with something obnoxious. Today's Lae'zel was a different person.
"You know," she started slowly, "when we first met at the grove, I misjudged you. I thought you a she'lak— "
"A what now?" Wyll's one brow shot up, making her smile at the familiar expression.
"A she'lak is an idealist do-gooder, the benevolent burden. You had to be everywhere, do everything. Save everyone."
Wyll's lips twitched in a little smirk as he averted his eyes. "I can see why you thought that."
"But I was wrong. I may have thought you witless and bland, but you are neither. You've proven your wits and your efficiency, and I have come to respect you. Truth be told, you did impress me, from the very beginning. But I was too prideful to admit it to myself, let alone to you. I… I just wanted to tell you that."
They remained quiet for a while, watching the last rays of sun disappear behind the horizon.
"Since we are talking so openly," Wyll said, turning to face her, "I have a confession of my own. I was wrong about you, too. I thought you judgemental, stubborn, and cruel more often than not. You scared the living daylights out of me." He looked sheepishly at her. "To be completely truthful, sometimes you still do."
Lae'zel preened at the admission like a youngling who had received the approval of their sa'varsh for the first time.
"But honestly?" Wyll took her hand where it lay between them. "There's no one I'd rather fight alongside than you." He kissed her knuckles again, lingering quite a bit longer than the last time, never breaking eye contact with her.
She squeezed his fingers lightly. "That makes two of us."
It was nearly midnight when they returned, the moon and a dying fire the only sources of light illuminating the camp. Next to the fireplace, Astarion and Jaheira were conversing in low voices. Both looked up as Wyll and Lae'zel came closer, arms linked comfortably.
Jaheira eyed them with a knowing smile and a twinkle in her eyes. "Did you cubs have fun?"
Lae'zel's first instinct was to fire back a biting retort. Before she could do so, Wyll gave her arm a gentle pet and said, "Yes, I believe we did."
Without waiting for another comment, he pulled her towards a darker corner of the camp, where their tents stood. "A man of manners always makes sure that his date gets home safely, no matter how short the walk," he said, stopping in front of her training dummy.
Lae'zel turned to face him. "Would said manners prevent a man from kissing his date goodnight?"
Wyll reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Not at all." His hand lingered on her cheek as he leaned a little closer towards her. She saw his eyes slide down to her lips. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
The kiss was nothing like her dream. No wild anticipation, no full-body shivers, no all-consuming desire. Just a gentle touch of soft lips to hers. Warm hands, calloused from using the weapons on a daily basis, yet still somehow comforting, that cradled her face as if she were precious and should be handled with utmost care. And the strangest feeling of rightness that started in her chest and spread to the most distant corners of her body.
Why had they waited for so long?
They broke apart, yet Wyll made no attempts to step back or let her go, instead pressing their foreheads together, quickened breaths mingling between them. A dreamy smile played on his lips as their nosetips touched in the silliest of ways.
"So, what's your conclusion on the matter of courting? Do you enjoy it?"
Lae'zel pulled back a little to look him in the eye.
"Courting? I haven't decided yet. Being courted by you?" She smiled up at him. "I think I like that very much." She could barely finish the sentence before Wyll pressed his lips to hers again, and this time, there was anticipation, and there were shivers, and a promise of more to come. The kiss left her more than a little breathless when they parted again.
"So," she said, swallowing once. "Now that the courting is done: do we go to your tent or mine?"
"So impatient," Wyll chuckled, still holding her close. "I admit, I have had, ah, thoughts about it."
Truly, it eluded her why everyone in Faeurun had to overthink something as mundane as sex. Lae'zel had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes at him.
"Do not think, Wyll. Act."
"We will get there, in time. I promise." Wyll gave her a quick peck on the tip of her nose, making her giggle like an untried teenager. "It's been a long night. I should let you get some rest. Sleep well, Lae'zel! I'm looking forward to training with you again tomorrow!"
"One hour before breakfast. Don't be late."
Wyll grinned at her, stroking her face with his thumbs and then letting her go slowly.
"I wouldn't dream of it."