Chapter Text
Some dialogue from the game has been changed this chapter to fit with the story.
You’d never really thought twice about the tiefling wizard after the grove party at your camp, so upon seeing him drowning himself in Arabellan Dry at Last Light Inn, you’re somewhat surprised by the cool tendrils of relief in your midsection. After witnessing the horrors of what the shadow curse was capable of and the pile of tiefling bodies just outside the inn’s protection, you’d lost hope that any of those you saved at the grove had made it to safety.
But you hadn’t quite felt so relieved to see Mol run up and defend you after Jaheira tangled your legs in those vines. You hadn’t even really thought about Mattis or Doni either, and surely kids surviving this cruel curse deserved a little something.
A sigh of relief.
A smile.
Except, there was nothing. You were thankful, of course, to Mol for getting you out of a tight situation. The last thing you wanted to do after braving the Underdark, fighting shadow fiends, and goblins and Driders, was to take down an entire group of people seeking the same kind of refuge as you and your camp.
And yet, no emotion sparked inside your road-weary, jaded heart…until you hear three little words that would have, under normal circumstances, made you turn on your heel with a roll of your eyes.
Instead, you feel something.
“Oh, it’s you.”
He’s alive…
The thought pops into your brain the moment that strange sensation of relief pulses through your chest. You frown as the tiefling turns back to the bar and tilts the cup up at his lips, swallowing the remainder of the ale in a single gulp.
Shouldn’t that piss you off?
It really doesn’t take much at all to set you off these days.
You’d punched Aradin for less back at the Grove.
Perhaps the fact that Rolan survived and made it this far was surprising. It had caught you off guard to see him at all, let alone alive and sort-of well. That has to be it. There’s simply no other plausible reason why he, of all people in Faerûn, had made your pulse skip a beat at the mere sight of him.
Or the tadpole is acting up again.
Honestly, you wouldn’t put it past that.
“As fulfilling as it is to watch Rolan drown himself in ale,” Astarion says behind you, his tone bored and unimpressed. “I do have a devil to find.”
You purse your lips and stare at the back of Rolan’s head, eyes lifting to the tips of his horns and the dirt stains across the shoulder of his robe. He must have fallen in the dirt, possibly knocked back by a wraith. Following the line of his sleeves, you spy the frayed hem around his wrist. Had a fireball spell gone awry? What in the hells was he thinking trying to fight back?
“Right,” you hear yourself say absently, not even turning to glance back at Astarion who takes it upon himself to stray from the bar. Gale strolls after him, pretending to be more interested in the dried meats hanging about than the vampire. Only Karlach remains at your side and as you turn to face her, knowing it’s best not to pry into Rolan’s sour attitude, you find her picking something out of her teeth with her pinky nail.
You don’t get far, of course. A voice behind the bar catches your attention. One of the tiefling children is standing up to Rolan’s barking orders for more ale and you pause as you stare up at Karlach, listening to the small but confident voice.
“Jaheira said to serve drinks but not to serve drunks!”
“Yeah!” Another tiefling child chimes in from the safety of the corner.
“Jaheira didn't save your ragged little tails from the cultist. I did.”
Another something slips through you. Surprise, yes, but something else as well. It almost feels like pride, but that's ridiculous. Why would you be proud that some irritable tiefling managed to save not just his own neck but the children as well?
“Is that Barcus?” Karlach leans forward and squints, looking into another section of the inn. She puts her hand on your shoulder to lean forward and nearly sends you stumbling into the bar. It takes an act of the gods for you to catch yourself on a stool and not the drunken tiefling that turns to glare at you. “I can't believe he made it here! Thought for sure he'd fall down a crevice or something. Let's go say hi!”
She stomps off, semi-following the path Gale and Astarion have taken away from you and once she circles the bar, it's just you, two tiefling children, and Rolan. Unless you count the blush on your face as a separate entity and since it's burning so brightly it nearly eclipses the dome of light surrounding the inn, you almost do.
And when Rolan sneers at you and drunkenly accuses you of being the reason his siblings were taken by the cultists, that blush spreads up to your hairline and down to your neck. You want to snap at him, tell him to stop being a fool, to stop blaming you for everything but you can't. You simply stare at him and swallow down a strange sensation of guilt.
Behind the drunken haze in his sunlight eyes, you see the pain, the horror and misery. He's only blaming you out loud because he blames himself. The hurt looks so familiar that you don't even need a mirror to know something similar is written behind your own eyes.
Again, you swallow and straighten, glancing toward your three companions who have moved on from the scene. “If they're alive,” you manage to force out. “I'll find them.”
He whirls around to face you, ale sloshing over the rim of his cup and down his fingers. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a drop slip to the tip of his claw, lingering there for a moment, before dripping to the dusty floorboards.
“They're my responsibility,” he snarls. Despite the slur in his voice, it does little to hide the vitriol. He hates you. Why does that make you sick to your stomach? “You go save the world, or your own arse, or whatever it is you do. I'll fix this.”
You turn away just as he does and try to slow your steps to a normal pace, but you can't help but feel like everyone's eyes are on you as you cross the room. Had they heard his words? Did they understand his hatred?
A pair of narrowed, untrusting amber eyes track you as you cross the first floor of the inn. You don't meet them, keeping your focus on the backs of your companions gathered around a table. Mol sits in one seat and the devil in another and while you know you should be paying attention to whatever they're discussing, you can't help but glance over your shoulder to the bar.
Things get progressively worse after you rescue Rolan from the shadows. You almost hesitated, not wanting to shatter his ego any more than you already have, but Karlach raced ahead of you and sent her axe right through one of the foes surrounding the area.
He's not happy to see you and looks worse. Not drunk anymore but not good. You can tell his guilt eats at him, fuels his noble intentions to save his brother and sister. You can only imagine the misery he feels when he looks up and sees you standing there.
“Gods damn it all !” His shout echoes through the dark and you wince. Thankfully, if any of your companions see, they'll assume you don't want the noise to attract more shadows to vanquish. “I can do nothing right! Not a damn thing!”
You start to take a step toward him, hesitate, and ultimately decide against it. Instead, you stare at him and hope your face is soft despite the bruises, blood, and dust speckling it. “What are you even doing out here, Rolan?”
“I was looking for Cal and Lia, of course. Instead, I find myself surrounded by shadow fiends, in need of rescue.” He frowns, pain washing across his gaze that has little to do with the small wounds he sports on his body. “From you, of all people.”
Five words make your heart stop and race at the same time and you blink as if he'd just tried to launch a fireball at your head.
From me? He truly does hate me…
“I failed Cal and Lia. Again.”
Karlach scratches the back of her neck and looks at you with a cringe twisting her lips. She hates awkward situations and wants to make a joke to lighten the mood. You give your head a tiny shake and she blows a breath out and turns away.
“Be on your way,” Rolan says, bringing your attention back to him as he waves you off. “I'll return to Last Light. I know when I'm outmatched.”
Does he mean by the shadows or you?
Specks of blood stain your armor and though you haven't looked at your reflection in a few days, you can just feel the grime and gore coating places you didn't even know it could reach. A bath--doesn’t even have to be warm at this point--is calling your name and as you pass through the protective light surrounding Last Light, you decide that ridding yourself of dirt is your top priority.
Even though you're already glancing at the inn with a bit of anticipation swirling through you that has little to do with the promise of a bath.
It's warm inside the inn and you shiver as the heat of the fire in the hearth brushes away the chill of the shadow curse. As your companions file around you, two seeking privacy and a wash tub, while the other makes a beeline for Jaheira to brag about the recent jailbreak from Moonrise, you stand awkwardly in the middle of it all, trying not to look too far into the room. Which would have been easy had the sound of shouting not pulled your attention to three tieflings near the bar.
He's angry?
You thought he would be thrilled to have his siblings back, relieved! A frown pinches your brows and this time, you don't care how much seeing him makes your heart and stomach flutter. You're going to give him a piece of your mind.
You stomp across the room, fingers clenched into fists at your side. Anger swirls like flames and you remember how satisfying it had felt to punch Aradin. Will this feel the same way? You don't want to punch Rolan but how dare he talk to his siblings like this after what they've been through!
As you draw near, the muscles in your shoulder rolling to ready yourself to throw a punch, Cal turns to you. “Thank you. For saving me and the two idiots.”
His sincerity stops you before you can close the distance between his callous brother and yourself and you turn your head to blink at Cal. The touch of your hand at your hip is surprising. You half expected it to be flying toward Rolan’s face, which is strangely turned toward you at the moment. And there's not a scowl or frown or hint of hatred in his eyes.
There's only relief.
Your fingers loosen from the fist they're still curled in and you cross your arms over your chest. Hearing your own voice startles you but you can't stop the snarky words from tumbling from your lips.
“Anything to add, Rolan?”
You half expect him to roll his sunshine eyes and tell you to fuck off.
He doesn't sigh or brush you off with a flick of his clawed fingers. He simply stares at you and apologizes. There's no begrudgement, no animosity, or hatred in his tone. Just a genuine apology and a thanks. Around his side, you see the tip of his tail flicker and swish, rustling his robes.
He says something else and hands you a small leather pouch. A reward. You feel your hand take it. Not because you think he owes you anything but because you're used to the people you've helped giving you something in return. It's almost a reflex by now.
There's weight to the pouch and the coins inside jingle as you clench your fingers around it.
A lot of coins.
It's too much. You know it without even counting a single one and you step back up to the tiefling wizard as he turns to his siblings, a smile stretching his pretty lips.
Pretty lips? Since when do I think his lips are pretty?
You shake the thought from your head and reach out, tapping him on the shoulder. “Rolan, I can't accept--”
“I've thanked you once already,” he says, a hint of playfulness in his tone and his eyes. As he tilts his head toward you, his horns catch the firelight and you can't help but stare at him with your breath held tight. “Don't be greedy.”
Lia pulls him in for a hug, Cal calls for another flagon of ale, and you stand there with a pouch of gold in your hands and a flutter in your heart. It quickly melts into molten heat that sinks between your rib cage, into your belly, and then lower .
So low you almost suck in a breath. You need the air. Your body is almost desperate for it, desperate to cool the heat clenching your core. The muscles in your thighs tighten and a flush spreads slowly across your face.
You turn on your heel, still holding the pouch out in front of you, fingers clenched tight around coin and leather.
“Oi, where you off to, soldier?” A familiar voice calls out from the table where Jaheira sits. If Karlach notices the blistering flush across your face, she doesn't mention it, and you're thankful.
“Bath,” is all you manage to murmur before you're trudging up the stairs, hoping Isobel will share the only wash tub in the inn that Gale and Astarion haven't fucked in.
And the only wash tub with a private room so you can be alone with your thoughts. Alone with just the memory of a tiefling that you were almost certain hated you and the tease of his words that twisted your belly with relief and arousal.
Don't be greedy…