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Wyll knows it’s rather selfish to feel the way he does. In the never-ending darkness, with the threat of death around every corner and a reborn warlord at the helm of the forest, he finds himself haunted.
And yet he makes no effort to move from the edge of the lake, staring down at his reflection in the water. Someone he doesn't recognize stares back, mismatched eyes and scarred skin- there's a haunting forlorn look that follows every twitch of breath.
It takes nearly all of Wyll’s strength to not disturb the water and his reflection in the process.
He needed to get over this feeling, this disgust, and he needed to get over it fast. All of Faerun was threatened and all Wyll could do was stare at his reflection, stare at a man he doesn't recognize.
There’s a huff then and he’s staring down at his ridged hands, his once soft knuckles now worn with scars and uncomfortable bumps that weren't there weeks ago. He was once rather handsome, never doubting the man who looked back. Sure he’d never been in a real relationship, but Wyll had garnered the attention of his peers.
The idea of returning to Baldur’s Gate looking like this was… daunting.
It’s an incredibly selfish thought but Wyll feels that familiar ache in his stomach spread to his chest. He raises a tentative finger to his right horn, just barely brushing the ridge of where it meets the skin.
There’s a spark of residual pain. The fires of Avernus burn into his very skin, branding him only further as he screws his eyes shut and tenses his jaw. Phantom pain or otherwise, Wyll would never be free of it.
“There you are.”
Wyll just barely holds in a jolt, eyes wide as he spins his head to his right. He finds none other than his favorite dance partner, his very heart, and he smiles instinctively, the harsh flames of Avernus forgotten.
“Rana,” he greets softly, watching as she takes a seat beside him, sitting on her knees with a raised brow, long tail wrapped around her legs.
Her bright red hair is pulled back, just barely sitting just over her shoulders. Her eyes search him, bright red irises nearly glowing in the moonlight, reflecting off of her pale rose skin. She’s the personification of a rogue flame, or, in Wyll’s eyes, a beating heart.
“You didn’t stray too far this time,” Rana murmurs, already looking over his figure, already searching for cause or reason. She'll play coy from now but Wyll knows her roundabout ways- he invoked the very same paths in others too. “I’m surprised.”
Wyll shines her a smile, genuine, comforted. “Nowhere you couldn’t follow,” he answers, his hand landing over her knee. “What can I do for you, my stars? Did you need help with something?”
Rana shakes her head, this time moving her palm to the satchel on her hip. Wyll turns his head with renewed curiosity, brows furrowing as a dull brown bottle no larger than her palm lands in her lap.
“Some ale?”
“No,” Rana laughs, shaking her head as she buttons her satchel shut. “It’s an oil. For your horns.”
Wyll pauses, his eyes widening and rising up from the bottle to meet Rana’s gaze. She stares into his mismatched eyes and for a minute, Wyll says nothing. Or rather, he can't say anything.
He begs his mind to cooperate, to find something sweet or kind to say to the woman who held his heart in a way no one else ever has. To express his shock and gratitude.
But Rana’s already undoing the cork over the glass bottle, shifting to stand on her knees and now towering over him despite her normally much shorter height. Wyll looks up at her with a big blink, the stars shimmering above them both, her red hair a canvas of light amongst the darkened sky.
“Karlach let me know she did this for you just after the party,” Rana mumbles, not quite noticing the shine in Wyll's eyes, “and that was weeks ago.”
Wyll clears his throat, finally gathering his fractured thoughts. “I wouldn’t w-want to pester anyone with something so…”
Selfish? Conceited? Vain? A few choice words that, despite their accuracy, would earn a rather pronounced frown from the tiefling. She didn't take too kindly to some of the words Wyll sometimes found instinctively leaving his lips.
“Bothersome,” he settles on.
She shoots him a deadpanned look, empty palm cupping the underside of his chin gently. Her grip is gentle, not punishing nor tight enough to send that awful falling sensation through Wyll's insides. He's not... scared. Rana does nothing for a moment, merely looking into his eyes with the same frown that eventually evens out into a much softer look.
“You never pester me,” Rana responds, giving the side of his scarred face a gentle pat before letting his chin go, letting a few drops of the slick oil fall into her palms. “Now stay still, I need to make sure to get every crevice.”
Wyll complies with a rush of warmth erupting in his cheeks. He looks up to the underside of her chin as she gently wraps both palms around his horns, moving over each ridge with a gentle touch Wyll has longed for his entire life. He makes sure to stay still, tracing each stroke of her hand over his most despised feature.
It’s… a raw sensation. Maybe not so much the movement and action of it all, which might always feel unnatural, but rather the idea it was happening to begin with. When Karlach had done the very same for him only weeks ago, Wyll had struggled to be genuine with her. He had joked about needing to budget for oil now, earning a laugh from her with a question of what the going prices were these days.
But there’s an intimacy with Rana that Wyll is still learning to navigate- as exciting as it was, fear was a rather persistent factor.
“You know, in the old days, it was said the bigger the horns one had, the more attractive they were perceived,” Rana states rather matter-of-factually.
Wyll watches the smirk that overcomes her lips with a digging of his nails into his own palms. It hurts but perhaps it would stop all the blood currently rushing to his face as she meets his gaze from above.
“Really now?” he replies despite the burning in his cheeks, “without them I’d just be your average, boring man?”
“Oh no, you’d still be quite handsome,” she answers, following his horns to the very tip with a wink.
Wyll’s sure he looks as flustered as he feels. “Well, I-I guess getting caught in low-hanging branches is a well enough compromise to be seen so highly in your eyes,” he squeaks out.
Rana laughs softly, focusing back on her ritual. She takes a moment to dig her fingers into the pointed tips, massaging them for a beat as Wyll finds his thoughts drifting dangerously. He wants, no, needs to show his gratitude, to let the woman know just how important all this was to him.
She hadn’t seen him as a monster the day he confessed to making a pact with the hells and now, weeks later, she touched and held him in ways he never thought he’d ever deserve. Ways he once thought he needed to beg, to pray for. Perhaps that's all this was, a sacred exchange. Her palms slicked with oil and Wyll looking up with his full commitment and adoration- he couldn't afford to give her any less.
With a renewed sense of brevity, Wyll raises his palm to gently cup her warm wrist, a tremble leaving his frame as she meets his eyes. “This is… very kind of you, Rana,” he whispers, “I hope you know how much this means to me.”
Rana gives him a genuine, casual smile as she works both palms back down his horns once more, unable to hold his gaze for too long. Wyll had learned rather quickly that despite her ability to listen to his own personal, depressing musings, Rana was never one to handle too much gratitude her way. Despite how desperately his heart yearns to grovel in thanks, he merely lets her wrist go.
There was nothing in all of Faerun that would be worthy in return of her kindness, not after this.
For now, Rana rubs her fingers into each ridge and crevice, ensuring no surface was left untouched, before sitting back onto her knees. “Perfect,” she murmurs, looking over his horns before dipping her fingers into the water, attempting to wash the oil away. “Now just let them dry before setting your head down onto your sack for the night. Otherwise you’ll leave a mess in the linen.”
Wyll watches her wash her palms, hands curled into fists by his sides before he can’t help himself no longer- until the pain from his nails becomes unbearable. His hands wrap around her bony hips, earning a small gasp from her mouth before pulling her close, lips against hers only seconds later.
He kisses her softly but desperately, holding her tight as she relaxes into the touch. Her hands land on his own bare waist, just under the hem of his tank, humming into the touch as Wyll loses himself in her embrace.
Her very soul.
He leans back for air after only a moment, he could never be too greedy despite the very want to be so. He clears his throat, blinking rapidly as she licks her lips, chest rising and falling quickly.
“Another note of thanks,” he settles on, his voice dipping dangerously.
Rana’s cheeks flush as she shakes her head, taking a moment to reorient herself. “You’re very welcome,” she breathes. “We’ll do this weekly, the oil I mean, if it’s alright with you. Best to be done after a wash, too.”
He nods his head in understanding, her red eyes nearly lighting up with joy as she pats his warm waist with her palms.
“Glad we’re on the same page,” she murmurs, eyes raised to look over his horns in the moonlight, soft waves brushing against the shore only inches away. “Much better.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them,” Wyll laments then, words tumbling past his lips before he can really stop them. His gaze is back onto the slow waves, eyes searching his unrecognizable reflection. "To this version of me.”
There’s a hum that escapes his lips, gentle and vulnerable, his gaze not raising from the water as he meets her eyes over the water's surface, looking to her reflection. Her palms fall from his waist and curl into her lap, striking an uneasy note in Wyll's chest.
“You lived your life without them for twenty-four years,” Rana starts quietly, “It’s not a small change. And the manner of which you received them was no measly magic.”
That much was very, very true. Wyll swears he can still feel the pain over his horns from time to time- that the very flames of Avernus still flicker against his skin in times of quiet.
“I fear returning to Baldur’s Gate,” he confesses. He’s not sure when it became so easy to simply speak to Rana, to bare his very heart, but the change is nearly as daunting as his horns. He'll relish in what salvation she can provide, no matter how small.
“As childish and conceited––”
“It is a fair fear,” Rana cuts in sharply, her hand now over his, squeezing his nimble fingers between hers as Wyll looks up from the water, meeting her gaze evenly. “You’ve changed- and not just physically. It’d be more worrisome if you weren’t afraid.”
He can’t help the weak smile on his lips then, one brimming with a slight relief, of understanding. Rana may not know the true extent of his pact nor just how lonesome Wyll has been these last few years, but he swears her words hold more weight than any pact ever could.
Wyll's smile doesn't fade as quickly as he expects it to. “At the very least, I have a fiery tiefling by my side.”
Her own lips split into a grin, hand squeezing his. “One that will slit the throat of anyone who dares to look your way,” she assures with a nod.
“Let’s not delve too far down that line of thinking,” Wyll laughs out with a twist of his palm, holding her hand in his as he meets her gaze. “Having you by my side will be reassurance enough.”
There’s a moment where she merely stares into Wyll’s own eyes, unwavering and gentle, enough to lose himself in. A look he's nearly addicted to, a sensation that cannot be described in words alone.
It’s a gaze Wyll will never tire from- one he might very well worship.