Along the River Chionthar

The fledgling relationship growing between Shadowheart and Tav is one of the worst-held secrets in camp. 

It’s universally acknowledged, by this point, that both women are more or less enamored with each other. 

Serena rarely misses an opportunity to include Shadowheart in the smaller groups she takes with her when they venture away from camp. They’re constantly side-by-side, whether in battle, or merely occupying the same log around the fire, come supper. 

They’d moved in relative secrecy before, that much is true. Shadowheart had insisted upon it, and though Serena was wounded by the notion that Shadowheart might be ashamed of their relationship, she’d respectfully obliged. 

The Gauntlet of Shar changed everything. 

Just…not outwardly. 

The night that Shar severed her connection to Shadowheart, the former cleric was inconsolable. Her dreams, her path in life, erased in the span of a single evening. A single trip to the Shadowfell had rendered her lost, without a goddess, feeling more alone than she ever had before. 

And of course, she slept in Serena’s tent that night…though she wept until the stars faded into dawn, her tears soaking through Tav’s shirt and into her chest. 

Though the rest of camp had remained respectfully silent, they saw with their own eyes the way Serena was Shadowheart’s first line of defense, her refuge when all else had been taken from her. They’d noticed the way Serena would come by her tent, multiple times a day, for the next two tendays, bringing her meals, sitting outside her tent when Shadowheart would attempt to isolate herself. 

There can be no questioning the deep affection they carry for one another; Shadowheart is different, around Serena. Lighter, happier,…Whole. 

But it is uniquely Shadowheart to deny herself happiness, so terrified of loss now, that she cannot bring herself to admit the full extent of her feelings to Serena. 

What is achingly obvious to nearly everyone else seems to elude the two central to the topic. 

Serena and Shadowheart dance around each other, even now- though Shadowheart hasn’t the courage to rekindle their moonlit trysts, she pines after Serena. She seems to gain more of herself- not her Sharran self, but her true self, every day. 

And though it might only be a matter of time before one of them comes to their senses and takes action, the group fears that time is simply a luxury they do not possess. Not only that, but the frustration between the two is evident. 

Serena nearly eviscerated a group of Bhaal cultists by Bloomridge Park, so tense as she was, with loads of pent up physical desire that manifested in a deadly swing of her blade. 

And not a day later, Shadowheart single-handedly laid waste to a vicious group of Sahuagin by the docks.

…Before anyone else could even catch up to her long, agitated strides. 

What started as a simple chase, a romantic back-and-forth, has been moving at a glacial pace, and the effects are evident. 

And that is why the group has called an impromptu meeting around the campfire, on this particular evening. 

Serena has chosen Shadowheart (to the surprise of no one), and Jaheira, to case the Counting House for infiltration. 

It provides the perfect opportunity to discuss the camp’s resident issue between their leader and healer. 

The forum is open for discussion- though it is not quite as tactical as any one of them had hoped... 

“...Well it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Karlach snorts. “Shads needs to ride her and be done with it.” 

“Agreed.” Astarion nods. “I mean, really, what is there to lose?” 

Lae’zel glances up across the fire through a slitted gaze. “What would she be riding?” She inquires, fairly solemnly, though confusion is evident in her tone. 

“...I’m not certain it’s any of our business.” Wyll admits, not unkindly. “They need to realize their feelings for themselves. And Shadowheart just went through quite the change.” 

“I agree.” Gale tuts. “Though…I suppose we could help them along, in several ways.” he stirs at the cauldron over the fire, and while the Leek and Potato soup is far from done, the scent is welcoming nonetheless. 

“They are fools. Their refusal to lay together will cost us all our lives.” Lae’zel counters sharply. 

…Okay, so maybe they had noticed Serena ogling Shadowheart, managing to fall off a dock in the Grey Harbor as a result of her lapse in focus. 

Who wouldn’t? 

“It’s not just matters of a…carnalnature.” Wyll sighs. “Can’t you see they’re in love? We can’t hurry that along any more than a flower can be forced to bloom before its season.” Wyll sips at his wine, shaking his head. 

“Love.” Astarion rolls his eyes. “It’s not as if we’ve parasites in our minds, or anything. By all means, why don’t we get them a room at the Elfsong and lock them in it?” 

“...We’re trying to encourage romance, Astarion, not starvation.” Wyll points out. 

“...Trust me, they’ll be eating.” Astarion grins. 

Lae’zel thinks for a moment, likely trying to understand the expression, and then smirks. 

Gale’s ladle falls into the cauldron and he hisses at the hot backsplash of soup. “Might we change the subject?” He laughs nervously, clutching the back of his neck. 

“Again.” Wyll clears his throat. “As I’ve said before, this is a matter of the heart. Delicate, like a flower-” 

“-Right, yeah, that’s all good.” Karlach snorts. “But did you see Shads the other day at Elfsong? When that maid accidentally got a good look at Tav in the bath?” Karlach shakes her head, grinning. “Gods, she was running as hot as I am.” 

“Oh yes.” Gale sucks in a quick breath at the memory. “I believe she threatened to give the poor lady a…what was it? Ah, yes, a good thrashing. …A bit terrifying, that.” 

Lae’zel snorts. “Her anger is better spent on the ghaik invader in our minds.” 

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Karlach points to her in agreement. “Why don’t we just…give them a friendly push?” 

Astarion scoffs. “Short of laying with our hapless leader in front of Shadowheart, how do you hope to accomplish that? The girl’s had every opportunity. Have we considered that Shadowheart might not desire Tav in this way?” 

“...That’s…not a bad idea.” Karlach muses aloud. 

“...You can’t be serious.” Wyll scoffs. 

Astarion quirks a brow. “...Well, don’t look at me. I’m not volunteering.” 

“I will lay with her.” Lae’zel sniffs. “If she is truly strong, she will emerge from this with a renewed sense of dignity…Or she will break.” 

Karlach looks a bit dumbstruck, to be fair. “...Ah, that’s…not really what I meant, ‘Lae. But…good to know…” 

A puff of smoke nearly puts out the fire, and before them manifests a figure of sinewy muscle wrapped suffocatingly around bone. 

“Withers!” Gale greets cheerily. “May we offer you a piping hot bowl of soup?” 

Withers turns his head slowly, surveying them all, before resting a hollow gaze upon Gale. 

“Thou shalt not.” 

“...Right, well, it isn’t ready yet, but you have some time to-” Gale’s fumbling is bypassed by a flourish of Withers’ hands. 

“Thou dost seek to bridge the chasm ’twixt thy healer and thy leader, dost thou not?” Withers asks gravely. 

“...We…Thy…do…” Karlach tries, shrugging helplessly as she nods. 

“Such matters do steer thee astray from the battles that yet lie before thee.” Withers tells them, sagely, as if they aren’t all simply gossiping together like a group of hens. 

“Really?” Astarion snorts. “We storm Cazador’s palace and you said and did absolutely nothing, but Shadowheart can’t seem to mount Tav properly and this warrants divine…or whatever you are…intervention?” 

“Yes.” Withers blinks coldly at Astarion, and the discussion between them ends there. “I shall craft a feast, that it might draw them unto one another.” 

He waves his hand, and the stew Gale has labored over for hours vanishes. 

“Hey!” Gale exclaims, turning to Withers with a look of utter shock. “I’ll have you know that was three hours in the mak- oh.” 

A veritable feast has been conjured behind them, a massive spread of the finest food and drink along a sprawling wooden table, previously where Tav had pored over warmaps, strategizing. 

Karlach gapes. “I didn’t…did you know he could do that?” 

Wyll grins. “This is truly a gift, Withers, thank you.” 

Lae’zel’s eyes narrow at Withers. “And yet, we’ve spent many evenings hunting when we could have been honing our skills.” 

“...A rare occasion, indeed, this evening.” Withers offers, turning to smoke once more as he disappears from view. 

Astarion gawks at the table behind them, with enough food upon it to feed the entirety of the lower city. “And not a single vial of blood.” He mutters, downing the rest of the wine in his chalice. 

The walk back to camp is tiresome, though every day since the loss of her faith has been exhausting, for Shadowheart. 

Conflict lies deep in her soul- regarding herself, her heart, and everything she ever knew- that she can remember, anyway. 

The moonlit walk with Jaheira and Serena is most calming, however, and Shadowheart feels an inkling of normalcy- whatever that’s supposed to feel like- setting in. 

Serena does not push. 

The night they returned from the Shadowfell, Shadowheart had shut down completely. She allowed herself to be carried into Serena’s tent, wrapped up in her arms, where she’d cried herself to sleep. 

Leaving her tent the next morning was one of the most difficult things Shadowheart has ever had to do in her life. 

Every fiber of her being had longed- still longs- to tell Serena the truth: that Shadowheart is desperately in love with her. Worse yet- that Serena is all she has. 

She had intended to tell her almost-lover right there and then, but the words died in her throat and crumbled back into ash in her chest. 

Shadowheart knows it’s foolish- how she’s withdrawn almost entirely, as of late- at least in a romantic sense. Everyone around her assumes it’s the loss of Shar- that it’s rendered her catatonic, emotionally. 

It’s not the loss of Shar that makes her hesitate, but the prospect of not being good enough for Serena. 

Doubt is something Shadowheart has warred with her entire life. Doubt in herself, at times- her faith, doubt in her goddess, her own history, always simmering beneath a placid looking surface. 

In truth, Shadowheart questions her value, now. Her very right to existence. Who is she, without her lady to guide her? What could she possibly be worth to Serena, now? 

She sees it in her eyes: the same adoration she feels for Serena, the feeling she tries so desperately to mask. It’s there, plain as day. 

Shadowheart doesn’t know what she did to fool Serena into ever thinking she was worthy of her affections, but now? Nameless, faithless, and without a true purpose? 

Shadowheart fears the one hand extended to her in kindness will recoil the minute she reaches for it. 

And so she leaves Serena hanging in a most cruel manner; though they have not touched- beyond the brushing of hands, or a bump in passing, Shadowheart keeps her suspended in mystery. She does not seek Serena out for nightly trysts, or stolen kisses beneath the silvery light of the moon. She does not attempt to poke her head into Serena’s tent every once in a while, under the guise of complaining about whatever Lae’zel said, or discussing “strategy” for their next battle. 

She has all but ceased their romantic contact, without ever once sharing an intimate word with Serena on the subject. 

And it’s not as if Serena doesn’t have her fair share of suitors…

Shadowheart’s blood boils as she recalls the way the young maid in Elfsong had gotten to drink in the sight of Serena, one bare leg perched above the bathtub as she cleaned herself, before hastily apologizing and backing out of the occupied room. 

It should have been Shadowheart, and she should’ve been joining Serena in that bath. 

Serena had been a modest and fair sport about the entire ordeal, but Shadowheart wonders if, perhaps, she liked it? 

They’ve been traveling for some time now, and Shadowheart feels her own most base desires, seeping into her thoughts increasingly. It has been some time since she’s been held, since she properly joined with another. The ache between her thighs is consistent, and she knows her thirst could only be quenched by one other soul. 

But Shadowheart has lost her confidence, and though Serena did make something akin to a mewling noise when she first saw Shadowheart’s change in hairstyle and color, Shadowheart wonders if perhaps she’s lost her appeal. 

Instead, she often retreats to her tent early, or to the nearby stream. She confesses her love of Serena to Scratch and the Owlbear instead, because she knows her secrets are nowhere safer in camp than with them. 

She glances back at Serena now, talking with Jaheira as they pause right at the border of their camp, marked by a single barrel Karlach had haphazardly thrown to the side. 

Serena glances back at her, and again, they share a longing glance, before Shadowheart severs the eye contact and turns away to her tent. 

Her heart can’t take much more of this. 

“Shadowheart!” Wyll waves her over to the fire in the distance, and Shadowheart’s stomach grumbles in response to seeing a veritable mountain of food, laid on a table, banquet-style. Her eyes widen in surprise.

Perhaps Raphael made a visit to camp in attempts to doom them all, again. 

Shadowheart finds she wouldn’t particularly mind, this time around. 

A party.

They’re having a damned party. 

Gale fiddles with a lute.

Shadowheart didn’t even know Gale could play the lute. Gods know he wouldn’t be able to shut up about he’d played, likely for Mystra, at a time, if he could. 

That in itself is suspicious. 

Let alone the massive banquet that has seemingly appeared from thin air. 

“Gale’s magic!” Wyll had explained, rather hastily. Withers let out something akin to a cough on the other side of camp, immediately after. 

Why Gale would wait until this point in their journey to switch from laboring over a cauldron for hours to simply manifesting a feast upon a table, Shadowheart cannot guess. 

But it goes deeper than that. 

Wine flows, and there isn’t an empty chalice in the group- despite the fact that they have nothing to celebrate, as of late. 

With Orin on the prowl, and Gortash moving methodically, they have their work cut out for them, and it’s hardly the time to dance around the fire, as Karlach seems to be doing. 

“C’mon, Shads!” Karlach prods, as Shadowheart sits at the table, likely brought out of her hidey-hole for a meal she intended to eat in isolation. “Dance with me!” 

Shadowheart has the grace to wear a sad smile as she extends her polite rejection to Karlach. It almost breaks her heart to do so. 

Karlach is happy, fun, a bright flame that she would only smother with her stormy mood, as of late. 

“You sure?” Karlach asks, a touch softer, but Shadowheart chews slowly on a piece of bread, her eyes locked instead on Serena. 

Across the fire, Serena has removed her armor and changed into her camp clothing. 

Her new camp clothing, gifted to her by none other than Figaro “facemaker” Pennygood. 

Her new, backless camp clothing. 

Karlach stifles a snort. “...Well, we’ll be here if you change your mind.” She offers, but Shadowheart is long gone. 

Shadowheart watches as Wyll- that damned, honorable, charismatic, beautiful man- sidles a touch closer to Serena, on the log they occupy. 

Shadowheart quirks a brow. 

Serena does, too- she offers her plate to Wyll in an innocent gesture, likely curious as to why he’d choose to sit with her alone. 

Wyll chuckles and declines. 

Shadowheart struggles to hear them over the crackling of the fire and Gale’s song on the lute, but she strains to listen, anyway. 

It becomes evident when Wyll stands, bowing in a formal sort of way, before clearing his throat, “Would the lady give me the honor of a dance?” He asks. 

Serena glances behind her, almost comically. “...Me?” She blinks, wearing a look of utter surprise. 

Shadowheart inwardly rolls her eyes. 

Serena cares little for reminders of her past life in nobility. In fact, her hatred of the patriar traditions runs so deeply, that often times, she will-

Serena is smiling. 

Shadowheart cannot tell if she wears a blush, or if the fire has simply heated her cheeks. 

…Perhaps the fire has fried her brain, too, along with the tadpole in it- because she accepts Wyll’s hand with a rather confused, but amused smile nonetheless. 

“I think…You and I might have been here, before.” Wyll teases- though Shadowheart isn’t certain what he means by that. 

Serena and Wyll ran in the same circles, in their youth- both from powerful patriar families, attending the same gatherings, abiding the same traditions. It’s well and truly possible that he and Serena have danced, courted each other, even- in their youth. 

Shadowheart doesn’t realize the way her face is scrunched up in utter disdain at the mere thought, until Lae’zel smirks at her from across the table. 

Shadowheart peels her eyes away from Wyll as he twirls Serena in time to Gale’s music, and she glares at Lae’zel. 

Though Lae’zel has stopped antagonizing her, and Shadowheart considers the Githyanki a friend, more than anything- that doesn’t mean there aren’t times in which they still enjoy the thrill of a back-and-forth. 

But tonight, Shadowheart hasn’t the energy. 

“What?” Shadowheart snaps, trying not to stare at Serena through the dancing flames. She laughs, and Wyll joins in. He dips her, with a careful hand along the small of her back-her bare back- and Shadowheart’s fingers curl under the table. 

“Curious. I have not seen you so angry while eating.” Lae’zel remarks. “I was told you would be satisfied once you and Tav ate.” 

Shadowheart blinks. 

This night just gets stranger and stranger. 

“I’m not very hungry…” She lies. “And...am I supposed to know what you’re referring to?” Shadowheart scoffs, feeling old Sharran sentiments surfacing for a moment, and forcing them down. There’s no need to act so biting- not when everyone is in such high spirits. 

Scratch nuzzles Shadowheart’s ankle under the table, and she smiles softly, scratching behind his ears. 

“Hello, you.” Shadowheart whispers, and Scratch tilts his head up on her lap. He pants, and he looks like he’s grinning at her, making her heart flutter with an innocent happiness. 

A twig is deposited in her lap, only half covered with slobber and drool. 

Shadowheart grimaces, but laughs softly, accepting her fate. “You want to play, boy?” She coos, rising from her seat. 

She glances at Serena one last time, laughing as Wyll bows to her, and she feigns a curtsy, the image of soft elegance and grace, despite the humor with which she’s approached the request. 

Shadowheart turns away, curious as to when Serena and Wyll have become so very close. 

The uproarious laughter from the campfire makes it hard to concentrate on her game of fetch with Scratch, despite how much Shadowheart tries to tune them out. 

It’s already hard enough forcing herself to be out of her tent, when she wants nothing more than to crawl into it and die, but a party? 

To be fair, Serena seems equally as perplexed by their companions’ sudden change in plans, but she seems to be adjusting decently, all things considered. 

She joins Karlach in a drinking game, and when she laughs out loud, Shadowheart cannot help but gaze over, longingly. 

And of course, she meets her favorite amber gaze, because there isn’t ever a time in which they don’t look after each other longingly, after a few moments. 

Shadowheart’s eyes nearly pop out of her head when Karlach reaches over and brushes a drop of ale off Serena’s lip with her thumb, rather intimately. 

Serena freezes in place, her own eyes wide and bearing shock as she blinks a few times, as if she’d just imagined the blatantly flirtatious move. 

She touches her own lips for a moment in surprise, and then laughs the entire ordeal off somewhat awkwardly. 

Karlach smiles all the while, “Cute, soldier.” She comments at Serena’s dumbstruck expression, before reaching to open another bottle. 

Shadowheart feels her lip curl in disdain. 

Cute?

…And, yes, Serena is cute- but since when has Karlach thought so? 

Shadowheart tries to busy herself with something as menial as fetch- it normally brings her endless joy, watching Scratch bound over with the ball, eyes twinkling in delight. 

But Serena is usually a few feet away, often prattling on about a book she’s enjoyed, or writing in her journal, and that’s what’s missing, as much as Shadowheart doesn’t wish to acknowledge the fact. 

Serena has become a pillar in her life; a fixture that cannot be replaced. 

Only, Shadowheart hasn’t told her as much. 

Serena sits back down on the log by the fire, and this time, it’s Gale who leans against the foot of the log she sits atop, glancing up at her by tilting his head backwards. 

Shadowheart pauses mid-throw, eliciting a very confused whine from Scratch, who nearly leaps in the air in anticipation. 

“Fancy seeing you here…” Gale announces in his best debonair tone. 

“...In camp?” Serena clarifies, wearing a look of utter confusion. “...Where…I live?”

Gale hesitates for a moment. “Ah…well, no, but…here. By the fire….with me.” He adds. 

Shadowheart doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry. In all honesty, she’s starting to question if the wine is poisoned, and she’s merely hallucinating all of this. 

“...It is supper time.” Serena offers in a most confused tone, almost as if she’s asking a question. 

“...Fair point.” Gale concedes awkwardly. “Although, I must ask, would you be opposed to spending a little time observing the heavens with me?” Gale gestures to the night sky, alight with stars as bright as Selûne’s tears. 

Shadowheart snaps the twig she’s holding in half. 

This has to be in jest. 

Scratch barks at her in retaliation, and Shadowheart startles, as nearly the entire camp glances back at them both. 

“...Sorry, boy.” Shadowheart sighs, shoulders slumping as she drops the ends of the twig. “I don’t think I’m much for games right now.” She admits. 

Scratch bounds away after a moment, towards the campfire, likely choosing alternative companionship, after that pathetic display. 

She sets off towards her tent, her mind a messy web of entangled thoughts and sentiments, weighing her entire being down. 

She nearly trips over Scratch when he deposits a familiar red ball at her shoes. 

Shadowheart cannot help it; she laughs softly. 

She glances backwards at the campfire, curious as to where he’s found his favorite toy, and her questions are answered when Serena smiles at her from across camp, gesturing to her pocket. 

Of course she’d carry Scratch’s favorite toy around; there’s a reason she’s consistently his favorite. 

Shadowheart feels butterflies in her stomach all over again. 

Serena is always there for her, even in the midst of being (very poorly) courted by Gale, it seems. 

Shadowheart decides to humor Scratch, and the love of her life, and stay out a little longer. 

The night almost feels normal, for a moment. 

Shadowheart has found her way back to the fire, and she occupies the same log as Serena, this time. 

The way it should be. 

Their pinkies barely brush, resting on the log in the space between them, and that alone sets Shadowheart’s soul ablaze. 

The post-supper conversations are amusing, and they all take turns trading stories, laughing at each other’s most outlandish tales. 

It’s only when they begin to put out the main fire, and slowly retreat to their respective tents, that Shadowheart’s companions begin to act oddly, once more. 

Shadowheart swears, only Jaheira has exhibited normal behavior- and that is because she saw the feast, took a plate and a glass of wine to her tent, and retired early for the evening. 

Shadowheart doesn’t know how, but she’s beginning to understand that Jaheira can foresee their youthful tomfoolery before it happens, and promptly avoids it, every time. 

Although this behavior…it goes beyond simple tomfoolery. 

As Serena rises from the log, and stretches- she exposes a patch of midriff that has Shadowheart’s mouth dry. 

But it’s her craning, exposed neck, as she stretches, that seems to draw Astarion’s attention, from across the fire. 

“My..what a pretty thing.” Astarion coos, taking a step closer. 

Serena narrows her eyes defensively, pausing mid-stretch. She glances beside her, at Shadowheart, and then back at Astarion, as if she’s unsure who he’s referring to. 

“Just think…all this to drink, and yet, I haven’t had my fill.” Astarion purrs, as he approaches Serena, red eyes locked on her neck, flitting down to the plunging neckline of her suit. 

“...Then you’d better go hunting.” Shadowheart grits, stepping forward in front of Serena in a protective manner. 

It feels eerily like their dynamic on the first few nights at camp, only this time, Shadowheart gives voice to her concerns. She gives voice to the jealousy, brewing in her heart. 

“And what if I alreadyam?” Astarion grins. 

“Ah…” Serena clears her throat, wearing a look of bewilderment. “...What is…I’m not certain that…is it me, or has everyone lost their minds this evening?” Serena blurts out, flustered and at the ends of her diplomatic rope. 

“Yes.” Shadowheart folds her arms, glaring at them all. “They have.” 

Their campmates exchange odd looks, but no one responds immediately. 

It is Lae’zel, who clears her throat, standing from her seat on the log beside Wyll. 

Shadowheart’s shoulders relax, as do Serena’s. 

With Lae’zel, there is no “beating around the bush”- she will deliver answers, in a clipped, no-nonsense tone, once and for all. …And then they can all just retire, and put this oddity of an evening behind them. 

Lae’zel stands face to face with Serena, and sighs. 

And then she kisses her. 

A full, open-mouthed, cheek cupping kiss- bold and passionate, with a warrior’s spirit, like everything Lae’zel does. 

Shadowheart’s gasp echoes louder than an explosion, or, so it seems. 

She is frozen, rooted to the spot, as Lae’zel kisses Serena for a moment, and pulls away with a little smack of her lips. 

Serena, poor, stupefied Serena, simply stands there in shock. For the entirety of the kiss. 

Her eyes are wide, her expression is stunned, and the first thing she does is blink. 

Slowly, owlishly, she turns her head to Shadowheart, asking the silent question they both seem to share, in that moment: What the fuck just occurred? 

Serena glances back at Lae’zel with an indecipherable look; she’s well and truly broken. Her eyebrows are still in her hairline from shock, and Serena swallows, audibly. 

“...I too desire you carnally.” Lae’zel sounds as if she’s reading a sign, without any intonation, any sign of emotion in her words, other than, perhaps, annoyance. “I would like…to eat you. Or…ride you. …As I would a dragon.”

Serena gapes. 

Shadowheart blinks several times, still trying to affirm if this is reality, or a hallucination. 

The silence that follows can only be described as awkward. 

“Hah!” Astarion guffaws, the sound of his delight ringing through camp. 

“Gods.” Karlach mutters, burying her head in her hands. 

“I…” Serena croaks out a single word, but pauses, brow furrowed as she tries to process the whirlwind of events she’s just endured. “...Well, that was…” She trails off, at an utter loss for words. 

Shadowheart doesn’t know what to think.

She has watched every camp member, save for Jaheira (Shadowheart’s new favorite), flirt with Serena. 

She just watched Lae’zel devour Serena with a kiss. 

…Any hesitation within her is well and truly gone. 

She takes Serena’s hand, and stalks off, towards Serena’s tent. 

Serena follows very eagerly, all too happy to follow Shadowheart, away from all her potential suitors. 

“Where are you two going together?!” Karlach calls after them curiously. 

“To sleep!” Shadowheart snaps, and she smiles, when she hears the camp erupt into cheers by the fire. 

“It’s about time!” Karlach shouts, cupping her mouth with her hands so the words carry. 

They do, and Shadowheart finds herself in agreement. 

It certainly is. 

Words feel unnecessary as Shadowheart ties the tent flaps of Serena’s tent closed, and practically tackles her to the bedroll. 

Serena gasps as Shadowheart kisses her passionately, so intent on making her forget the image of Lae’zel doing the same, despite it being a method of provocation, and nothing more. 

“I…” Serena gasps against her lips. “Heart…” She pleads, and though she grabs Shadowheart’s hips, keeping her anchored to her, there is a moment’s hesitation in her voice. 

Shadowheart pulls away, lips tingling. 

“I didn’t…that wasn’t…” Serena fumbles for words. 

“I know.” Shadowheart whispers amusedly, heart racing in her chest. 

Serena looks beautiful, even in the dim candlelight of her tent. 

“I…I’ve been trying to get your attention for…” Serena trails off. Tendays, at the very least. 

“I know.” Shadowheart affirms softly, stroking her cheek. “You have it.” She promises, tenderly, straddling Serena’s lap. “I should’ve said something sooner, I shouldn’t have been afraid…” She trails off, shaking her head. “But…” She worries her lip. “I want you, Tav, so badly that-” 

And they’re kissing again. 

It’s a mess of emotions, sweet kisses alternating between more passionate, heated ones, but it’s beautiful, all the same. 

“I couldn’t stand…” Shadowheart hisses as Serena’s lips kiss a trail against her jaw, ever reverent in how she regards her, how she handles her. “...Seeing you…with anyone else…” 

Serena nods, frantic, as Shadowheart rolls her hips against her, whining softly, making her brain implode, momentarily. 

“We…” Shadowheart gasps as Serena kisses her neck. “Need to…talk…” 

Serena pauses for a moment. 

“After? After.” Shadowheart nods frantically, pressing Serena down into the bedroll. 

The following morning is bright and uplifting. Golden rays of sun wash over the camp, birdsong fills the air, and Shadowheart and Serena emerge from Serena’s tent, hand in hand, wearing lovesick expressions. 

Withers greets them both, first, on their way to the campfire for a spot of breakfast. 

“Ah, thous hast acquired a new bosom companion. I trust all unfolded as fate intended?” Withers nods to himself, eyeing their joined hands. 

Shadowheart exchanges a dubious glance with Serena. 

“...Yes.” Serena clears her throat, offering a smile to Withers despite his curious terminology. “We are…bosom companions.” She mutters the last part, but smiles genuinely at Shadowheart when she begins to snicker at the term. 

“Then all is as it should be.” Withers nods, and disappears before them, leaving Serena standing there, glancing at Shadowheart curiously. 

“Bosom companions…” Shadowheart remarks playfully, bringing Serena’s knuckles to her lips. “I suppose it sounds…tamer than lovers.” 

“We’re more than that.” Serena promises, and then glances around conspiratorially. “...Even he knew about us?” Serena whispers. 

Shadowheart smirks. “I’m starting to realize where the feast, and Gale’s lute-playing abilities came from, last night…” 

Serena’s eyes widen in realization. “...Well, I’m flattered by the concern, I suppose. Breakfast?” She turns to Shadowheart curiously. 

Shadowheart smirks at her. “But we already ate…” she drawls innocently, batting her long eyelashes and causing Serena to pause. 

She draws Serena into a slow, languid kiss, standing on her tip-toes as she bunches Serena’s collar in her hands, pulling her flush against her. 

Resting her forehead against Shadowheart’s, Serena wears a stupid smile as they part. 

Shadowheart mirrors it, allowing herself to bask in genuine happiness for the first time in a very long time.

“Look who it is.” Astarion drawls as Serena and Shadowheart approach the campfire, where Gale hunches over a cauldron again, rubbing his lower back. “I nearly starved last night, thanks to you.” He sniffs airily. 

“Because of us?” Serena clarifies, and frowns. “Astarion, if you truly need my blood-” She begins, and Shadowheart visibly bristles at the mere notion. 

“-not that.” Astarion rolls his eyes. “You see, not a single creature in these woods stuck around after that racket you made.” 

Shadowheart pauses midway through lifting a water skin to her lips. 

Serena pauses as Gale loads stew into her dish. 

A cursory glance around the fire tells them that Astarion is not fibbing, this time. 

Wyll is asleep atop his log, his hand dipped in a cold bowl of stew. 

Karlach, with dark circles under her eyes, fights sleep as she lifts a spoon to her mouth, but fails, and drops the bowl all over herself, finally succumbing to sleep. 

Lae’zel leans on her sword, planted into the ground before her seat, but her eyes close and her head droops periodically. 

Gale’s mage-hand keeps him supported every time he leans over, sleep-deprived as he is. 

Only Jaheira looks well-rested, whistling as she joins them at the fire. “Good morning to all.” She greets, and then takes stock of her companions, frowning. “...What happened here?”

Astarion shrugs. “A lot of eating and riding, by the sounds of it.” 

Jaheira sighs, taking her bowl and turning back on her heel, right for her tent.