Chapter Text

It was stiflingly hot in the jungle of Chult. It was not a dry heat that aimed to suck the life out of his throat, but a tacky heat that sank upon his body, slid down his esophagus, and tried to drown him. The tropical jungle that thrived in this weather loomed above and all around like a god. The leaves were a green of predatory eyes, an amalgamation of vision for a monster. As if to sample, the heat of a wet tongue of air licked the neck of its prey and made the hair stand on end. The thick trunks of the trees were tall like limbs reaching out over the path, ready to snatch an ankle and drag its catch into the green sea of damp darkness. It was ready to pull him under its ocean of heat, under its leaves, under its earth.

It was easy to drown and he most certainly didn’t need any help in that regard. He stood sharply, although his stomach crunched in as he did and he hunched to correct it. Grumbling, his hand yanked the sticky, purple cloak from his body and somewhat haphazardly draped it over the shut down body of his son-construct, who had tucked himself into the inside of his father’s knee sometime in the night.

The dark hut around Paultin dispersed as he left it, his intention to walk the perimeter if only to keep himself awake. Maybe he’d find some mushrooms or something. He knew his party would be plenty warm without their tempered shelter. The humidity lunged to latch on to him and stuck better to his body than his own skin. Skin that was disintegrating at a constant, frenzied speed. It seemed at any moment the flesh on his bones would rot and effortlessly slide off in a slimy goop. The hags had done something, but he had been unquestionably predisposed with downing a good drink when they were explaining everything. He was under the impression that it turned out alright, what with his mostly fantastic dreams, but the others did not seem to enjoy their experiences and were bothered over evil souls or whatever. The rings saved off transformation into the living dead, but just barely since they had to rotate between the wearers. It wouldn’t last. They could only save of the effects for so long before they each withered away. He, although struck by the curse earlier, had given the other death curse afflicted his ring for the day. He could handle the less than savory discomforts of the death curse without a ring to protect him. He had wine! Had . He ran dry not long ago when he got up for his night watch, thanks to a certain someone, only having had enough for their adventure until today. Had he known he would run out so quickly, he would’ve snatched the ring back from someone. Probably Diath. Strix was more terrifying.

He glanced back to assure himself of their deep slumbers.

The bright, comforting flame that was the center of the opaque dome, before it vanished, was as bright as ever, and as he looked for his friends, he knew they were sure to have gathered around her luminous presence. Evelyn was radiant in the light of the fire that had been put off to one side of the hut. She beamed all the time what with her metal armor and constructed steel joints, but even the air about her was nearly blinding in her brilliance. In this calm light, however, she glowed lowly enough that now he could actually look at her. In the center of their camp, she was shut down, seemingly more for the habit of sleeping rather than the need. Did Evelyn even need sleep? Huh, he’d have to ask. Her golden spun hair flowed in dance with the flicker of the light, always in tune with it. A soft wooden hand was tangled in the fluff of their large, greying owlbear as she sprawled next to the beast with a plump cheek upon its hairy arm. With relaxed brows, her wooden face was tender, though stiff in its limited ability of expression. She used to have laugh lines. There was a gentle and constant whirring of gears as she breathed air she could not inhale nor needed. Despite being a form made of wood and steel, many habits she had in her body of flesh had, apparently, passed on to this body along with her living spirit. She had always been the warmest, too. And for that, the others were drawn to her. Despite the lack of body heat in her form now, they were still cuddled up like hatchlings.

They couldn’t seem to break their habits either, he mused.

Sure enough as the dawn of the coming tomorrow, the other two of their party had congregated around Evelyn. Strix was sharing the velvety pillow upon which Evelyn had lain her head. A velvety pillow, who did not seem to mind, like, at all. From the way Waffles had collected Strix up against her pudgy stomach, a massive owl head nestled between Evelyn’s neck and shoulder, as the paladin laid on her arm, he could tell they were all quite comfortable in fact. Strix had been the one to wake him for his watch, demanding in her gruff voice as she jostled his shoulder that it was his turn. As he mustered the will to wake, she told him to “hurry up, dummy,” she wanted to sleep. When he muttered about how the night watch always made her cranky, she snatched his wineskin with speed reserved only for lightning. He protested, awake and alert now as she chugged what red fire liquid he hadn’t already. Sated by the wine, she shoved the pouch toward him and it was sip shy of being empty. He knew her well that she was not being aggressive, rather she just didn’t know what to do with herself sometimes. To those who knew her not, she was a terrifying creature descendant of demon blood. Somehow though, she was quite gentle, unsure, anxious, and powerful. And genuine . Much more than her devil blood and looming familial shadows. He knew all about blood and shadows. With nervous hands, she wished him goodnight and left him to keep watch. He’d watched her flop down next to Waffles in a heap on dirt and trash, spitting out some of Evelyn’s blonde hair from her face as she got comfortable. He was glad to see she had gone to sleep well. Maybe it was the wine that had her eased. He knew that for a period she did not rest well or, rather, at all. The death curse did not help. And seeing, now, the untroubled lines of her frame as she slept, he didn’t feel as put-out about his lacking supply of alcohol. She was tucked gently into Waffles, her arms and legs curled into her chest. He could not see her face from where it was plastered into the belly of the owlbear, but her filthy and ragged cloak was moving gently enough with soft breaths that he was unconcerned.

Also drawn to his friends, Diath’s slender form rested at the end of Evelyn’s feet and furthest from the fire. He was the only one other than Paultin to have laid out his bed roll, though he was more particular to its “strategic position.” What an edgelord. Strix had been content to sleep in the dirt cuddled with sleeping Waffles and Evelyn mournfully succumbed to rest under Waffles head, unwilling to move and undoubtedly disturb the creature, despite the dirt. The rogue had situated himself between the other party members and the edge of where dome had been, protectively despite the inability for anything to enter the hut. Unlike Evelyn, who reflected the firelight like shimmering glass, Diath’s face seemed to sink in and absorb the light. Despite the full natured structure of his now adolescent face, the shadows caressed under his eyes, along his cheeks, and beneath his jaw. He was almost cadaverous with how haggard he appeared. How he could look far older than the true length of his years with such a young face Paultin knew not. A trick of the light perhaps, for Diath looked to be at ease in his stupor. His mouth was lax, thin lips slightly agape, and his sharp nose pushed into the crook of his left arm which he had bent under his head. His chestnut hair was disheveled in a way that was more Strix-esque than Diath, as if he’d tossed in his sleep. His right hand fisted the corner of his bulky and torn blanket. The other most certainly clutched a dagger although hidden. Even relaxed in the arms of slumber, he doubted Diath could get the rigidness out of his bones. Or the stick out of his ass.

Assured his party was fast in their slumber, Paultin inspect the tree lines around them, glancing down the path ahead and behind them which seemed to stretch endlessly both ways, winding like snakes. He felt ill at ease as he always did during his night watch. Aching fingers clenched up at his side. After sleeping for so long, he was sobering up despite his extensive pre-game. He fumbled for his wineskin out of habit, and sighed when there was none but a fleeting few sips. Soon, he knew, he would be sober and out-of-his-mind bored. Thoughts would swarm and he wouldn’t be able to sleep again when the shift changed. Sooner come the end of the damn world before he, Paultin Seppa, was both sober and bored.

He launched the empty sack toward his bed roll by the fire, tingling with anger. He had aimed for his pack, near his pillow, but his aim was too far right and it flopped pathetically with a fart noise next to Simon. You throw like Diath. He huffed defeatedly, miffed by seemingly everything and nothing, as Simon sat up, head spinning completely around to look at him with ruby eyes. WIth a sigh, he strode over to Simon, his steps heavy. Still, he was happy for the distraction Simon provided. His construct son could stay up with him through his watch. He could blab on and on to Simon to focus his attention, to keep him away from his thoughts.

“Sorry bud,” he murmured lowly.

He crouched with great effort, as if his bones were far older than he, to pat Simon on the head. Simon did not seem to be annoyed that Paultin disturbed his sleep rather, from the way he leaned into the apologetic pats and how his gaze held confusion, he seemed more intrigued on how his father slipped away from him in his sleep. Once he’d had enough, Simon pushed his hands into the ground, maneuvering himself up to stand and kicking a blanket away that got tangled around his foot. He pushed a tiny wood hand toward Paultin’s wrist, brushing away his hand, before his head spun around to gaze behind him. Curious but unease, Paultin uneasily heaved himself up to catch Simon’s point of interest. If there was something Simon’s eye had caught, Paultin couldn’t tell quite what it was. Behind Simon was only the suffocating wall of trees, dragging themselves up by their roots like clawed hands toward them. The forest was going to take them. Drag them all down into hell with black tentacles. An uncomfortableness caught in his throat, one which he could only manage to swallow down with wine. Of which he had none, so the feeling persisted, trying to choke him.

A tug of his trousers made him look down and his blue eyes caught red glowing ones. Simon had shuffled over the bed roll and was incessantly pulling on him with one hand, trying to get his attention. The bot seemed annoyed that his father was no longer paying him any mind. Paultin blinked stupidly as he followed Simon’s pointed finger toward the ground where his pack lay accompanied by a small jester hat with bells on its tall ends.

“Uh?”

The wooden construct tugged harder on the leg of his pants like a young toddler pulling on his parent and Paultin’s hands jumped reflexively to his belt as if Simon were to rip them off. Snapping from his daze, his eyes followed as Simon’s elbow jerked as he forced his finger toward the hat.

“Oh! You want your hat?” He asked looking to his son, who just nodded with a pointed stare as if to say “Uh, duh.” Paultin shook his head to clear the last of the strange idleness that had taken his mind then bent to snatch the hat up in his head. “Alright, c’mere, buddy.” He knelt once more over Simon, pulling off the wooden hand grasping his pants.

As he slipped it on over Simon’s head, the red, white, and black hat was far dirtier than he recalled. The material seemed frail and thin with various mismatching patches that made more of the hat than the original fabric. It was aged, pasty yellow in places where the sun had eaten it and dark in places where water had stained it. When it moved, some of the bells no longer rung, some were smashed or dented. The metal was brushed with silver spots, the gold plating having rubbed away. It was obvious that attempts were made to repair and refurbish the accessory, obviously the handiwork of Strix by the overall messiness of it, but it was just too old and battered. 50 years was a long time.

“We should get you a new hat, dude. This one’s nasty,” he muttered. “Also more wine for you. By which I mean me. You aren’t old enough to drink, got it?

Simon shrugged.

“Tha’s a good boy. You’re a good boy.”

A moment passed, still and comfortable, as Simon looked up at Paultin and Paultin fiddled with one of the bells on his hat. It was one of the dented ones, almost completely decayed silver, and when he shook it, the rattle it gave was harder than the normal jingle of an unbroken bell. He examined it for a way to repair it, but it seemed no tool could bend the mangled thing into its form. When it became obvious it was unsalvageable, Simon tugged impatiently once more on the bard, directing his eyes to the mandolin rested against Paultin’s other belongings. His little hand opened and closed longingly before he released Paultin. Unable to wait for Paultin’s brain to process, Simon trotted toward the instrument, little legs swaying. His grubby fingers plucked a few strings as his stare bore into Paultin. Upon hearing the short, sweet sounds, he winced and swung around toward his party to make sure they hadn’t awoken. However, another loud pluck snapped his eyes back before he could get a look and he quickly gathered up the mandolin away from the construct, palm pressing against the strings to silence their vibrations.

“Okay, okay, okay, okay!” He hissed, pulling the instrument out of Simon’s reach and into his chest. “That’s enough, alright?” Simon’s little hand followed the instrument for a moment before he sapped it back to his body, satisfied as he knew Paultin would play. “We gotta be quiet, okay? Strix will get all crochetty if you wake her up.”

At this, the bot shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other. Paultin huffed and fall back onto his rear, grimacing as it shoot pain up his spine. Right. Not drunk. He rocked forward, hunching over his instrument for a moment before raising one hand to the neck of the mandolin. Simon stared expectantly while he plucked a few quiet tunes, warming up and stretching his fingers out. He was infinitely thankful none of the skin on his hands had rotten and fallen away. Yet. When he thought about it, he grimaced at the pull under his nails and the sensitivity of his fingertips.

He glanced up from his strings at his son and raised a disapproving brow, tossing his hand at the bed roll, motioning for his boy to return to the bed. “Go on, get in bed. It’s waaay past your bedtime, son.” He waited patiently while Simon’s shoulders sagged, as much as they could being that he was a construct. Eventually he crawled into the bed roll, seeing Paultin would not play otherwise. Not letting his large hat slip for even a moment as he wriggled into the blankets, Simon settled, his ruby eyes drilling into Paultin.

A little smile pulled at his mouth as Paultin began to strum. Simon did not seem to have a favorite song, he liked pretty much everything, so something short and easy would do just as well. He strummed gently with fingers nimble and quick on the strings, hopefully light enough that the song wouldn’t wake anyone. Butthander knows if Evelyn woke up the entire jungle would hear her boisterous voice, “Isn’t Paultin the best?! Paultin’s so good! Paultin, play your bagpipes, those are my favorite!” Yeah, no. His heart twinged oddly.

He played a few more bars, but Simon was already shut down once more, his little eyelids closed and mouth lax while he snuggled up in the blankets. Simon couldn’t get cold, but he liked to imitate Paultin with the oddest things. He slept under blankets, flipped Diath the bird, nervously wrung his fingers, poked at the strings of the mandolin...it was quite enduring. He made the same whirring noises as Evelyn. The light, little hum, only present in the quietest times, which was how Paultin knew the Autobots from the Decepticons. They were soft noises in the way something like, say, the Iron Golem was not.

Finished with his song, he could feel his eyes tire, dry and heavy with the need for rest. He would need that walk after all, now without Simon to keep him entertained. His back ached, his legs ached, his body ached. A sting on his neck made his hand snap up to palm it. His fingers pulled away something from his flesh and he brought it down to investigate it, hoping it was a mosquito, perhaps, but knowing it was not. Seeing the gross tissue he pulled away from his throat, he grit his teeth in anger and stood in a rush, mandolin clutched in hand. He stomped a few paces away from the camp down the pale path, boots slipping on the loose dirt. He only got a couple yards before he felt faint like he stood too quickly. His mind reeled like he was twirling round and round as he stayed fixed. Almost blindly, he reached out a caught the bark of a tree and plopped down right there against it with a grunt. His stomach lurched. Just a hangover then. Nothing to worry about. He was still for a moment, giving his lungs a brief moment to breathe, and pried his fingers away from the neck of his mandolin, the strings having bit shallow ruts into his flesh. We’re all gonna die, we’re gonna die again , and the soul monger’s gonna get us, and we won’t come back, and they’ll be gone-.

His lungs heaved a full gulp of air as his thoughts derailed, splintered, churned, and his fingers went to work without command, taking up his instrument and dancing on the strings. Forcing control he’d lost for a moment, a sweet, airy melody replaced all thought soon enough and he became engrossed with the song. He switched it up halfway through, hearing chords in his head that led his hands and demanded his attention. Huh. These notes were quiet and somber. Complicated as they twisted and turned to make a melody. He replayed it again. It intrigued him enough to dig out a piece of parchment and scribble what he’d discovered so far before returning to it. Sticking his pencil between his teeth, he strummed what he had written, brows furrowing when he stumbled and had to retrace his steps. He could almost grasp the chords that eluded him, could almost put words to the tune. Many times over he repeated the chorus. It was like trying to play a song he had learned many, many years ago, or had heard from someone else. There were fragments, memories perhaps, of a song that seemed other worldly. No matter how many times he played, his fingers just seemed to catch and lock up as if they did not want him to find what was hidden, to hear the secrets of another world. If he could just-.

“Paultin?” A voice called from behind him, an almost whisper, loud enough for him to hear, loud enough to suggest it had tried to get his attention once before.

He started, head whirling around in the direction his name was spoken with wide eyes. A string snapped off key on his mandolin when his finger slipped, an ugly jarring note that broke the air. He was on watch and something had snuck up on him! Panicked, he moved to stand, bracing his hand against the tree, but it slipped before he could get his legs underneath him, and he sat back down

“Whoa, sorry, man. Didn’t mean to- uh, I just,” Diath fumbled, shifting on his feet.

Paultin blinked, recognition and awareness coming back to him. Diath was standing above him, eyebrows furrowed in concern. He was making the face that Paultin had dubbed “The Look™.” His brows were scrunched together, falling into the subtle lines between them. Thins lips were pulled down, serious. Blue eyes were focused on him with deadly precision as if Diath could look into the very soul and solve it like some puzzle or pick at it like a lock until it opened. His eyes took on that glint when he was making a plan or sneaking up behind an enemy. Paultin believed the rogue had come to tell him off for leaving the hut and having his attention elsewhere on his watch. He could hear it, “Paultin, we need this. Paultin, we need that. Paultin, you shouldn’t do this. Paultin, you shouldn’t do that.” He was the biggest buzzkill sometimes. He tried too hard, that was his problem. He cares too much. Tonight, however, The Look™ was missing something or rather, it was off. It was less calculated. He took notice of the tight fist Diath had at his side. His other hand clutched at his chest, gripping his amethyst necklace with the occasional reassuring rub of the gem. His jaw was tight, flexing nervously, and his hair was still a tangled mop on his head.

“Fuck, dude. Are you fucking Batman?” he huffed.

“I...don’t know what you’re talking about.” Diath blinked dumbly.

“S’fine.” Paultin made himself relax, sinking back against the tree once again, and pulled his eyes away from Diath’s. “My shift over? Hasn’t been that long.”

“What? No, I,” Diath shook his head and his fingers stiffly released his pendant, falling to his side. He straightened and masked his antsiness with a practiced, poised posture. “Came to check in. Just making sure you’re- that all’s clear and such. I saw the hut was down so…”

“Sure,” he murmured with brows raised as he twisted around to search the ground. He’d dropped his pencil somewhere so he shifted his mandolin and brushed his hand over the dirt, trying to find it. When his finger bumped its back end, he collected it up with the parchment he’d been writing on. He arranged his paper on the ground, put the pencil behind his ear, and sat up to pull the mandolin back to his chest. He expected Diath to leave, but as he reread the chords, hoping to return his full attention to it as he had before, his eye caught Diath leaning down to the ground, bracing himself as he went to sit next to Paultin.

Oh.

“What are you playing?”

Paultin regarded Diath who leaned heavily on the tree behind them. It was hard to catch his eyes from where they were trained up on the dark sky. It was too dark in fact to see much of anything around them. The stars should have been brilliant in the inky sky, but when he glanced up he could hardly see them.

“Uh, a mandolin,” he deadpanned, meeting Diath’s bewildered expression with an expertly delivered sarcastic stare.

Diath snorted, a half smile on his face. “Ah, touché.” He looked away to the sky once more. “Can you play it again? It’s pretty dang good.”

His brows furrowed, but he’d accepted Diath’s request, turning his eyes to the parchment and struggling to regain his train of thought. He followed the chords once more with his eyes, strumming the notes a couple times and then again to grasp it. His fingers were beginning to ache, but he managed to play through the song, fumbling when the chords didn’t line up how they were supposed to. He wasn’t in the mind to fix them anymore like he had been. Whatever he had been on to had slipped his fingers for now. Diath was silent beside him and he’d almost forgotten his presence, trying to sink into the music and ignore him, but he could feel a gaze on the back of his neck occasionally when he bent down to add a few lines to his paper.

They hardly spoke a word on nights like this. Nights where Diath came to Paultin and listened to him play because he had a nightmare. Paultin knew, Diath had never said, but he knew. He didn’t ask either, and maybe that was selfish, but he couldn’t deal with his own emotions, unless he was more wine and ale than blood and flesh, much less someone else’s. He wondered once what Diath dreamt about, but he had his own worries to think on, or not think on, actually. Whatever it was, it made the bags under Diath’s eyes a little darker, made him a little more unsure. It was disconcerting seeing him on these nights, eerily resigned and motionless. Every time, Paultin hoped it’d be the last. Every time, he was reminded of their venture out of Barovia after they’d awoken, newly resurrected 50 years after their brutal executions at the hand of Strahd. He was reminded that after they’d been saved from the mists of the ethereal plane, as they left the fog of the cursed land, the two of them had clambered into the back of a wagon. He’d seized a full wineskin immediately, like a man dying of thirst who had stumbled across the relief of water and was too busy drinking to realize it was sand. He had downed the whole thing in one go, moving quickly to refill it from a cask. He had been alone with his thoughts, deprived of alcohol, for 50 years, so he figured he deserved to drown himself in a whole barrel of wine without judgement. He got his desire as Diath had not even given him a passing glance when he chugged his first drink, nor the second, nor the third. Diath hadn’t looked at him at all in fact.

He could remember, between his swigs of wine and attempts to get as drunk as humanly possible, the rocking of the wagon and the clacks of hooves as they trailed out of Barovia. He remembered the chill that came across him the exact second they passed the border. He knew it was the result of being Vistani that he felt them leave, but he had looked to Diath in that moment, subconsciously, checking to see if he had felt it also. Diath hadn’t even so much as moved from where he’d settled like a ghost in the corner of the wagon. He had drawn his legs up to his chest, elbows resting on his knees as his palm held his heavy head. His other hand was stuffed between his legs and chest, seemingly grasping his necklace as he did when distressed. Although when Paultin looked closer, he could see through blurry eyes his fingers were gripped around his own neck. His gaze followed the clean line of the raised scar and each jagged line where they’d stitched Diath’s head back on. His own hand had leaped to his own throat.The scar was mostly hidden under Diath’s hand, but he knew what it looked like. They matched after all. He swallowed and, in a moment of blinding rage, ripped his hand free of the scar to grasp at the closest object: a glass vial. Of what, he knew not and didn’t care in the least to find out as he grasped it and chucked it with all the force he could muster in his drunken state. He was bitterly unsatisfied even when it exploded against the wood floor of the wagon in the way he had wanted it to. Boiling with fury, his face twisted up in a snarl at the pieces of shining glass shards that had burst across the floor. When his fiery gaze turned to Diath, the man hadn’t moved an inch with the outburst. Perhaps Paultin had been looking for a reaction, for a reason to turn his anger on someone, or perhaps he’d wanted Diath just to do...something. Anything. However, Diath remained as unmoving and silent as the air after the glass shattered at Paultin’s feet. He hardly seemed to breathe as he haunted his corner of the wagon. He was as much a phantom then as he would’ve been in the ethereal plane.

He had turned back to his drink then, determined to forget how petrified and apologetic Diath had looked as Strahd brought the sword down on Paultin.

He repeated the same line of chords again and again, but each time his aching fingers couldn’t seem to find the right way to bend or the string to pluck. With each repetition, he was less certain that it was the song that was the problem. A couple times he tried a new line, but he ran into the same issue every time, so he gave up. Was it that he couldn’t find the right chord or that he wasn’t capable of playing them? Is it me?

Without the tune of the mandolin, Diath’s voice broke the silence, thick with great effort as if speaking pained him. “Paultin, I’m sorry.”

He stared perplexed at his piece of parchment. He silently reread the line over and over, half heartedly searching for the solution, but he knew he wouldn’t find one, so it was mostly to keep his mind distracted. He didn’t want to think about how bad he needed a drink, about the damn song, about their impending doom, about why Diath was here, about anything. He frowned harder at the paper when Diath spoke, eyes begging it to offer up the chords he needed so he could play and drown out the heart wrenching tone in Diath’s voice. His fingers ached something terrible, but all he wanted now was to make them hurt worse. He wanted to play his mandolin until his fingers burned and drink until he couldn’t feel it. Either would do at this point, but both was preferable.

He’d been quiet for too long. “Huh?” He turned his confused gaze on Diath, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed before averting his eyes to his song. He scribbled notes on the back of the parchment just for the sake of having something to do with his hands.

“I,” Diath shifted, “I’m sorry.”

Don’t.

“Dude, is this about Simon again? ‘Cause, like, we already dished that out. No civil war or whatever. S’all good, man.” He waved his hand dismissively in Diath’s direction where he knew the other was staring at the back of his neck. “Don’t-”

“It’s not about Simon,” Diath said gently, “or a...civil war?”

Diath hefted his torso off the tree, pushing his weight forward and leaning against his thighs. His arms crossed over his knees, gloveless fingers picking at each other as he struggled with his words. The hand Paultin had grasped the neck of the mandolin, tightened. The strings dug into his flesh, the wood was unyielding against his palm, and the paint chipped under his nail.

“Back in Barovia…” Diath forced out. His whole body seemed to spit the name of the cursed land out in disgust, flinched in physical rejection of even saying its name. “I, when Strahd… I didn’t… I watched you die.”

Don’t.

“You looked at me and I… I didn’t have a plan. Paultin, I let you-”

“Dude, stop.” He commanded sternly. He wasn’t going to have this conversation, wasn’t going to listen, wasn’t going to think about it. He hardly dealt with anything and he never did it without being impressively inebriated. He wasn’t about to break character now. “You didn’t. Strahd’s a bad dude. He’s the one that got a little sword crazy or whatever.”

“Paultin, that’s not a joke-...” Diath sighed, stopping himself short and thinking for a moment before he went on. “You looked at me and you, I could see it, you were scared. And I, I just…” Diath shrunk in on himself. “I froze and they… they buried Evelyn and you-!”

Paultin remembers. He remembers too clearly, the two of them waiting in the rain so long for Strahd’s manservant, Rahadin, to return with the book of the vampire lord’s sins and free them. They had so blindly hoped that they could save Barovia by saving its dark lord to be. He kept looking between Diath and the guards who held them both. The expression Diath held was tight, focused, and hopeful as they desperately waited for their plan to succeed. The rain drenched them and droplets fell from Diath’s hair into his eyes, but he didn’t fumble or shiver. He was calculating, counting the guards, checking every angle, every possibility. It was as if he was so focused or so desperate for this plan to work that he couldn’t share attention on anything else. Paultin felt the rain soak into his clothes, into his bones. He saw the sky as it poured out black ichor that was so dark it sucked the light out of the earth, charred the very stone under his feet, and bloodied the land with a curse. At his feet, he saw his own reflection in the pools of water, dark like blood. When he looked toward the castle, it stood against the sky with sharp peaks like a knife poking through plastic. He could see Evelyn, couldn’t stop seeing her, where she lay in a broken heap in the mud. She’d fallen like a dropped doll and splatted in the muck. The earth stuck to her in ugly brown against the white of her clothes. The very ground was a goopy monster, floppy over her in sluggish attempt to pull her into the darkness. He wanted to pull her out. She always glowed, but this blackness was trying to snuff her out. Strix had gotten away, maybe she’d come back for them, if she wasn’t dead already. The thought made his heart leap into his throat and he didn’t have time to reassure himself when the air went taut as if lightning struck. He glanced at the castle, at Evelyn, then at Diath. Diath’s eyes had come out of their tunnel vision and were looking down toward the great road leading to the castle. The claps of distance hooves were like thunder and each one stung. Every guard snapped into shape, backs tight, and the hair on Paultin’s neck stood up as his breath left him. A great dark beast, a horse, was galloping straight for them, clacker and cloop, and on its back was the tall figure of Strahd himself. As he stormed closer, his face with as pale as the moon, shoulders straight, and every line of his demeanor was rage. Paultin’s throat flexed and moved to make sound. Diath looked toward the castle, pleading with the gods, but the glint of his eyes said he refused to give up. The only chance they had was to make Strahd listen. It would be too hard to escape, he knew, so their best chance was to talk. Paultin could do that. He was good at blabbering. He could talk. Yet, when Strahd stopped before them, the impact of his feet against the stone was too loud, each step was thunderous, and it stole Paultin’s voice. The reverberation of Strahd’s boots slamming into the earth hard enough to make it tremble was the only sound. It drowned out the sound of the rain, the sound of his own breaths, until all he could hear was boots pounding. There was a small scuffle off to his side and he watched as Leo Dilisyna was forced to his knees. Strahd’s blade screeched out of its scabbard and sung when it took off the head of Leo. The head slapped against the ground and lulled to the side with glittering eyes staring into the dark sky. Its headless body flopped pathetically beside it with a sickening thud as blood funneled out of the wound. The water at Paultin’s feet looked like wine and in it he saw the look of horror on his own face when he was thrust to his knees. To his side, there was pair of boots in the red water and a shining blade bleeding red. He whirled his head around to Diath. Diath, I don’t know what to do, help me, help me-. Diath’s eyes were wide open like saucers, gawking at him with blue irises vacant of thought, a look that would haunt him. He was paralyzed, petrified where he stood as his plans fell apart, his feet sown to the very ground. His body was so stiff he could have been a statue if Paultin couldn’t see the shakiness of his knees, how he looked like he was going to collapse as the whisper of a breeze. His mouth was twisted up horribly in voiceless screams as his jaw worked opened and closed with gasps of air. His whole body heaved with each breath, quickening exponentially in panic. Tears welled up in Diath’s eyes and cascaded down his cheeks to mingle with the rain, helplessly falling to join the red ocean at their feet. Paultin wrenched at his restraints, gasping desperately for air, grasping for purchase to free himself, gawking with terror at Diath. Help, help, help, help, help me-.

He remembered, when he gazed up, how dark the sky was.

“Look, dude, it’s whatever. Plans didn’t work out,” he grumbled as monotonically and apathetic as possible. If he didn’t care, it couldn’t hurt him. It couldn’t. “Love doesn’t save the day, how shocking.”

“That’s… What do you even mean?” Diath snapped, which took Paultin by surprise and when he whirled his head around to look at the man beside him, he was met with shimmering, blue eyes deadly focused on him.

“What?” He puffed up, feeling the on coming aggression.

“You, you say shit like that,” Diath motioned vaguely with his hand before pointing at him, “and drink and act like you don’t care about anything, like you don’t even care about us. But, you… You do, or at least, I think you do, so…” There was a look of challenge in Diath’s eye and Paultin rose to the occasion with vigor.

“I don’t understand why you think you can fix everything with love and, and, friendship because we’re family.” He swung his arms out. “None of that matters!”

Diath was baffled by the sudden burst of anger, twisting his body to face Paultin. “That’s not true, I, we, we are family and that means everything.”

He hissed, “It just means when we lose each other it’s just gonna hurt.”

Diath’s face twitched as if he were holding back a grimace. “That’s not gonna happen, Paultin. I’m going to be there next time. We aren’t going to lose anyone ever again.”

“Bullshit! You don’t know that. We all have died! You twice! Evelyn twice! Friendship didn’t save you, or Strix, or Evelyn. Sure didn’t help in Barovia either. Yeah, I’m so glad we had friendship to save us!” He spat back, pausing to stop the loud volume his voice had taken on before he spoke again. His lips twisted into a snarl, “And you’re kidding yourself if-”

“Oh,” Diath scoffed, “I’m kidding myself? You drink yourself unconscious every day because you’re in denial that you care about anyone but yourself.”

“Well, guess what,” he snapped, “Caring isn’t gonna save anyone.” He gestured his hands like he was juggling what to say before he started to count off on his fingers. “It, it isn’t going to stop the death curse from killing us, or the soul monger guy that almost took someone I care about. Or, how about those rusty armor dudes that want to take another person I care about?” A sharp laugh burst from his throat and mocked Diath. “So yeah, I care and you care, we all fucking care! But, caring… Caring, Diath, isn’t fucking enough. I’m not sorry for doing pre-game drinking for when you all get fucking killed.”

Diath did flinch then, averting his gaze toward the ground. He frowned deeply as he drew up his fingers to the violet gem hanging from his neck. His fingers twitched over the smooth and rough sides of the amethyst. His brows scrunched together and suddenly he was giving the ground The Look™, more intense than any other Paultin had seen before. They were quiet for several seconds. Paultin snorted in disbelief, dropping his hands down as if all the strength in them had left. He watched Diath’s calculating thought process with a tight jaw, ready to open up and refute anything the other said with furious speed.

“You’re right,” he said eventually, “It’s not enough, but it isn’t weakness either. Caring about each other is what makes us strong. Caring isn’t… It isn’t a curse.” Diath lifted his head and hard eyes dissected him. “You’re not weak for caring, Paultin.”

In his throat was rising suffocation, like unseen hands were slowly squeezing his windpipe. He had to go, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t have this argument with Diath anymore. He wasn’t even drunk. He couldn’t handle confrontation like this sober. He needed to get up, end this conversation, and walk away. Tomorrow, they’d get to the next town and he could buy wine so he could forget this had even happened.

That’s not true.

He was weak for caring about them. He was dooming them to a terrible fate and he didn’t even deserve them.

What the fuck does he know?

Paultin snatched up the parchment before him, crushing the song in his fist, and gathered his mandolin in the other hand. Diath started, watching him with a furrowed brow as he fumbled for the tree behind him and stood, swaying slightly. He glared down at Diath as his face twisted from anger to concern to apologetic. Paultin couldn’t take it so he torn his gaze away and looked back toward their camp.

Diath opened his mouth to speak, but Paultin didn’t want to hear it as he snarled. “Yeah, well, caring hasn’t really worked out so fucking far.” He gathered himself up, twisting away and moving back toward the camp. He felt like his body was going to break and collapse, but he refused to fumble in front of Diath as he cut the conversation. “Enjoy your watch, Batman.”

Diath scrambled up behind him, feet slipping in the dirt, making an attempt to continue the discussion or apologize, but he kept walking, storming away. “Paultin-”

Paultin trudged down the path back to their camp, eyes focused on where his bed roll and son were. His sole focus was getting to his bed and going back to sleep so no one would talk to him, so he could ignore the world just for awhile. As soon as he stomped past the fire, he threw up Leomund’s Hut once more, effectively ending any chance of Diath following him. He didn’t glance over to where Strix and Evelyn lay, figuring they might have heard the dispute, but he wasn’t going to check. The last thing he wanted was to open an opportunity for more talking if he accidentally caught someone’s gaze. When he stopped in front of his blankets, he jammed the paper he had into the pocket of his shirt without care. He tossed the mandolin down at his pack with a grumble and the strings made ugly shrieks when they caught on something, but he paid no mind. With the awful noise, Simon sat up and looked at him, and seeing him disgruntled, opened his mouth in a silent offer. Sighing, Paultin shook his head at the construct’s offer to dart the one responsible for his father’s anger and fell into the bed. Simon spun his head to gaze into the distance and pointed before looking to Paultin once more.

“Are you sure?” He seemed to say.

“Down, boy,” he whispered to the construct who shrugged and closed his mouth.

Simon continued to look of in the direction from which Paultin came, watching over his father with a glare that said it was best not to come near. Paultin appreciated it greatly, his heart twisting affectionately for his son. He tried not to think about Simon’s predecessor who had been crushed, Paultin nowhere nearby.

He was sticky with sweat and humidity, but he twisted under the blanket defiantly and screwed his eyes shut in effort to drown out the thoughts in his head. He had been alone with his thoughts for 50 years, he figured he deserved at least one time where they didn’t plague him. Nevertheless, they persisted, calling to him and grasping at his mind and crawling down his throat. Your fault , they whispered. Killed them...like everyone else. They had a point. He was the reason they had been forced back into Barovia in the first place. He was the one who brought his sun sword upon his own shadow that contained Strahd. By defeating Strahd, he had caused them to go back in time. He’d brought them there to be killed. He only just managed to save Evelyn from the soul monger. If she had died, it would have been on him. Strix had died and he had been in Castle Ravenloft. Diath was hung and he had been unconscious in a tavern. His parents, OG Simon, his new family, he killed Falkon-.

He forced his eyes open, hoping something would catch his gaze and distract him. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he found the faintest beams of sunlight in the dark sky. The sun wasn’t going to rise for a while longer, but between the cracks of dense clouds he saw gold. The fire casted flickering shadows, illuminated their camp, but making the outside seem all the more obscure.