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Shadowheart knows she is unusual for a Cleric. All who follow Shar are. She’s always been a healer, but her training was a bit different.
Healing was used for two things: Being a battlefield medic and urging her fellow Sharrans to keep fighting in the name of their lady, and healing a prisoner during torture, only to get right back to breaking them. Keeping them on the brink of death so that they would give up the information they needed in order to stop it.
Their little group had little need for the latter so far but plenty of the former. These days, it was rare for Shadowheart to lie down to sleep with any of her spell slots still remaining. She was undeniably necessary in the survival of the group, and only about half of them were appreciative of this fact.
Shadowheart was a healer of wounds, but it wasn’t often that she tended to the sick. She didn’t think it would be necessary before— there were other Sharran healers who dealt with that. It was never her concern.
Unfortunately, that was no longer the case. Had it been anyone else, the situation might’ve felt a tad less dire. Shadowheart was not in a hurry to attach herself to any of their companions so easily.
But there was one who she admittedly had a bit of an emotional attachment to. The one who got her out of that damn pod and who told her he didn’t quite understand Shar worship but didn’t judge her for it either.
The very one who was now shivering on the ground, half lucid at best.
It wasn’t hard to figure out Wyll was a Warlock, not when he threw around Eldritch Blasts or lashed out at enemies with Arms of Hadar. He didn’t speak of it much, kept dodging the question as best as he could, but rarely outright denying it either. The only time he had was when she asked about the Sending Stone in his eye.
His reaction had been odd. Shadowheart still wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she didn’t like the way his eye twitched sometimes, like it bothered him.
Shadowheart liked Wyll. She didn’t think she would care much for a hero who insisted on helping a bunch of refugees she didn’t know but he was… Kind. To the refugees, to kids, to animals, to her. She didn’t understand why he cared so much but found that maybe she didn’t mind that he did.
Shadowheart didn’t mean to share so much with him but it just kept spilling out. A combination of desperation to tell someone who wouldn’t forget and the fact that it was so easy to talk to Wyll meant that she had told him almost everything she knew now.
It was just so easy to talk to Wyll. It was easy to follow his lead too.
But when she looked into Karlach’s eyes, she didn’t see a monster. Wyll didn’t either. He hesitated and after a small nudge, he relented easily. Karlach joined their merry little band and Shadowheart didn’t know why Wyll looked almost sorrowful afterwards.
Wyll never outright admitted he was a Warlock. It was just kind of a known thing— like Astarion being a vampire.
But when night fell upon their camp, a devil appeared before them. Mizora, she introduced herself as. Wyll’s patron, who was not happy about the fact that Karlach still lived.
Which violated Wyll’s pact. And as a result, Mizora remade him.
Shadowheart was no stranger to torture, but ice flooded her veins as Wyll screamed, loud and hoarse, then collapsed on the ground. Mizora didn’t stay long after that, not when Karlach launched herself at her for it.
Which brought her to the present, with Wyll, now spouting horns and a tail, shivering on the ground. For a moment, Shadowheart is frozen at the sight which is— uncharacteristic of her. She’s seen torture before. She’s had her hand in torture before. Wyll is still in one piece. She’s seen worse than this. Why can’t she move— why can’t she—
“Shadowheart!” It’s Gale who cries for her help, crouching beside Wyll with a hand on his shoulder. He looks just as terrified as she feels which is more of a relief than it should be. Thank the Dark Lady she’s not the only one so deeply affected by this.
Reality comes back to her. Karlach is pacing, looking at Wyll with a pained expression. Lae’zel is tearing through the camp supplies for something. Astarion is— gone? Wasn’t he just here?
It doesn’t matter. Focus. Wyll.
Once Shadowheart can finally move, everything else comes easily. She joins Gale, kneeling on the other side of Wyll. Wyll’s eyes are screwed shut in pain, each breath a stutter like he doesn’t remember how to breathe. Shadowheart lays a hand on his forehead and immediately recoils with a sharp intake. He’s burning up— hotter than any human should feel.
Except… Is he still human?
Shadowheart files that away for later. His skin is way too hot regardless and he’s shivering— a fever, most likely. Maybe shock? She wouldn’t be surprised— a transformation like that had to have wrecked his body.
The changes— horns, tail, ridges on his chest are all the most visible. Shadowheart gives him a more thorough once over and notes the claws that have replaced his nails as well as the sharper teeth and forked tongue.
Did Mizora make him into a devil?
As soon as Shadowheart thinks about it, she knows the answer. Someone like Mizora— someone who reveled in having near complete control over Wyll’s fate— she would see it as a fitting punishment. Ironic, perhaps. Both physical pain and psychological once he woke up.
Shadowheart knows how it works well. It makes her jaw clench.
Wyll’s body is in pain. Shadowheart can fix that. She might’ve run out of stamina for a Lesser Restoration but thankfully, the Amulet of Silvanus provides her with the spell. She whispers the incantation and her hands glow, allowing her to press it to Wyll’s skin. It cools minutely but at the very least, Wyll’s breathing evens out.
One less problem to worry about. She touches his forehead again. Cooler but not by much. She opens her mouth to ask something but Lae’zel is suddenly by her side, shoving a potion of healing into her hand. For once, Shadowheart bites back any resentment she has towards her and just accepts it.
The cork is pulled off with an audible pop. One hand carefully lifts the back of Wyll’s head while the other holds the potion to his lips. Shadowheart has to administer it slowly so as to not make him choke but even in his feverish state, he reflexively swallows the potion provided. Once the entire thing is gone, Wyll’s face isn’t as pained as before and it relieves her so greatly to see.
“Lae’zel.” Shadowheart looks up at where she hovers at last. Like a soldier ready for battle, Lae’zel is immediately at attention. Shadowheart might’ve enjoyed ordering her around had it not been for the circumstances. “Help me carry him to his tent, gently.”
“Chk. It will be easy. He won’t bear a scratch on him.” Lae’zel heads for his legs, ready to lift him up. Shadowheart turns her attention to Gale.
“Gale, get some of our towels and soak them in the river. We need to cool him down, he’s burning up.”
Gale nods and swiftly leaves to locate the towels in question. Shadowheart’s gaze flickers to the last of their companions. Karlach is still looking at Wyll like she’s going to be sick, and like she so desperately wants to hug him.
“Karlach.” She only tears her gaze away when Shadowheart calls her name. “Find where Astarion went, then make sure we don’t get any more surprises tonight.”
“You got it, soldier.” She croaks, less cheery than she was earlier. Shadowheart swallows down her own feelings and finally positions herself to lift Wyll up by the shoulders while Lae’zel takes his legs.
It’s an easy enough task— Wyll isn’t light but between the two of them, it isn’t hard to lay him down in his own bed. Shadowheart has to readjust his pillows to account for his horns. It takes her a moment to find the best position but she figures if she stacks them high enough, his horns won’t be digging into the ground.
Shadowheart forgets Lae’zel is still there until she looks up and sees her staring. Some part of her wants to bristle but she just feels so, so drained.
“Do we have any more pillows?” Shadowheart finds herself asking. Lae’zel straightens herself like she’s taking it as a mission.
“I will look. Do not move.”
She leaves swiftly. Shadowheart’s gaze returns to Wyll and she finds herself touching his cheek again. Still abnormally hot. She doesn’t pull back even once she’s concluded this, examining every inch of his face. Her hand only drops when Gale returns, cold towels in hand.
“Thank you.” She accepts them and begins to lay them down. One on his forehead, another on his chest— anything to get him cooled down. Wyll isn’t shivering quite as much as before but it’s still there, the slight tremble and hitch in his breath. It makes her gut twist.
“Do you think you could check?” Gale asks. Shadowheart frowns at him. “That she truly remade him into a devil, I mean. I wouldn’t trust a thing a devil told us normally but devils— they take pleasure in suffering. And if telling the truth would cause more suffering, they would do it. So it begs the question, is he human anymore?”
Shadowheart hesitates but steels herself and mutters the familiar incantation for Detect Evil And Good under her breath. It takes a few minutes but the second the spell activates, Shadowheart finds herself gritting her teeth.
Fiend, the spell tells her, right in front of you.
“Lady of Sorrows, give me the strength to strike her down.”
“Ah.” Gale looks truly sorrowful at that. “I see. For once, I wish a devil had lied.”
Lae’zel returns at last with the extra pillows— one of which Shadowheart recognizes as her own. She can’t find it in her to care. Gale helps in arranging them in a more comfortable way and then all three of them are left to do nothing but stare.
Wyll is a little bit cooler but still so warm. Are devils meant to be this warm? Damn it all, she doesn’t know the first thing about it.
She barely knows how to treat a fever. Shadowheart was not built for this sort of thing. Her domain is trickery, not life. Her healing has always been done for the sake of ensuring more pain, one way or another.
But there is no promised pain here. There is only Wyll, who suffers for doing something right, and how deeply unfair that feels. He is no enemy of Shar, nor a devoted Sharran himself. He does not deserve any of the pain that has been brought to him.
Undead, her still-active spell tells her. Thirty feet— twenty feet— ten feet—
Shadowheart huffs and dismisses the spell just as Astarion pulls the tent cover back in one swift motion. His face is unreadable at first but his nose wrinkles and he scoffs, “Oh come on, you aren’t even gonna wash off the smell of sulfur?”
Astarion doesn’t wait for an answer. The tent is barely big enough for the four of them but adding Astarion to the equation does not help. Gale ends up backing out to make more room and Astarion shuffles forward, a rag with strong smelling perfume rolling off of it in hand. He immediately wipes Wyll’s face down, swift and effectively, and overpowers the smell of sulfur with— Shadowheart doesn’t even know what it is. It’s flowery and a tad unpleasant but welcomed in comparison to the sulfur.
“There. Honestly, do any of you have any sense? Or do you all run around like headless chickens whenever I am not near?”
“And where exactly did you go?” Shadowheart asks dryly.
“Does it matter? Did I really need a babysitter?” He scoffs and gives Shadowheart a pointed look. “Tell me, what’s the plan here, dear Cleric?”
It feels almost mocking but Astarion looks perfectly serious. Shadowheart struggles for an answer— she isn't the leader. Wyll was the leader. But even on the off chance Wyll wakes up in the next hour, he’ll be in no position to lead. Why does that put her in his position? She’s never been a leader.
Damn it. Fine— what would Wyll do if their positions were reversed?
He’d… Stay up with her all night, making sure she’s okay. Because he’s sweet like that. Worried over everything.
“We’ll need to keep an eye on him throughout the night. I can—”
“You?” Astarion raises an eyebrow. Shadowheart finds herself bristling.
“Do any of you have any experience in medicine?” She challenges. “Some of you might know how to wrap your wounds but he doesn’t have any wounds.”
“Shadowheart…” It’s Gale this time, who winces when she turns her furious gaze to him. “That’s the problem with your suggestion. You and your spells are crucial, and you don’t get your spells back unless you get a full night’s rest.”
Oh. Shadowheart turns her gaze to the ground. That’s true. More than anything, that’s what Wyll needs.
“We will take shifts.” Lae’zel announces, though nobody else fights her on it. “You will rest. Between the rest of us, we will ensure nothing changes throughout the night. You will be the first to know if there is.”
Shadowheart lets out a long breath. “Fine.” She agrees. “I’ll get to bed then. The sooner I can heal him, the better.”
Shadowheart retreats to her tent just in time. The wound on her hand flares up and she nearly bites her tongue in the process. It only lasts a moment or so but it dies down soon enough and leaves her with nothing but the aftershocks. A soft groan escapes her and she lies down.
Fifteen minutes or so later, Shadowheart is no closer to sleeping than before. Gale approaches however, a potion of sleep in hand, and Shadowheart takes it without question. Sleep can’t come fast enough.
—
The moment morning comes and Shadowheart awakens, she’s stumbling into Wyll’s tent to check on him.
Astarion is there, eyebrow raised at her disheveled presence but ultimately says nothing. Shadowheart does a quick examination— Wyll still feels a bit warmer than he should but much better than before. Devils might just run hot, she supposes. She doesn’t really know their physiology.
“Any changes?” She asks.
“Gale says he was half awake for a portion of his shift. Wasn’t making much sense and fell back asleep in time. Karlach says he was sleeping a bit fitfully but she thinks it went away.” Astarion shrugs. “He’s alive, isn’t he? Would his dear patron really want him dead?”
“I don’t know.” Shadowheart bites out. “We met her once for a grand total of ten minutes. We barely know anything about her, other than Wyll needs to get out of that pact.”
“Yes.” Astarion remarks dryly. “But if it were that easy, would Wyll really still be tied to a devil?”
He’s right, but Shadowheart still shoots him a glare because she’s in no mood to hear it. She presses a Lesser Restoration to Wyll’s chest again and the relief is immediate. His eyes flutter a little but don’t open. Shadowheart chews on the inside of her cheek and when her wound flares up again, she bites so hard that she tastes blood.
Astarion twitches a little like the bloodhound he is. Then says, “No good deed goes unpunished, hm?”
“Shut up, Astarion.” She bites out.
“Testy, aren’t we?” Astarion rises to his feet. “I’ll take my leave seeing as you have it handled. Try not to spend all your magic on him. Or do. I suppose we’re not going to be doing much adventuring today.”
Shadowheart doesn’t look at him when he leaves. She rubs her forehead, letting out a soft breath.
“Very charming, our Astarion.” A weary and broken sounding voice tells her and Shadowheart all but jumps in surprise. Wyll is smiling apologetically when she looks at him again. “Sorry.”
“How long have you been awake?” Shadowheart demands before she can think of anything else to say.
“Not long.” Wyll says like a promise. “You— did something that felt nice? It woke me up. Took me a minute to regain my bearings.”
“And how do you feel?” She presses. Shadowheart glances over him again, frowning to herself.
“Been better?”
“Yes, I’d hope so.”
Wyll laughs weakly. It’s not his usual laugh— the kind Shadowheart is haunted by when she lays down at night— but something more brittle and breathy. She thinks it might haunt her later too, but for entirely different reasons.
“I ah.” Wyll pauses to really think. “Everything feels… Strange. Unnatural. Not great. But I’m breathing.”
“Any pain?”
Wyll hesitates. Shadowheart shoots him a glare. “Some.” He admits. “Not nearly as much as I thought I would be in. I’m guessing that’s your doing?”
“Someone had to keep you alive. And no offense to the rest of our camp but… Well, perhaps some offense— but I just can’t see myself enjoying a bottle of wine with any of them in the same way I did with you.”
Wyll’s laugh is a little more genuine this time. It soothes her in a ridiculous sort of way to hear it. Silence stretches between them before she finally broaches to say, “Wyll? You should know that you… She made you into a—”
“—A devil?” Wyll guesses before she can say it. Shadowheart nods. “I figured out that much. I must apologize to Gale when he awakens; I’m afraid he bore witness to a bit of a breakdown on my part.”
“Anyone would react badly to learning they’d been transformed against their will.” Shadowheart hesitates but with how hollow the look in Wyll’s eyes are when he nods, she adds it in. “And if it’s any consolation, you do look quite handsome with those horns.”
“Small mercies.” Wyll smiles, small but genuine. Shadowheart searches his tent for a waterskin before handing it over. He accepts it and gulps it down swiftly. His voice sounds a little better for it after. “Thank you. I don’t know how I’m going to repay my debt to you.”
“Normally I wouldn’t mind having someone indebted to me,” she tells him honestly, “But you’ve done more than enough for myself and the others. Astarion talks too much but he is right about one thing: You are so much of a truly good person that it’s infuriating sometimes.”
“Infuriating?” Wyll asks, a bit curious. “In what way?”
“You seem a bit too content in sacrificing parts of yourself for the sake of others. Selfless to the point of self-destruction.” Shadowheart glances him over. “Perhaps you could learn a thing or two from the rest of us. Look out for yourself every once in a while at least.”
“Do I need to? You seem to be doing a fine job.” Wyll teases.
“You really should not be relying on the Cleric of Loss to be your knight in shining armor.” Shadowheart tilts her head up.
“Ah, but you do look so dashing.”
Shadowheart fights a smile. “I’m willing to give a lot of things up.” She tells him. “My memories among them. But I’m not willing to lose you as well. So for all of our sakes, let that be the first and last major sacrifice you make.”
“I’ll try.” Wyll tells her. Shadowheart just barely stops herself from rolling her eyes. She should’ve suspected as much, but nonetheless, she knows how to get the results she wants out of people.
Perhaps this time, she need not use pain.
She doesn’t give Wyll time to react. Quick as a rabbit, she straddles his hips and grabs his chin with one hand. Wyll’s face heats up beneath her touch and his one, red eye is dilated almost immediately. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.
“I’m going to say it one more time,” she tells him, deadly sweet, “And you’re going to give me a better answer. That will be your last major sacrifice. You will not be putting yourself in a position like that again, understand?”
Wyll blinks a few times fast before he nods. “Verbal contract.” She tells him with a teasing edge. “I need to hear it.”
“Understood.” He tells her, a bit breathlessly.
“Good.” Shadowheart only hesitates for a moment before she leans down and takes his mouth into hers.
They kissed once already, back when they snuck out of camp with a bottle of wine to talk, but that was different. That was Shadowheart giving him a look and seeing if he would see it, know what it meant, and take it. That was Shadowheart trying to draw him in, wanting him to cross over that threshold.
Good Sharrans didn’t make the first move. Good Sharrans were teasing or coy and drew you in just to keep you wanting more. A chaste kiss here. A flirty remark there.
Shadowheart knows she is not being a good Sharran with the way she kisses Wyll now but doesn’t know how anyone could resist with the look of adoration he was giving her. Like she is a goddess roaming on the material plane.
Honestly, she doesn’t know how she was the first one to snatch Wyll up at all. But their loss is her gain.
When they part and Shadowheart returns to sitting beside him, her wound flares up again and Shadowheart muffles her cry. Wyll shoots up, half dazed but alarmed all the same. “Shadowheart! Are you alright? Do you need something? Can I help?”
The pain fades and Shadowheart laughs quietly to herself. “You’re too sweet.” She tells him. “I’m fine. Honestly.”
Wyll relaxes a fraction and crosses his legs to stay sitting up. “If there’s anything I can do, tell me.”
“You’ve done plenty.” She extends a hand and he takes it into his. His hands are a bit rougher than hers. Years of adventuring will do that, she supposes. Her eyes trace along the new additions to his body and when Wyll looks away, she knows it’s because he’s reminded of what he’s become.
“I don’t expect this to be an easy transition for you.” She tells him. “None of us do. And if I see your patron again, I’m half inclined to shoot a Guiding Bolt at her.”
Wyll winces. “Please don’t. It may make things worse.”
“Very well. But only because you asked.” She levels her gaze with him. “I don’t know anything about devil physiology but I will try and study up if we find anything. So if you need help with something or something feels bad or weird, you better let me know. As both your medic and… As someone who deeply cares about your survival. Understood?”
“Understood.” Wyll tells her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his new tail twitch a little. “I… Thank you. You’re being very kind.”
“Perhaps you’ve earned it.” She tells him, and means every word.