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The dark elves are not much for merrymaking, Ceru thinks as she sips at her second tankard of black mead; in all her travels, she’s never seen a tavern so quiet. Beside her, Solaufein’s onto his third or fourth drink, his lips stained blue-black by the potent beverage and curled downwards in a scowl. “Leave me be,” was all he’d said when she approached him after their last errand, and Ceru doesn’t want to pry further despite her concern. Clearly he has some baggage with their oh-so-benevolent patron.
Phaere herself is deep in conversation with Viconia, who’s been spinning fabricated tales for their benefactor about their life in Ched Nasad, keeping the details vague enough so that they can be neither verified nor refuted. The ones about Ceru’s own accomplishments skirt a little close to reality for comfort… though the sibling she slew was a brother instead of a sister, and that battle took place in Baldur’s Gate, not the Underdark. Of course, the best kind of lie is one that could be mistaken for the truth in the right light, if you turn your head and look at it just so.
Ceru stares into the black depths of her drink, lost in thoughts of Baldur’s Gate. Hard to believe it’s been barely a year since she fought Sarevok to the death and won, though it feels like she’s aged a decade in that short time. She almost misses the place, even though she’d never enjoyed playing the catspaw for nobles and mercenaries; things had seemed so much simpler back then. Before the Shining Lady’s misguided crusade, before Irenicus and his house of horrors, before she’d learned the truth about Imoen. Before they lost their gods-damned souls.
Best not to dwell upon times past, perhaps. Taking a leaf out of Solaufein’s book, she drains her tankard right to the bottom and sets it on the table with a clink, staring into its depths. Perhaps wisdom can’t be found at the bottom of a bottle, but tonight she thinks she might just take oblivion in its place instead. Oblivion, at least, comes cheaper.
Her brooding is interrupted by a quiet murmur from Solaufein, intended for her ears only. “I’d keep an eye on your pretty little wizard if I were you, Veldrin. He has a knack for attracting the wrong sort of attention.”
Across the table, an imposing-looking drow woman clad in lacquered black scale mail is leaning over Xan, her manner clearly intended to intimidate. It’s not the first time this has happened. More than one female and even a high-ranking male or two have expressed interest in Xan’s company, and one had been particularly difficult to dissuade. Ceru grits her teeth at the memory, making a silent promise to herself to knock Hunrae of the First House’s teeth down her throat if they ever meet again.
“Oh, I don’t care if you can’t get it up,” the armoured female across the table is saying to Xan, who’s looking like he’d rather be absolutely anywhere else, his eyes firmly fixed on the barely-touched tankard between his hands. “You don’t need a cock to service me, male. Now come on, I haven’t got all–”
The screech from Ceru’s chair sliding across the stone floor as she stands up is so loud that every head in the room turns their way. “Lay a hand on him and you will lose that hand before you draw your next breath,” she says, voice low but still perfectly audible in the sudden hush that’s come over the tavern. She hasn’t drawn a blade yet, but her posture leaves no doubt she means business.
The armoured drow laughs. “And who are you to make such bold claims, iblith?”
“Veldrin, enough!” Viconia hisses from across the table. Her features are set in a scowl, but the worry in her eyes tells another story.
“Veldrin, is it? Your mother couldn’t think of anything more original when she whelped you? Hah. Such a common name befits one so unremarkable.” A sneer settles over the warrior’s sharp features.
Ceru stares her down, blood-red eyes unblinking. “I’ve heard worse. Now step away from my wizard, unless you’ve a wish to meet me in the duelling pit.”
A murmur runs through the tavern. As if summoned by magic, Sondal the pitmaster appears at her elbow. “Do we have a challenge for the five-times-undefeated champion, Veldrin of Ched Nasad?”
The black-mailed warrior pales. “Ugh... forget it. I’ve better times to do with my time than play games with children.” She turns on her heel and leaves the tavern in a hurry, her entourage following behind her. Everyone at Ceru’s table lets out the breaths they’ve been holding – all save Phaere, who’s been watching with a detached sort of amusement.
Ceru crosses the distance to Xan’s side in seconds, reaching for him. “Are you all right? Did she–”
“Not here,” he hisses, brushing her arm away as he rises from his seat. “Not in front of her.”
A slow clap rings out from across the table – it’s Phaere, staring intently at Ceru, a strange expression on her face. “Oh, well done, my lovely Veldrin! So newly arrived in Ust Natha, and you’ve already built up quite a reputation! Such ambition will serve you well.” The clapping stops, and Ceru is abruptly reminded that this woman could have them all killed with a single word. “Unless it is something else that has you ready to spill blood over a mere male.”
Viconia is suddenly paying very close attention to her drink. Solaufein has gone as pale as it is possible for a drow to go. Ceru doesn’t dare even look at Xan, lest the deception they’ve built up come crumbling down around them.
Of all the things to be undone by, she had never planned on love.
She laughs, tries to pull the persona of Veldrin of Ched Nasad back on like an ill-fitting coat. Veldrin is all nonchalant swagger and black leather, a world-weary, crooked smile, a parody of a scoundrel; not so different from the role she’d played when trying to win the favour of the Shadow Thieves back in Athkatla. “What can I say? A girl’s got needs, and mages can be ever so inventive in the bedroom. I had plans with this one for tonight, and I won’t have some ignorant cur ruining my fun.”
Phaere sits back, the strange, too-intense expression on her face replaced by one of mild disdain and amusement. “Go on then, have your fun. There’s certainly time enough for that before your next task. Speaking of which - come meet me in my chambers at the Female Fighters’ Society tomorrow.” She waves a hand, clearly dismissing them.
There is nothing else for it; Ceru takes Xan’s hand. “Come, then,” she purrs, disguising genuine affection with sultry sweetness. “Show me what those pretty wizard’s hands of yours can do.”
“I live to serve,” Xan says dryly as he follows her up the tavern stairs to the lust chambers.
As the door swings shut behind them, Xan presses Ceru against the wall and buries his head in the crook of her neck, arms wrapping around her waist. He’s trembling, his breath coming in short gasps. “Estel’amin…”
“It’s all right, love,” Ceru murmurs, holding him close.
Xan laughs bitterly. “Oh, it is so very far from all right. This place is a nightmare from which we cannot wake.” His tone borders on the hysterical. “Tell me, Veldrin, what will you do to the next drow who tries to drag me away to her bedchamber?”
“I will do what I must,” Ceru says firmly, not letting her anger rise despite the sting of Xan’s words. “Wouldn’t you do the same in my place, to keep me from harm?”
“I… yes. There is not much I would not do to keep you from harm.” Xan takes a deep breath, his shivers gradually slowing. “Would that I could keep you from it always.”
“And I you, Tahlimil.” They hold each other tight for a long moment, his cheek nestled against her collarbone, her lips brushing the top of his head.
Ceru looks around the room they’ve rented for the night. It’s not all that different from the ordinary rooms they’ve stayed in on nights previous, save that the bed is considerably larger, clearly built to accommodate more than two should the occasion call for it. Candles burn in ornate little metal dishes on the bedside drawers while a coal-fed brazier keeps the room warm, and there’s a modest assortment of scented oils and suchlike on the dresser. Almost romantic, really – were the circumstances not what they are.
She cracks a grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, since we’ve rented this extravagantly large bed for the night we may as well make use of it, hmm?”
Xan pales, his lips tightening in a frown. “I… I cannot, you know this. Do not ask it of me.”
“Am I truly so repulsive like this?” says Ceru. “My mother was drow, you know, among other things. My father was something much worse, but it seems that offends you less somehow.”
“That’s not – Ceru, it is not you that repulses me so! The drow are–”
“Are what? This is a part of me too, Xan!” The anger that had threatened to rise to the surface before flares again, brighter and hotter. She’s spent years fighting for control over her rage, honing it into a weapon deadlier than either of the longswords at her side, a weapon that she chooses when and where to unsheathe. But Xan has always had a curiously strong influence over her emotions, breaking down the walls of her carefully cultivated stoicism. Sometimes, it’s a comfort. Right now, it is infuriating.
“Estel’amin–”
“I don’t care if people hate the part of me that comes from Bhaal. Even the people I love most, even you. Gods know I’m used to that by now. But this – this feels worse, somehow.” Ceru blinks away the hot tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “If you say you love me, but you can’t love all of me… then maybe what you love is just the part of me that looks like whatever a real elf is to you. But that isn’t me, Xan. It never was.”
Xan’s hands fall from her waist, his face flushing in shame. “Oh, Ceru… I have hurt you, haven’t I. More than I could have known.”
“No shit.” She sniffs angrily, wiping at her eyes.
“I am sorry, dear one,” he says softly, eyes downcast. “For me, it has always seemed such a simple matter. The drow are my people’s ancient enemy, a twisted reflection of all that we should not be; we are born to hate and fear each other. But you, Estel’amin – you were not raised amongst the Tel’Quessir. This enmity means nothing to you, and it is to my shame that I forget this.” Xan looks up, lips twisted in a wry smile. “Elven and drow, human and divine – you challenge assumptions simply by existing. Were I an optimistic man, I could almost believe that someone like you might be the one to begin to repair the gulf between our peoples someday.”
Ceru returns his smile, albeit a little shakily. “That sounds awfully like something an optimistic man might say.”
“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain as a prophet of doom, after all.”
“Of course. Onward to futility, and all that.”
So effortlessly, Ceru thinks, they return to this easy back-and-forth exchange of wits, as though tears had never been shed nor hearts been bared; it’s her way to find refuge in humour, uncomfortable with being vulnerable for too long, and Xan has always indulged this side of her. Most of the time, they are able to say the things that are most important without any need for words.
But sometimes… sometimes words are necessary. It’s almost shameful how much Xan’s simple apology means to her. “And… thank you,” she says, after a long moment.
“There is no need, melamin. I was in the wrong.” Gently, Xan takes her hand in both of his. “I fear I cannot show you the pleasure of my – what did you call them? Ah, yes – my pretty wizard’s hands tonight,” he says, with a self-deprecating huff of laughter. “But lay with me for a while, at least, and we can dream of better times.”
Ceru doesn’t resist as he leads her to the bed, unfastens the laces and buckles of her leather armour and boots. Her twin longswords and his moonblade are quickly shed along with them, carefully placed on a chair to the side of the bed. Before long she’s down to her undershirt and smallclothes, and he in his silken inner robes.
Xan shivers a little as he shrugs off his outer robe, quickly slipping under the bedcovers; there’s a fire burning in a brazier across the room, but it’s not quite enough to chase away the chill on the air. “Come closer, my dear, before we both freeze to death.” Ceru slides across the sheets and wraps an arm around his waist, her chest pressed to his back, her chin resting upon his shoulder. He laces their fingers together and tucks her arm under his, settling back against her with a sigh.
“Better?” she murmurs in his ear.
He shivers again, this time not from the cold. “Mmm. Who needs evocation spells when I have my own personal furnace beside me?”
Ceru snuggles closer. It’s been a while since she’s been able to just hold Xan in her arms like this, so soft and unguarded. Ever since the journey to Spellhold and all that came after there’s been no time to spare for softness, and even in the relative safety of Ust Natha they’ve slept apart (if being surrounded by drow who would kill them all in a heartbeat should they learn their true nature can be called “safety”). But like this, Xan’s warm body pressed against hers, his heart beating steadily away under her hand, she feels at peace for a moment.
She doesn’t even realize she’s dozed off until some hours later when she feels Xan squirm against her, his hitching breaths the only sound in the dark chamber, the candles and brazier long burned out. “Xan? Love, what’s the matter?”
As Ceru lifts her head drowsily from the pillow, her nose brushes against the sensitive tip of his pointed ear; he outright gasps at that, a shudder running through his body with the contact. “A-ahh! Melamin, do not tease me so. I’m afraid I have awoken in something of a… predicament.”
The surest way to get Ceru to do something, of course, is to tell her not to. “Oh?” Her voice drops an octave as she hums against his ear, nuzzling closer. “Well, don’t mind me. If you’ve got something that needs taking care of–” and here her hand skims up his chest to brush against a half-hard nipple, eliciting another shivery little gasp from Xan, “you should simply do so.”
“Ceru…” The desperation is evident in his voice, and even in the darkness there’s no hiding his flushed cheeks and neck from keen half-elven eyes.
“Or you could let me take care of it for you,” she says as her thumb traces little circles around his nipple through the thin fabric of his robe, teasing the already stiff nub to a sharp, puffy peak.
“Ceru!” Xan grabs her hand, stilling its teasing movements across his chest. “This is… very pleasant, I cannot deny, but please…” He takes a deep breath, trying to will his traitorous body back under his control and failing. “Please stop. You are driving me near out of my mind, and I fear I will be unable to reciprocate.”
“Then don’t,” Ceru says softly, twisting her hand in Xan’s grip and tangling their fingers together. “Just don’t push me away, please. Not again.”
Xan sighs deeply. “Would that we could dispense with this damnable illusion, even if only for tonight. I know it is a necessary evil, but to see a stranger in your place when we are together like this is…” He shudders. “It is just too unnatural. Please forgive me, melamin.”
“What if you didn’t have to look at me, then?” Her tone is light, almost airy; a casual observer would not notice the longing in her voice, the way she clings to his hand, as though every fibre of her being is crying please, please don’t reject me. Xan of Evereska is not a casual observer.
He squeezes her hand gently, a silent apology for his cold treatment earlier. “A blindness spell, perhaps? The idea has merit, but the spell’s duration is only a few minutes at most… not nearly enough time for what you are thinking of. Unless you mean to imply something about my stamina.”
“Not at all. You do very well, for an old man.” Ceru’s lips curl up in a grin of the kind that can only be described as “shit-eating”.
“Hmph! Such disrespect for your elders,” Xan mock-scolds her, turning in her arms to look down his nose at her sternly.
“That’s what all my tutors at Candlekeep used to say,” she agrees. “But actually, I was thinking of something a little more old-fashioned. Like a blindfold.”
Despite his better judgement, Xan’s cock twitches at the suggestion. The thought of Ceru having him blindfolded and at her mercy is getting him hot under the collar in a way he can’t quite explain. “O-oh. Go on.”
“The sash from your robes would do nicely, I think,” she says. “Please, Xan – just say you trust me. Say you’ll let me take care of you, just for tonight.”
He knows he’s lost as soon as the words fall from her lips; how can he resist Ceru when she pleads like that? “I am yours,” he says softly. “In this, and in all things.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That is a yes,” Xan says, a fond smile on his usually solemn face, as she climbs out of the bed and starts rummaging about in the neatly-folded pile of his robes. “But do hurry back to me soon, dear one. ‘Tis cold in here without you.”
It’s not long before she’s found what she’s looking for amongst his belongings: a thin strip of violet cloth, faded to grey in the darkness. “Never fear, I’ll keep you warm tonight,” Ceru says with a wink, a hint of Veldrin’s swagger in the way she sways her hips as she makes her way back to bed. “As long as you’re still all right with this?”
He nods, settling back against the pillows in anticipation. “Mm. Now come back and make good on that promise of yours, before I catch my death of cold.”
“Oh, we can’t have that, can we?” Her voice is low and teasing as she shuffles across the bedsheets. Gently, she reaches over to brush a strand of Xan’s hair out of his eyes before she covers them with the cloth sash, wrapping it around his head twice; tight enough to hold firm but loose enough to prevent discomfort. She takes particular care that his ears are uncovered, tucking the improvised blindfold securely behind them and combing away any stray locks of hair that might get in the way. “Your hair’s grown long lately, darling. I think I rather like it.”
With his eyes covered, the sensation is amplified; the world shrinks down to the feel of Ceru’s hands in his hair, the low melody of her voice in the darkness. Xan can’t help the flush of heat that runs through him at the soft brush of her fingertips against his sensitive ears, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Melamin,” he gasps, “I fear I shall regret teaching you just how much this simple touch affects our kind.”
“You know I’d have found out on my own one way or another regardless,” Ceru says cheerfully. “It’s not as though your reactions are particularly subtle.” Her hand slides up his silk-clad thigh, fingers wandering dangerously close to where another reaction is making its presence felt.
Xan half-gasps, half-chuckles at that. “Ahh! By the Seldarine, Ceru, are you going to tease me all night, or are you going to – mpff!” His complaint is cut off as Ceru’s lips are crushed against his in a heated kiss. She settles between his legs, pressing him back against the pillows, a hand reaching up to cup his jaw while its twin pushes up the thin yet increasingly constraining fabric of his robe to trace patterns on the soft skin of his inner thigh.
He arches up towards her, deepening the kiss, breathing her in like he is a drowning man and she is both the air he craves and the sea in which he drowns – and oh, how sweet the drowning. Every movement of her lips, every place where her skin touches his is somehow both too much and not nearly enough; his greed for her kisses, for the touch of her hands, for her, almost frightens him with its intensity. He has always felt things too deeply for comfort, and love is no exception. But with Ceru, it does not feel like this is such a weakness after all; like drowning in a dream and realizing he was able to breathe underwater all along.
Gradually their frantic, needy kisses grow slow and languid, though no less intoxicating. They’ve become thoroughly entwined in the bedcovers and each other, Ceru half-laying on top of him and kissing her way up his neck, Xan’s hands tangled in her thick wavy mess of hair as he falls apart under her gentle ministrations. She nibbles at the soft lobe of his ear then sucks it into her mouth, hot and wet and he moans and fists his hands in her hair, hips jerking up off the mattress. “Ceru, please!”
“Please what, melamin?” Her whisper against his ear is no less devastating for its softness, tongue curling around the syllables of the Tel’Quessir endearment as though she was born to speak the elven language.
Seldarine, what that voice does to him. “You know well what, my dear, impossible, infuriating Ceru. But since it brings you such satisfaction to hear me say it – darling, please fuck me.”
This time it’s Ceru’s turn to shiver with pleasure; there’s something about hearing such vulgar words in Xan’s cultured tones that makes her perversely excited. “Good boy,” she breathes, hand moving up to stroke Xan’s erection through the soft fabric. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, already achingly hard and leaking through his smallclothes. “You’re being so good for me, love. Would you have my mouth on you? Or–” here she palms his cock again, rubbing her thumb in teasing circles over the head, “would you prefer I stroke you off like this and kiss you ‘til you come?”
“Nngh,” Xan says intelligently, all the blood in his brain packing up and heading south.
“Or would you rather come inside me, instead? It’s a pity we’ve not been able to do it the other way around since I lost that accursed belt,” Ceru continues. “But if you’d let me ride you, darling–”
“Yes. Yes, that. Estel’amin – please.”
Gods, but he’s a beautiful sight. Ceru’s vision doesn’t allow her to distinguish colours in the darkness, but the pretty flush in Xan’s cheeks and across the bridge of his nose is still clear as day. His lips are wet and kiss-swollen and parted in a charming little ‘o’ as he pants underneath her, and all she wants to do in that moment is lean down and steal another kiss.
So she does. And then another, and another. “Look at me,” she pants, after the fourth or fifth kiss, “letting myself get carried away when I promised you a good fucking.” From the way Xan melts against her and moans into her open mouth as they kiss, it doesn’t seem as though he particularly minds. He whines at the loss of contact as she sits up and half-turns away, slipping her smallclothes off and over her legs and unceremoniously tossing them onto the floor. To her surprise, they’re soaked through; she’s been so busy attending to Xan’s pleasure that her own has almost slipped her mind, and even the slight friction of her thighs brushing together as she settles back onto the bed almost drives her wild.
She turns back to see Xan has already dispensed with his own smallclothes, his erection tenting the fabric of his silken robe. “I believe you made me several promises, dear one,” he says with a shiver. “Indeed, if I am not mistaken, you mentioned something about keeping me warm.” For all their exertions, it’s still too chilly in the room to do away with clothes entirely; Ceru’s still in her undershirt, and she tends to run hotter than Xan, so she can only imagine how her lover must be feeling the cold.
Xan reaches for her in the darkness, unseeing, but trusting her to be there; Ceru takes his hand as she settles herself above him, straddling his thighs. She braces herself against the headboard as she rises up on her knees and then sinks down onto his cock with one smooth motion, taking all of him inside. “A-ahh!” She’s not sure which one of them cries out in that moment, where she ends and he begins; she’s not sure it even matters. They are bonded, joined together in the flesh just as surely as their souls are linked in the Weave, and for a moment it doesn’t matter that her soul is far away when she can feel him within her, hot and heady and so, so alive.
Ceru rolls her hips upwards as she leans down to take his free hand with hers, entwining their fingers together against the pillows. Despite the solid weight of her body pressing him down, anchoring him to the prime material plane, Xan feels as though he’s drifting, weightless, his body burning up with feverish desire. “I fear I will not last – ahh! – much longer,” he gasps, thighs trembling, hips arching up as he thrusts into the white-hot core of her.
“Then don’t,” she says, and begins to move in earnest, gripping him with her strong thighs and squeezing around him, pinning his hands against the pillows as she kisses him again and again and again until he’s drunk with it. “Come for me, Tahlimil. Let me hear you.”
The blindfold is coming loose around Xan’s ears now, and he finds he doesn’t much care. He shakes his head, letting it slide around his neck, and opens his eyes –
and all he sees is her. His Ceru.
She’s staring down at him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters, her eyes shining in the darkness, and even with the silver dragon’s glamour on her he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Every laugh line around those eyes, every freckle on those shoulders, all of it is her; no glamour could erase the feel of her strong hands on his, the wicked curve of her lips, the way she looks at him when they’re alone, so soft and open and heart-achingly fond.
He buries his face against her collarbone, kisses the soft, sweat-salty skin there, suddenly overcome with emotion. “Estel’amin,” is all he manages to gasp out before he comes, shaking as he spills inside her, muffling his cries against her shoulder.
“That’s it, darling,” breathes Ceru, her breath hot against his ear as she starts to move again, riding him through the aftershocks. It isn’t long before she follows him over the edge, pelvic muscles contracting around him, gripping his hands so tightly it almost hurts as she shudders and sighs her way through her own climax.
They lie there like that for a long time, exchanging soft, lazy little kisses, unwilling to let go just yet. Eventually, though, the oversensitivity becomes too much for Xan to bear and he pulls out, rolling out from underneath her. Ceru makes an unhappy little noise as he does so; she’s always clingy after the act, something he finds utterly adorable. “Shh, my dear, it’s all right. I won’t be long.”
He mutters a quick spell under his breath, waving away the sticky mess they’ve made of themselves and the bedding, before slipping back into Ceru’s clingy embrace. She mumbles happily as he nestles against her, already half asleep. “Mmm… c’mere, you.”
“Gladly,” Xan says, tucking a strand of unruly hair behind her ear before pulling the covers over both of them. For all that is wrong in the world, it is moments like these, he thinks, that make it all worth it. And when he wakes the next morning with a crick in his neck and a face full of Ceru’s hair, because that’s just how the world works, it will be no less beautiful.