the ruined and the tarnished

PART 2: oathbound, Chapter 4

SUMMARY

The warmth, the hope and despair and unquenchable hope again that all would turn out well, or, if not well, at least as it had to be between humans. Between people.

—Seth Dickinson, The Tyrant Baru Cormorant

See the end of the work for more notes.

Day surrendered to dusk, rays of burnt gold sweeping across the now lifeless Blighted Village. The derelict windmill made as good a camp as any, though the stench of goblin viscera still lingered. Gale teased the fabric of the Weave, and with a mild-mannered flourish, he commanded the arcane to scour away the filth. “A wizard of Waterdeep maintains certain standards, you understand,” he’d said as he arranged his cooking implements — a pot and ladle, a row of spice jars (had he been carrying those around?), amongst others — around the newly conjured campfire. “One can face death by mind flayer, survive goblin raids, and still enjoy a properly seasoned broth. Survival needn’t equate to barbarism, even out here.”

Wyll had offered his assistance but was met with an invisible pressure against his sternum. “Ah-ah,” Gale tutted, gesturing him away with a wooden spoon. “The kitchen, even one improvised from rubble, remains my sacred domain. Need I remind you of the venison incident? Such noble intentions, such catastrophic results! That poor deer died twice, first by arrow and again by culinary execution—” Wyll almost begged to differ, to redeem his companions from this, frankly, unwarranted slander, but Gale went on, oblivious, “—so please, Blade of Frontiers, allow a humble wizard his sovereignty over the stewpot. Some arts demand an expert hand.”

With culinary duties denied, Wyll turned his attention elsewhere; Lae’zel and Ajax had already marked out a rudimentary training circle next to the bedrolls, the perimeter scored with displaced stones and boot heel marks dragged across the earth. He ambled towards them and picked up a goblin’s scimitar. Fashioned from some unfortunate beast’s femur, its rough make felt alien in his hand; ineffectual for battle, but adequate for a practice bout.

Across the scuffed earth, Ajax assumed his stance: feet rooted, eyes narrowed, sizing him up. He held a crude greatclub in a two-handed grip — scavenged from goblin detritus too, no doubt. His forearm tensed as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The man wielded steel like an extension of his will: economical in his brutality, each strike delivered with the full weight of the compact frame behind it. The kind that could shatter goblin shields and bisect harpies with terrifying ease. Divested of whatever holy power he once channelled, those strapping arms of his seemed more than capable of crushing bone.

“Let’s see what this folk hero is made of,” the oathbroken paladin said, his lips peeling back into a smile, full and canine.

Wyll’s answering grin was all charm and ease. “By all means. The Blade has been spoiling for a dance.”

Lae’zel stalked the perimeter. She had insisted on overseeing their sparring match, declaring that “observing istik flail about might prove educational.”

“First blood earns the point,” she said. “Best of three. Weapons only. No sorcery, no ghaik trickery.” She raised a hand. The windmill’s distant groan seemed to recede as his focus sharpened, watching Ajax adjust his footing and mirror him with an inscrutable expression.

“Begin!”

Ajax exploded into motion, closing the distance, and Wyll pivoted just in time, the club whistling past his ear. He answered with a probing thrust, more question than commitment, aimed towards Ajax’s midsection.

Ajax parried the scimitar aside with little effort. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

“And ruin the prelude?” replied Wyll, sidestepping a lunge that kicked up dust.

“If this is the prelude, I expect the main act to be impressive.”

They circled each other again. A quickening thrummed beneath his ribs; not of fear, but exhilaration. No devils to appease, no pact-bound bargains to outsmart. Here existed only the honest dialogue of a duel: question and answer scored with each jab and whirl and lunge and parry.

The greatclub jabbed at his exposed side. A breath held too long; reflex took over and he twisted away scant moments before impact. Countering, he swung wide — too wide, he knew the instant his arm extended — and Ajax exploited it immediately, dipping beneath the arc and crowding against his guard.

Up close, sweat dampened Ajax’s brow, plastering strands of rosy hair to brown skin, face angled upward to meet his gaze.

Wyll should move.

Before he could, Ajax broke the clinch, palm on chest, staggering Wyll backwards. Boot caught on stone, and the split-second was all Ajax needed. Wood struck his shoulder, hard enough to sting, but controlled enough to avoid bruising.

“Point,” said Ajax.

Lae’zel nodded in approval. “The paladin scores first blood.”

Wyll pushed himself upright, rubbing his shoulder with a grunt more theatrical than pained. “Felled by treacherous terrain, a tale as old as time.”

Ajax twirled his greatclub, then dug it on the ground, leaning on the grip with his elbow. “Winning is winning,” he said. “Besides, the ground offered its assistance freely.”

“Enough chatter.” Lae’zel raised her hand again. “Round two, begin!”

This time, Ajax stayed firm in his stance, and so did Wyll. Circling and calculating, he kept his borrowed scimitar angled, in denial of easy openings. His breathing slowed. Ajax was an open book: the man favoured overwhelming force, not dissimilar to the tactics of ducal guard captains who had once drilled young Wyll in the upper city courtyards. Such crude bluntness had never impressed him, found it utterly lacking finesse, yet their brute strength could not be entirely dismissed.

“You’ve the strength of a mighty rothé, friend,” he said. “Shame to see it squandered on caution.”

A spark of battle-joy kindled in Ajax’s eyes, lips quirking into a wolfish grin. His response required no words, only pure kinetics, surging forward. Wyll twisted away, felt the wind of the greatclub’s trajectory at his back. The momentum of the failed strike pulled Ajax slightly off-balance, extending his reach just a fraction too far. And as Wyll completed his turn, he raised his scimitar, landing squarely between Ajax’s shoulder blades. A perfect riposte to punish overcommitment, just as he’d been taught by his father.

“Point,” he said, grinning.

“One each,” said Lae’zel. “The human learns quickly.”

Ajax met his gaze with a nod. “Well fought.”

“When victory seems certain, your blade grows bold,” Wyll replied, rotating his wrist. “A fiend would exploit such eagerness.”

He gave a short laugh. “Bold, perhaps, but effective. When you’re leading the charge, hesitation kills. Though I’ll do well to remember that the next time you think you have me cornered.”

Lae’zel’s hand rose again. “Final bout. The victor claims the honour of testing their skill against me.” A gleam of amusement flashed in her eyes, sharp teeth bared in a fervent grin. “Perhaps the defeated should take first watch tonight.”

“High stakes, indeed,” said Wyll.

When her hand dropped, neither man stirred. Then, on the edge of his vision, the dark periphery of his right: Ajax’s weight shifted, a minute tensing of muscles, and Wyll caught his intention. They moved simultaneously, and what began as a single note swelled into a symphony, each step and turn anticipated and matched like dance partners reading each other’s rhythm.

Without warning, Ajax broke their cadence, closing the distance, and Wyll found himself on the defensive, giving ground as Ajax pressed the attack. A quick feint opened his guard, leaving him vulnerable to the swift kick that sent his feet flying from beneath him.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs, stars bursting behind his eyes as his spine met unyielding earth. Then the world contracted, narrowed down to Ajax above him, hands pinning his shoulders, knees digging into his sides, leaving no room for escape. Time stretched like honey, slowing down to an impossible halt. From this close, Wyll could see flecks of dying sunlight caught in his deep brown eyes; there was a certain delicacy to his features that reminded Wyll of one of his father’s paintings in the estate. Adoratio, Father called it. He’d stared at it for hours, studying the image of a man on his knees before an unseen gentlewoman, perhaps to take her hand in marriage, though Father maintained it depicted an act of repentance. Even now, the brushstrokes remained perfect in his memory: the broad smear of his nose, the upturned sweep of his thick lips (surely joyful at her acceptance, young Wyll had insisted, and still he believed it), the sturdy geometries of his jaw. How easily Ajax’s face overlaid that remembered image, the few differences only enhancing his allure. A long scar fissuring his sun-soaked skin, running from cheek to jaw. A wayward strand of pink swaying with each steady breath. Wyll fought the bewildering urge to brush it away, if only to tuck it behind his ear.

“If I were your quarry,” said Ajax in a low whisper, rough and galvanizing, “you would have been long dead.”

Wyll drew in a sharp breath. The threat slithered down his spine like winter rain: cold, persistent, and unsettling in its intimacy. But to falter here was to invite death in a real battle. And so, he found the crest of Ajax’s hips, fingers pressing into the firm muscle beneath rough fabric, and with a sudden surge, Wyll twisted, leveraging his longer limbs to throw Ajax off his balance. Their positions reversed in an instant, and Wyll felt a rush of satisfaction, now straddling Ajax’s chest, pressing the scimitar against his sternum.

“Hesitation kills, remember?” Wyll said, his breath coming quick and hot with the thrill of their match.

For a moment, Ajax stared up at him, inscrutable. Then a bark of laughter escaped him, genuine and surprised. “I yield,” he said, raising his hands.

Wyll stood, extending a hand to help Ajax on his feet.

“The Blade claims victory,” Lae’zel announced, studying Wyll with newfound interest. “You fight with unexpected cunning for a human. Had fate dealt different cards, you might have ranked among the warriors of Tu’narath.”

“High praise,” he said. “Though I suspect you’d still wipe the floor with me in a real match.”

Her thin lips pulled back, a sliver of jagged teeth glinting in what might have been approval. “Without question. Still, the terms were set. I will permit you to test your mettle against me.” She turned to Ajax. “You have a brute strength, paladin. An unrefined tool. Perhaps in a century or two of training, you might achieve the skill of a githyanki hatchling.”

Ajax cocked his head to one side, brows furrowing. “Thanks, I think?”

Lae’zel ignored him. “We must eat. A warrior who neglects her body will fall when called upon.” She strode away, presumably to inform the others of the evening’s entertainment.

A whistle from behind, and to his right, scattered applause. “Well! That was quite the performance.” He turned, letting his good eye find the source: Astarion lounging with feline indolence, and Shadowheart beside him, looking amused. How long had they been watching?

“I believe you owe me five gold,” Astarion drawled, extending a pallid hand toward Shadowheart, wiggling his long fingers.

“All that strength,” she muttered, “and not an ounce of finesse.” With a scowl and a sigh, she fished coins from her pouch and slapped them onto his palm.

Wyll raised an eyebrow. “You wagered on our match?”

“Absolutely, darling,” Astarion purred. “From the moment Ajax pinned you to the ground. Quite the spectacle.”

“Honestly, we’ve little entertainment out here besides watching you two dance around each other,” said Shadowheart.

Heat crept up his neck; they wouldn’t notice the flush beneath his dark skin, surely, yet still he coughed once, then again, wresting his dignity back into place. “Perhaps next time you’d care to join us?” he offered.

“And risk soiling these clothes?” said Astarion, scoffing. “No, thank you.”

“For stolen finery, you’re awfully precious about them,” Shadowheart said pointedly, but Astarion only shrugged.

“Shall we?” called Ajax, proffering Wyll a bowl of stew, the aroma enticing his appetite even more after the spar. “First serving for the victor, of course.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Wyll said and accepted the bowl, hunger overriding any pretence of restraint. He settled onto a weathered crate, between Astarion and Ajax, the bowl’s warmth seeping into his palms. After days of foraging, the prospect of a proper meal felt like luxury. His first spoonful burst with flavour — earthy chunks of root vegetables and rich, savoury meat of what appeared to be rabbit, all swimming in a hearty broth seasoned with… was that sage? Rosemary?

“By the Triad,” said Wyll, spooning up another mouthful. “Gale, this is extraordinary. Whatever complaints I had about your culinary possessiveness are hereby rescinded. I don’t suppose you’d part with the recipe?”

Gale preened at the praise, launching into an animated explanation of proper seasoning ratios and the importance of timing when adding the ingredients. To his right, a deliberate stillness, the only sound the faint, careful scrape of a nail. A glance confirmed his suspicions: Astarion, sat with perfect posture, affecting utter boredom. Wyll swallowed, electric in anticipation; later, in the privacy of his tent, those same nails would dig into his shoulders while sharp fangs found his throat. A practical arrangement: the vampire spawn required sustenance that wouldn’t leave a trail of bodies, and Wyll… well, Wyll had blood to spare. For now, though, Astarion maintained discretion with their arrangement, for which he was grateful.

Around Gale’s improvised kitchen, conversation dwindled to sporadic murmurs; the day’s exertions had seemingly taken their toll on everyone. Beside him, Ajax’s knee bumped against his as he shifted position. He ate with the same intensity he’d displayed in their sparring match, and Wyll wondered: did the man approach everything with such unwavering dedication? He could not look away from him, from Ajax’s throat as he swallowed, the hollow at the base of his neck visible when he tilted his head back to gulp straight from the bowl.

“Want more?” Ajax asked, turning to him.

“I…” Wyll cleared his throat. “Ah, no. Just contemplating how different this is from the fare I’ve grown accustomed to.” Not entirely a lie. “Though,” his hand lifted before he could stop himself, “you’ve got something on your…” He traced the path on his own lip, and Ajax followed, his thumb sweeping across the remnants of broth and some vegetable clinging to the corner of his mouth. “There.”

“All gone?” he asked.

Wyll managed only a curt nod, certain that any attempt at speech would only compound the mortification already warming his cheeks.

Ajax smiled, crinkling the corner of his eyes. “Thanks.” He stood and approached the pot, no doubt hankering for seconds.

Wyll looked away, and found Astarion observing him with undisguised amusement, lips curled in that infuriating smile. “Something amusing?” he said, the slight tremor in his voice betraying him entirely.

“Oh, endlessly,” came the silken reply, and nothing more, but Wyll still felt Astarion’s knowing gaze on him, and the heat from his cheeks burned inexorably to his ears. Seven years of monster-hunting had hardened him against fear and trepidation, and yet this — this gentle unravelling of his composure made him feel seventeen again, fresh-faced and foolish with want.

“I must confess,” Wyll said, willing his pulse to slow with a breath, “in the solitude of my work, I have forgotten how delightful good company can be.”

Astarion’s gaze darted between him and Ajax’s retreating form. “Good company, indeed.” He rose, sauntering towards Shadowheart, no doubt to gossip.

Ajax returned, empty bowl in hand. Wyll raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and with a sigh, Ajax said, “Let’s just say, Gale’s quite passionate about his cooking techniques. Next thing I knew, the pot had ran out.”

Wyll laughed, though perhaps a touch too heartily for such a mild jest. He caught himself, clearing his throat. “The recipe seems simple enough. Nothing the Blade of Frontiers can’t do!”

Ajax drew in a breath, shoulders tensed, fingers curled against his thigh, and when their eyes met, Wyll watched his body loosen with the exhale. “I’ll make sure to earn my portion, then,” he said. “And perhaps a second serving if I help you with hunting Karlach?”

Wyll smiled. “You’ve got yourself a bargain.”

“On my honour as an oathbreaker, however little that is worth,” said Ajax with a short laugh, gesturing with the arm that bore the brand of his oath. The sleeve had been pushed up, the ink ashen against his brown skin, and Wyll’s gaze caught on it.

What would you be if you weren’t the Blade?

He had lied, then.

It cannot be taken away by any god or fiend, he’d said. But he knew the truth, long unspoken: with a snap of her fingers, she could take it all away — take his boon and his bane away. Without it, he was just a man. And what good was a blade when it’s too dull to cleave monsters? What good was a flame when a mere breath could snuff it out?

He would be no better than this oathless paladin.

And yet.

And yet, here was Ajax. A man adrift, but not drowned. If he could still rise to fight, to persist despite that hallowed emptiness, why, then, could I not?

“On the contrary,” Wyll said finally, “it’s worth quite a lot.”

One battle at a time, as Father would say.

NOTES

hi :3 don't think too much about the choreography of the sparring match. what matters is that they're being homosexual about it. umm what else. i've been working on this chapter for a year and basically i scrapped the first version entirely (which was their first encounter with raphael at the house of hope) because it just wasn't working. i also wrote a piece for wyllzine, and the digital pdf is available to order here: https://ko-fi.com/wyllzine. love you, mwah!

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