so I wrote a fic
Oct. 30th, 2025 04:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceone of my d&d campaigns, Arvandor, is wrapping up around March. T's been homebrewing a new campaign about fucked up fairy tales and I've been revamping a character I played in previous oneshots on a different server, an oath of redemption paladin named Dalton. as I sometimes do, I accidentally created a minor obsession and ended up writing fic about his backstory. I'm not putting it on AO3 yet, I don't think, but I'm going to put it here because why not:
Dalton wakes, unfortunately.
When he lost consciousness, the gut wound his captain gave him had burned like a hot coal shoved inside his belly. Infected. He'd known by the stink of it that he was a dead man walking. Wracked with fever, seeing ghosts, he had stumbled forward blindly until his body simply gave out and he had collapsed into the decaying leaves beneath the thicket of trees.
That pain is dulled now, though his very bones ache. He's too exhausted to open his eyes. He tries to put a hand on his wound and finds that he's been wrapped in bandages. Instead of rot, he smells campfire smoke and something herbal and astringent.
"Easy," comes a warm voice from beside him. Dalton is too tired to startle. "You're all right."
Apparently he can open his eyes after all, though it's a struggle. Blinking against the light, Dalton turns his head towards that voice. He finds a blurry shape beside him. After a moment, it resolves into the shadow of a person. Dark eyes, dark skin, dark leathers. The man's smile is like a miniature sun.
"There you are," the man says, pleased. He sits forward in his chair. He was holding a wooden bowl in his slender hands; he sets it aside on a table and reaches for a clay pitcher. "Do you want water?"
Desperate hunger lurches through Dalton. He turns his face away from the man and his warmth, taking in the measure of this place. He finds himself on a cot, bundled in coarse blankets. The hut around him is humble, its thatched roof patchy enough that he can see the stars above him. There's another cot against the wall, empty aside from some blood-stained blankets.
Leather creaks, and Dalton darts a wary look at the man who's moved to kneel at his side. There's a cracked mug in the stranger's hands, which he offers out.
Dalton licks his dry, cracked lips and croaks, "You should have let me die."
Mildly, the man says, "It's too late to complain about that now, my friend. Don't waste my healer's good work. Drink."
The stranger has a fair point. Someone clearly put hard work into saving his life. Besides, the gods don't want him dead yet; that would be too easy an escape. So Dalton reaches out and wraps trembling hands around the mug. The stranger supports his head so he can drink without drowning himself. The water is sweet mercy itself. The stranger was wise enough to only give him a little, which is the only thing that keeps Dalton from gorging on it.
When he’s finished, the stranger lowers Dalton’s head back to the cot and sits back. Without any preamble, he says, “What's your name?”
There's no point in trying to lie. “Dalton.”
“Dalton,” the stranger echoes. “And with that accent, I'm guessing you're from Akhiilor.”
After killing the captain, Dalton ripped off his holy symbol and any insignia of the queen's army, but there's no hiding his pointy half-elven ears or his heavy accent. He asks the stranger, “Do you regret not letting me die?”
“No,” the stranger says firmly. “Are we enemies just because of where we were born? Because of the gods we follow?”
Once Dalton would have said yes without question. That was the answer drilled into him throughout his training in Akhiilor. But he remembers a few months ago stumbling through the burnt-out remains of Mother Night's temple, stepping over the fallen bodies of her clerics, and finding a children’s playroom. Empty, mercifully, but he thinks of the temples they razed where they hadn't lingered to search the ruins, and he wonders if they'd always been so lucky. It haunts him.
Hoarsely, Dalton says, “I broke my oaths to Gwyr. You’re not my enemy any longer.”
“Glad to hear it,” the stranger says. “Is that why you're so insistent that I should have let you die? Your broken oath?”
“My shame is that I took those oaths at all,” Dalton says.
“Some oaths were meant to be broken, I think,” the stranger says casually, as if he's not speaking blasphemy. He tilts his head. “Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?” Dalton says.
The stranger laughs and holds out his hand. “Kristoff. It’s nice to meet you.”
Dalton has only been in Marchen for six months, most of it in Selle sur Liore, but he knows the name. Sitting beside him in this ramshackle hut is the renegade traitor brother of the king of Hamlin. Bemused, Dalton takes his hand, though his own is filthy with dirt and blood. They shake. Kristoff seems to find some satisfaction in the gesture, although Dalton can't begin to guess what.
“A prince,” Dalton says. “Do you always sit at the bedside of random strangers?”
“I was curious,” Kristoff says. “It’s not often that a strange half-elf with a sword traipses right into my hidden camp and faceplants in the dirt.”
Dalton’s sword. Reflexively, he reaches for the place on his hip that it normally rests and finds nothing. He can’t blame them for taking it from him, it’s a nice sword, but it feels like waking up with a missing limb.
“To tell you the truth, I was more afraid that you were one of my brother's men who stumbled upon our camp,” Kristoff says. “To find that you're only a soldier of Akhiilor is something of a relief.”
“I'm no longer of Akhiilor,” Dalton says. “An oathbreaker and a deserter.”
“Well, as a traitor to our king, I'm not one to judge,” Kristoff says. “The important thing is that you're alive. The healers say you'll recover. What will you do now?”
Stupidly, Dalton echoes, “Do?”
“Yes,” Kristoff says with admirable patience. “Where will you go?”
The truth is that Dalton has nowhere to go now. This is not his land, and he's no mage to simply wave a hand and travel through the mists towards home. The mage was one of the first to die on their campaign, shot in the throat on a temple raid. Even if Dalton could get back, he struck down his own captain to protect a priestess of Mother Night. There is no home left for him. If his mother knew what he’d done, she’d kill him herself.
Kristoff seems to hear an answer in his silence. He reaches up and strokes his chin where he's grown a few days worth of stubble, looking thoughtful.
“You could stay,” Kristoff says.
“I have no idea where I am,” Dalton says.
“A temporary camp near the border of Selle sur Liore,” Kristoff says. “A few of the court mages came with me when I fled my brother's paranoia. Their spells can hide us for short stretches of time.”
“And who is us?” Dalton says.
Kristoff shrugs. It’s a surprisingly casual gesture from a noble. “I managed to convince a few dozen guards to join me. We've gathered other rebels from around the city-state. On occasion, we go out and… well, I like to think of it as bringing things into balance.”
“Pretty words,” Dalton says. “Meaning what?”
“My brother rules this land unkindly,” Kristoff says. “He taxes the people until they break. Too many are starving while the nobles feast. So we take back what is unfairly stolen and redistribute it.”
“You steal from the rich at swordpoint, then,” Dalton says.
“I am the rich,” Kristoff says. “We're bastards. We deserve it.”
The laugh catches Dalton off-guard. He didn't think he would ever laugh again. Dull pain spikes through him, and he grimaces.
“Sorry,” Kristoff says, looking sheepish. “At the very least, I would suggest that you stay with us for a few days to recover. I can’t promise that you’ll be safe. My brother’s men have found us once or twice. But it’s better than being on your own.”
“And if I want to leave?” Dalton asks.
“Then we’ll send you on your way, after one of the mages takes away any memory of this place,” Kristoff says. “I’m sorry to say that, but I can’t risk you leading my brother straight here. My people’s lives depend on me.”
“Is it any safer for you to bring me into their midst?” Dalton asks. “You don’t know me. You shouldn’t trust me so easily.”
“I don’t,” Kristoff says. “Trust is earned. But I could use someone who’s strong enough to dig a latrine. Besides, everyone deserves a second chance.”
The simple words make something twang inside Dalton’s chest like a note struck on a lute. Kristoff says that with more faith than Dalton ever had in Gwyr. On instinct, Dalton checks Kristoff for any signs of a holy symbol. There, around his neck, is a simple silver chain. Kristoff must catch him looking, because he hooks a finger beneath the chain and draws it from beneath his leathers. Firelight glints off the entwined symbols of Mother Night and Father Light.
Ironic. Granted mercy by a follower of the gods whose worshippers Dalton has been killing for Gwyr ever since he came to this land. Dalton swallows hard against the shame choking him tight and says, “I have killed your people, prince.”
“Yes,” Kristoff says. “You have. Did you have a choice?”
“Of course I chose!” Dalton snaps. “I followed orders. I took the oath.”
“You broke the oath,” Kristoff counters, and Dalton flinches. “How old were you when they taught you that we were your enemy? When did they begin teaching you how to kill? I was ten, and I doubt you were much older.”
“It’s no excuse,” Dalton says.
“No,” Kristoff says. “It’s an explanation. I knew you were a killer of one sort or another when I ordered my healers to save your life.”
Dalton wavers, then shakes his head. “The things I’ve done--”
“I can’t offer you forgiveness,” Kristoff says. “I’m not the people that you hurt. It’s not my place. But the gods brought you here for a reason. Make a new life. Try again. It would be cowardice to simply curl up and die, and you don’t strike me as a coward.”
When Dalton stood above the corpse of his captain and tore off Gwyr’s holy symbol, something in him had cracked. Kristoff’s words are a chisel and a hammer taken to that fracture point in the very foundation of what remains of him, each one a precision strike, and with the last word, he feels himself shatter. There is nothing left of him but shards.
He draws in a shuddering breath. Turns his face away from Kristoff, those dark eyes that see too much, and closes his eyes. His very soul, or what passes for it, feels raw and sore. Exposed. He thinks of picking up the broken pieces of his life and piecing them together again, one by one. It sounds exhausting.
It sounds like freedom.
He wants to believe it. He needs to believe that he isn’t so lost in darkness that there’s no coming back for him. He can’t make his amends to the dead, but he can stop going down the path he was on. He can help this strange prince with his unexpected kindness and his quest to avenge his downtrodden people. He can try.
Without turning his face away from the wall, he says, “I’ll stay.”
“Welcome, then,” Kristoff says. The warmth of his hand settles on Dalton’s where it rests on the bed. Dalton twitches before going still beneath it, hardly daring to breathe. He can’t think of the last time he was touched so kindly. It feels like a benediction. Then Kristoff lets him go. “I’ll leave you to rest. Tomorrow morning, you can report to Andrea. She’s the strong red-headed genasi woman with one eye. You can’t miss her. She’ll find something for you to do. I don’t suppose you can cook?”
“I can peel potatoes,” Dalton says wryly. He surreptitiously wipes his wet face on the back of his wrist and turns back to Kristoff, limned in golden firelight. From the very foundations of his soul, Dalton tells him, “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” Kristoff says. “Thank my healers, if you’re going to thank anyone. I won’t say that this will be easy. There’s enough food to go around, barely, but we’re always on the run. The work will be hard. My people will be wary of you.”
Dalton can’t imagine the arguments Kristoff had with his guard over bringing a stray enemy soldier into their camp. He promises, “I’ll be keeping my head down.”
“Sir?” calls someone from outside the tent. “We have a report from the capital.”
Kristoff sighs, dragging a hand through his hair and leaving it charmingly rumpled. He stands. He’s taller than Dalton expected, and well-built in his leathers. It’s the kind of thing Dalton has no right to notice. “Duty calls. It was good to meet you, Dalton. I’ll check in on you soon.”
Right. Doubtless this will be the last time Dalton has the privilege of speaking to Kristoff. A prince has better things to do than pay attention to a man digging his latrine. But he says only, “I look forward to it, your grace.”
With a last blinding smile, Kristoff takes his leave. Dalton lets his head thump back to the cot and stares up at the stars through the hut’s patchy roof. They seem brighter here than they ever did in Akhiilor, small points of fire against the velvet blackness of the night. He thinks of mercy. He thinks of redemption.
And try as he might, he thinks most of the warmth of Kristoff’s hand.
Dalton wakes, unfortunately.
When he lost consciousness, the gut wound his captain gave him had burned like a hot coal shoved inside his belly. Infected. He'd known by the stink of it that he was a dead man walking. Wracked with fever, seeing ghosts, he had stumbled forward blindly until his body simply gave out and he had collapsed into the decaying leaves beneath the thicket of trees.
That pain is dulled now, though his very bones ache. He's too exhausted to open his eyes. He tries to put a hand on his wound and finds that he's been wrapped in bandages. Instead of rot, he smells campfire smoke and something herbal and astringent.
"Easy," comes a warm voice from beside him. Dalton is too tired to startle. "You're all right."
Apparently he can open his eyes after all, though it's a struggle. Blinking against the light, Dalton turns his head towards that voice. He finds a blurry shape beside him. After a moment, it resolves into the shadow of a person. Dark eyes, dark skin, dark leathers. The man's smile is like a miniature sun.
"There you are," the man says, pleased. He sits forward in his chair. He was holding a wooden bowl in his slender hands; he sets it aside on a table and reaches for a clay pitcher. "Do you want water?"
Desperate hunger lurches through Dalton. He turns his face away from the man and his warmth, taking in the measure of this place. He finds himself on a cot, bundled in coarse blankets. The hut around him is humble, its thatched roof patchy enough that he can see the stars above him. There's another cot against the wall, empty aside from some blood-stained blankets.
Leather creaks, and Dalton darts a wary look at the man who's moved to kneel at his side. There's a cracked mug in the stranger's hands, which he offers out.
Dalton licks his dry, cracked lips and croaks, "You should have let me die."
Mildly, the man says, "It's too late to complain about that now, my friend. Don't waste my healer's good work. Drink."
The stranger has a fair point. Someone clearly put hard work into saving his life. Besides, the gods don't want him dead yet; that would be too easy an escape. So Dalton reaches out and wraps trembling hands around the mug. The stranger supports his head so he can drink without drowning himself. The water is sweet mercy itself. The stranger was wise enough to only give him a little, which is the only thing that keeps Dalton from gorging on it.
When he’s finished, the stranger lowers Dalton’s head back to the cot and sits back. Without any preamble, he says, “What's your name?”
There's no point in trying to lie. “Dalton.”
“Dalton,” the stranger echoes. “And with that accent, I'm guessing you're from Akhiilor.”
After killing the captain, Dalton ripped off his holy symbol and any insignia of the queen's army, but there's no hiding his pointy half-elven ears or his heavy accent. He asks the stranger, “Do you regret not letting me die?”
“No,” the stranger says firmly. “Are we enemies just because of where we were born? Because of the gods we follow?”
Once Dalton would have said yes without question. That was the answer drilled into him throughout his training in Akhiilor. But he remembers a few months ago stumbling through the burnt-out remains of Mother Night's temple, stepping over the fallen bodies of her clerics, and finding a children’s playroom. Empty, mercifully, but he thinks of the temples they razed where they hadn't lingered to search the ruins, and he wonders if they'd always been so lucky. It haunts him.
Hoarsely, Dalton says, “I broke my oaths to Gwyr. You’re not my enemy any longer.”
“Glad to hear it,” the stranger says. “Is that why you're so insistent that I should have let you die? Your broken oath?”
“My shame is that I took those oaths at all,” Dalton says.
“Some oaths were meant to be broken, I think,” the stranger says casually, as if he's not speaking blasphemy. He tilts his head. “Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?” Dalton says.
The stranger laughs and holds out his hand. “Kristoff. It’s nice to meet you.”
Dalton has only been in Marchen for six months, most of it in Selle sur Liore, but he knows the name. Sitting beside him in this ramshackle hut is the renegade traitor brother of the king of Hamlin. Bemused, Dalton takes his hand, though his own is filthy with dirt and blood. They shake. Kristoff seems to find some satisfaction in the gesture, although Dalton can't begin to guess what.
“A prince,” Dalton says. “Do you always sit at the bedside of random strangers?”
“I was curious,” Kristoff says. “It’s not often that a strange half-elf with a sword traipses right into my hidden camp and faceplants in the dirt.”
Dalton’s sword. Reflexively, he reaches for the place on his hip that it normally rests and finds nothing. He can’t blame them for taking it from him, it’s a nice sword, but it feels like waking up with a missing limb.
“To tell you the truth, I was more afraid that you were one of my brother's men who stumbled upon our camp,” Kristoff says. “To find that you're only a soldier of Akhiilor is something of a relief.”
“I'm no longer of Akhiilor,” Dalton says. “An oathbreaker and a deserter.”
“Well, as a traitor to our king, I'm not one to judge,” Kristoff says. “The important thing is that you're alive. The healers say you'll recover. What will you do now?”
Stupidly, Dalton echoes, “Do?”
“Yes,” Kristoff says with admirable patience. “Where will you go?”
The truth is that Dalton has nowhere to go now. This is not his land, and he's no mage to simply wave a hand and travel through the mists towards home. The mage was one of the first to die on their campaign, shot in the throat on a temple raid. Even if Dalton could get back, he struck down his own captain to protect a priestess of Mother Night. There is no home left for him. If his mother knew what he’d done, she’d kill him herself.
Kristoff seems to hear an answer in his silence. He reaches up and strokes his chin where he's grown a few days worth of stubble, looking thoughtful.
“You could stay,” Kristoff says.
“I have no idea where I am,” Dalton says.
“A temporary camp near the border of Selle sur Liore,” Kristoff says. “A few of the court mages came with me when I fled my brother's paranoia. Their spells can hide us for short stretches of time.”
“And who is us?” Dalton says.
Kristoff shrugs. It’s a surprisingly casual gesture from a noble. “I managed to convince a few dozen guards to join me. We've gathered other rebels from around the city-state. On occasion, we go out and… well, I like to think of it as bringing things into balance.”
“Pretty words,” Dalton says. “Meaning what?”
“My brother rules this land unkindly,” Kristoff says. “He taxes the people until they break. Too many are starving while the nobles feast. So we take back what is unfairly stolen and redistribute it.”
“You steal from the rich at swordpoint, then,” Dalton says.
“I am the rich,” Kristoff says. “We're bastards. We deserve it.”
The laugh catches Dalton off-guard. He didn't think he would ever laugh again. Dull pain spikes through him, and he grimaces.
“Sorry,” Kristoff says, looking sheepish. “At the very least, I would suggest that you stay with us for a few days to recover. I can’t promise that you’ll be safe. My brother’s men have found us once or twice. But it’s better than being on your own.”
“And if I want to leave?” Dalton asks.
“Then we’ll send you on your way, after one of the mages takes away any memory of this place,” Kristoff says. “I’m sorry to say that, but I can’t risk you leading my brother straight here. My people’s lives depend on me.”
“Is it any safer for you to bring me into their midst?” Dalton asks. “You don’t know me. You shouldn’t trust me so easily.”
“I don’t,” Kristoff says. “Trust is earned. But I could use someone who’s strong enough to dig a latrine. Besides, everyone deserves a second chance.”
The simple words make something twang inside Dalton’s chest like a note struck on a lute. Kristoff says that with more faith than Dalton ever had in Gwyr. On instinct, Dalton checks Kristoff for any signs of a holy symbol. There, around his neck, is a simple silver chain. Kristoff must catch him looking, because he hooks a finger beneath the chain and draws it from beneath his leathers. Firelight glints off the entwined symbols of Mother Night and Father Light.
Ironic. Granted mercy by a follower of the gods whose worshippers Dalton has been killing for Gwyr ever since he came to this land. Dalton swallows hard against the shame choking him tight and says, “I have killed your people, prince.”
“Yes,” Kristoff says. “You have. Did you have a choice?”
“Of course I chose!” Dalton snaps. “I followed orders. I took the oath.”
“You broke the oath,” Kristoff counters, and Dalton flinches. “How old were you when they taught you that we were your enemy? When did they begin teaching you how to kill? I was ten, and I doubt you were much older.”
“It’s no excuse,” Dalton says.
“No,” Kristoff says. “It’s an explanation. I knew you were a killer of one sort or another when I ordered my healers to save your life.”
Dalton wavers, then shakes his head. “The things I’ve done--”
“I can’t offer you forgiveness,” Kristoff says. “I’m not the people that you hurt. It’s not my place. But the gods brought you here for a reason. Make a new life. Try again. It would be cowardice to simply curl up and die, and you don’t strike me as a coward.”
When Dalton stood above the corpse of his captain and tore off Gwyr’s holy symbol, something in him had cracked. Kristoff’s words are a chisel and a hammer taken to that fracture point in the very foundation of what remains of him, each one a precision strike, and with the last word, he feels himself shatter. There is nothing left of him but shards.
He draws in a shuddering breath. Turns his face away from Kristoff, those dark eyes that see too much, and closes his eyes. His very soul, or what passes for it, feels raw and sore. Exposed. He thinks of picking up the broken pieces of his life and piecing them together again, one by one. It sounds exhausting.
It sounds like freedom.
He wants to believe it. He needs to believe that he isn’t so lost in darkness that there’s no coming back for him. He can’t make his amends to the dead, but he can stop going down the path he was on. He can help this strange prince with his unexpected kindness and his quest to avenge his downtrodden people. He can try.
Without turning his face away from the wall, he says, “I’ll stay.”
“Welcome, then,” Kristoff says. The warmth of his hand settles on Dalton’s where it rests on the bed. Dalton twitches before going still beneath it, hardly daring to breathe. He can’t think of the last time he was touched so kindly. It feels like a benediction. Then Kristoff lets him go. “I’ll leave you to rest. Tomorrow morning, you can report to Andrea. She’s the strong red-headed genasi woman with one eye. You can’t miss her. She’ll find something for you to do. I don’t suppose you can cook?”
“I can peel potatoes,” Dalton says wryly. He surreptitiously wipes his wet face on the back of his wrist and turns back to Kristoff, limned in golden firelight. From the very foundations of his soul, Dalton tells him, “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” Kristoff says. “Thank my healers, if you’re going to thank anyone. I won’t say that this will be easy. There’s enough food to go around, barely, but we’re always on the run. The work will be hard. My people will be wary of you.”
Dalton can’t imagine the arguments Kristoff had with his guard over bringing a stray enemy soldier into their camp. He promises, “I’ll be keeping my head down.”
“Sir?” calls someone from outside the tent. “We have a report from the capital.”
Kristoff sighs, dragging a hand through his hair and leaving it charmingly rumpled. He stands. He’s taller than Dalton expected, and well-built in his leathers. It’s the kind of thing Dalton has no right to notice. “Duty calls. It was good to meet you, Dalton. I’ll check in on you soon.”
Right. Doubtless this will be the last time Dalton has the privilege of speaking to Kristoff. A prince has better things to do than pay attention to a man digging his latrine. But he says only, “I look forward to it, your grace.”
With a last blinding smile, Kristoff takes his leave. Dalton lets his head thump back to the cot and stares up at the stars through the hut’s patchy roof. They seem brighter here than they ever did in Akhiilor, small points of fire against the velvet blackness of the night. He thinks of mercy. He thinks of redemption.
And try as he might, he thinks most of the warmth of Kristoff’s hand.
no subject
Date: 2025-10-31 01:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-10-31 11:52 am (UTC)I really like them. T created a great character with Robin Hood rebel prince turned very tired regent, and my brain immediately spun out a ridiculous backstory to match. as it does. XD
no subject
Date: 2025-10-31 10:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-10-31 11:53 am (UTC)