The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth and the muffled hum of life below. Outside, the City of Skilled Hands never truly slept; the waves crashed against the docks, and the salty wind clawed at the corners of the inn. Inside, however, the air was warm, tinged with the scent of herbs and menthol rising from your bandages, and the faint aroma of food wafting through the floorboards.

You sat propped against the headboard of the large bed, your eyes closed but your breathing steady—steadier than it had been in days. The fight had been cruel, the blade even crueler, laced with something vile that slowed your healing despite every ounce of effort he'd poured into you. He hated stopping, resting, being forced into idleness when there were goals, missions, calls to answer. But you were his priority. You, as much loved as maddening at times. You who gave him white hairs and made him curse the Gods and laugh at the same time.

Drizzt sat beside you, silent, his fingers brushing away a stray lock of your hair, twisting it once around his finger before letting it fall. He smelled of salt and woodsmoke, and his violet eyes shifted between you and the fire, their light dimmed by the memory of how close he'd come to losing you.

“You’re awake,” he murmured after a pause, his voice low but certain. His hand moved to trace your forehead, brushing the ghost of a frown away.

“Mm,” you replied, not opening your eyes. “I was enjoying the quiet,” you murmured, your voice hoarse but warm.

His fingers stilled for a moment, then resumed their gentle path through your hair. “Then rest,” he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “There’s nothing you need to do now but that. For once, let me carry the burden, alurlssrin.”