Wyll Ravengard is nothing if not grateful. Even if he’s a monster now, even if the way that innocent people look at him now is—

He’s grateful, at least, that it wasn’t worse. That he’s still here, with these powers, trying to do good. He says it again and again: he doesn’t regret the pact.

But. Trying to sleep with these giant horns on his head pushes him one step closer to regretting it every night.

They curve all the way around his head so can’t lay on his side, but they also stick out so far at the back and there’s enough of a bump at the front that he can’t really find any comfortable position to lay his head in. So far, he’s managed to get some passable rest by laying flat on his back and tilting his chin down until the tips of his horns are resting on the ground rather than holding his neck up at a right angle, but it’s not like this position is any better on his spine. The amount of sleep he does get is more likely just a result of how much he exhausts himself during the day on this arduous little tadpole adventure. And—and this is even pettier than worrying about his beauty sleep—it’s rather unbecoming of The Blade to spend so long in such a patently uncool position. He feels less like a hero and more like an ungraceful goat trying to sleep like a human.

But there are bigger fish to fry, so Wyll relegates sleeping arrangements to the bottom of his list of priorities, far beneath saving the world and saving his father and saving the refugees and getting the tadpole out of his head before he becomes a mindflayer. He’s rather busy these days. And yet, petty as it is, he’d be lying if he said there weren’t nights where he lay awake silently cursing the unfairness of these new giant head accessories. And, if he’s honest, nights where he worries about how uncomfortable it would now be to share a bed with someone.

He and Luna have been… partners, for some time now. The pretty drow sorceress, dancing with him under the moonlight, has been the source of most of his dreams for the last fortnight. Despite the questionable morals imparted to her by her Lolthite upbringing—which surely she can’t really be faulted for, anyway—she has always been unfailingly kind to Wyll, even after his infernal transformation. Sitting with him on the beach as their companions partied around them, running a delicate grey finger across his horns and telling him he “had a great rack” with a cheeky smile… he thinks of it a lot. Especially when those same horns are giving him upper back pain like the realm has never known.

So, when Luna looks down at him with those doe eyes and mischievous smile and asks if he’d like to share her tent in the name of conserving heat in these shadow-cursed lands, he’s far too weak to say no.

She leads him by the hand over the mess of clothes and dyes and staffs scattered about her tent, having pointedly ignored his chiding about maybe keeping the chemicals and the magical instruments a little further away from the bedroll. Wyll gentlemanly casts his gaze to the ground as she starts undoing her dress, and then—and then, irrationally, he starts to worry. His body has always been unconventional, and now it’s even more so. Even though they share that first trait, something she happily and openly confided to him their very first night camping together, he has this sliver of anxiety at the idea of her seeing him laying contorted upon the bedroll and having second thoughts about this whole courtship idea.

But Luna is, as always, unfailingly kind. “Is something wrong?” she asks, looking up at him from where she kneels on the bedroll and brushes out her hair with her fingers. “If you’d rather your own bedroll, that’s no problem, I can grab one.”

“No, no,” Wyll insists, forcing his discomfort to dissipate. He won’t let Mizora take any more happiness from him. He joins Luna on the bed, and she immediately leans into his chest, warm and content. She doesn’t actually sleep, but she likes to cuddle, she said. It makes Wyll feel like a fairytale prince, fills him with childlike chivalric pride at the idea of protecting his beautiful charge. He lays all the way down, making sure to tilt his chin down in advance so that his horns (hopefully) won’t puncture the bedroll. The pain in his neck feels miles away with the princess in his arms.

“Oh!” Luna bolts upright, just as Wyll had settled down. “I almost forgot.”

She gets back up and starts rummaging through the piles of clothes stacked in her tent, tossing several of them haphazardly about until she eventually pulls free a soft, thick bundle of fabric.

“I kept thinking, like, how does he sleep at night without knocking those horns into the ground, so when we were at the Last Light I stole one of the blankets from their rooms, I mean, it’s not like they were using it anyway, it was just sitting in a closet, but it’s a really nice wool blend and I figured it would make a good horn-accessible pillow.” To illustrate her point, she folds up the blanket and tucks it under Wyll’s head, so that he’s lying on his side with the lower part of his head pillowed on the wool and his horn lightly resting on the ground above it.

It’s so gods-damned comfortable that Wyll doesn’t even care that she stole this blanket from a bunch of orphans.

He flounders for a moment, trying to find the words to express how big his heart feels from the idea of her worrying about how he slept and stealing blankets for him, when he didn’t even hint that this was a problem. But Luna just smiles at his relaxed posture, and cups the ridges of his face in her soft hands before nuzzling their noses together in a soft bunny kiss.

“I love you,” Wyll says breathlessly, the words not able to come out fast enough.

“Thanks. I love you too, hero boy.” Luna replies, and then tucks her head under his chin, resuming her place curled up against his chest. “I love you so much.”

Wyll’s heart fit to burst, he buries his nose in Luna’s hair and falls asleep, comfortably, finally.