Chapter Text
Tavrielle's first few years are spent on the surface. She doesn't know if she was born there, she never thought to ask until later, but she remembers her first bee sting. She remembers cotton dresses and the grass tickling her short legs. She remembers her mother having freckles from the sun, and how her young mind would compare them to constellations.
She remembers being happy.
(She was still happy, later, when she thinks back. Just not the same kind of happy. It's hard to be fully happy when a piece of you is missing. It's also hard not to feel bitter once that piece is found.
But she's getting ahead of herself.)
Tavrielle is eight years old the first time she learns that goodness isn't always a given. Up until that point, in all of her mother's bedtime stories, it was the Seldarine Drow who were the heroes. Underdogs as well, more often than not, but they always prevailed against their evil Lolth-Sworn counterparts. Seldarine had become synonymous with good, and Lolth-Sworn synonymous with bad.
So when it is Seldarine Drow who sell out her and her mother, and sell them out to Lolth-Sworn Drow, it feels like her childhood innocence is shattered. She can't process how the two subraces could even work together, let alone strike a deal that went against a Seldarine Drow's (supposed) inherent goodness. How could the good guys possibly work alongside the bad guys?
She sees them briefly, the couple her and her mother have been staying with for as long as she can remember. She hates herself a little for the way her gut wrenches seeing Aunt Erel cry. She's in a cage, perhaps even a spare one from the farm. They've done something to her so she can't move but she's still awake. Her mother, on the other hand, is unconscious and in chains beside her.
A tarp flutters overhead.
Aunt Erel turns to press her face into Uncle Nath's chest, and he automatically wraps an arm around her. Uncle Nath is talking to another Drow, his face stoic as a bag is pressed into his free hand. She can't make out what they're saying, the low tenor of their murmurs mixed with the quiet weeping of her aunt.
No. Not her aunt. Not her uncle. Not anymore.
The tarp settles.
Her mother had been their farmhand and was provided lodging in a small building attached to the stable. Adult Tavrielle supposes it was some kind of office, likely much smaller than her memory makes it out to be, but it had been home. A single bed, a hearth, and a truly absurd amount of plants. It had never felt cluttered though; it felt cozy, and full of life.
She never sees that office again, nor that farm. She has no idea where on Faerûn it may even be located; she never thought to ask about that either.
The ground begins moving underneath her, and she can hear the clip-clop of horse hooves. Somehow, despite her intense discomfort, she manages to fall asleep. It doesn't feel as though she's slept for very long when she hears a slap that jolts her awake.
She's no longer on a wagon, but instead in a room: a huge room, bigger than any she's ever seen. The floors glimmer with polished, dark stone, and the walls are a deep burgundy. What appears to be a chandelier made from amethyst hovers above two figures. The room, while beautiful, is oddly empty.
She's still in a cage, there's a horrible crick in her neck, and she can't feel the right side of her body. But as her eyes adjust to the strange purple light, her discomfort dissipates in the wake of her panic. One of those figures is her mother.
Still in chains, her mother is on her knees in front of a regal looking Drow. Her cheek is dark and her eyes are watery, but she glares at the one above her with a hatred Tavrielle has never seen before.
“Did you enjoy your little stint on the surface?” the Drow asks, her voice as proud as her features.
It takes another moment, Tavrielle's head is pounding, but she realizes she recognizes those features. She loves those features.
The Drow is almost the spitting image of her mother, albeit slightly older.
“You are not gagged, Halisstra. Have you truly nothing to say for your disgraceful display?”
Halisstra? Her mother's name is Lys. Her head pounds, confusion and fear mounting, and she lets out a whimper.
It seems whatever spell had been on her has waned and her sounds are now audible again. The attention of both women shift to her, as well as the attention of four guards she's only just taken notice of (two standing at two different doorways on opposite sides of the room).
Her mother takes a sharp inhale, and the Drow above her smiles in a way that sends shivers down Tavrielle's spine.
“Ah, and so the most disgusting of your disgraces has woken,” the Drow says, walking over to the cage. “Hello, little half breed.”
Her mother thrashes, falling forward. Torso pressed to the ground and arms still chained behind her back, she writhes, screaming out: “Don't you dare touch her!”
Two guards, one from each door, rush to the centre of the room. One kicks her mother in the stomach, while the other holds her back by her chained wrists. Tears begin to drip down Tavrielle's face, her breathing erratic, but she tries so hard to not make any more sounds.
“You don't appear half human, at least,” the Drow says, slowly circling the cage before turning back to look at Lys. “What filth did you debase yourself with?” she asks.
Her mother actually snarls.
She cannot see the Drow's face, but she appears to have some kind of silent stare-down with her mother.
“Tch,” the Drow scoffs, before waving her hand casually. “My daughter needs to re-learn her manners.”
The two guards pick up her mother, who begins to thrash even wilder.
She bellows out something in a language Tavrielle doesn't understand as she's carried toward the door.
“Mom!” Tavrielle breaks her silence, voice sounding even higher and younger in her fear.
“I'm not leaving you, baby!” her mother yells in Common. “I'm coming back soon, okay?! I'm coming back–”
They don't shut the door behind them, wherever they go, and Tavrielle hears a horrible scream. She begins to cry in earnest, no longer caring about her noise level.
She hears another scream, but then… something else begins to swell. Something faint at first, but becoming more distinct, becoming… overpowering. The Drow is talking, but she can no longer hear her. Her own sobs sound strangely distant, and the singing takes over, blocking out everything else.
It almost sounds like a lullaby.
Her eyes become heavy, and the pain in her neck fades. Her vision swims, then goes dark, but the singing continues to echo in her mind as she fades out of consciousness once again.
This particular moment is always painful to remember. But the singing… the singing will always be special.
While it's the first time she hears it, it certainly won't be the last.
The second time she wakes up in the cage, it's to an explosion.
It's dark, very dark, where she is. Whatever room she's been placed in is devoid of all light. It's disorienting and she shivers, not noticing there is no longer pain or numbness in any part of her body.
(She realizes later, remembers later.)
In the moment, however, all she can think of is the shouting and footfalls she can hear outside the room.
Another explosion, this one closer, louder, and it causes her cage to rattle. She presses her hands to the metal bars surrounding her, little fingers seeking out any type of hinge or clasp. She needs to get out, she needs to find her mom, she needs to–
A door is wrenched open, and purple light pours into the room. She flinches at the abrupt change, furiously blinking and squinting, trying to adjust her eyesight as her body tenses.
“Tavrielle!”
Her mother is a blur, running into the room and crashing on to her knees with glowing hands. She presses her palms to the metal bars, she must have done something to open the door, but everything happens so fast and she is suddenly pulled into her mother's arms.
“My baby, my baby,” she cries into Tavrielle's hair, rocking them back and forth.
“Mama,” Tavrielle gasps out before breaking into new sobs of her own.
“Lys!” a male voice calls from somewhere outside the door. “We have to keep moving!”
“I found her!” her mother calls out, voice raw but strong.
Several sets of footsteps rush toward them.
“You found her–”
“Lys, I'm so happy for–”
“You must be so relieved–”
“I'm so glad she's okay–”
There's too many voices, and then someone is helping her mother to her feet, Tavrielle still clutched firmly in her arms.
“Let's get out of here,” says the male voice, the one who'd said to keep moving.
He pulls something out of somewhere, everything is still a bit of a blur, and he's murmuring things like “in case of a worst case scenario” and “you really should've visited at least once” and “gods, I'm so glad we found her.”
There is a swooping sensation in her stomach, an uncomfortable drop that's almost flutter, and suddenly, she and her mother are outside.
Or what she's assuming is outside. The air smells less stale here, but still damp and unfamiliar. She can see glowing mushrooms in the distance, and it seems like her and her mother are just outside a giant wall.
“Shit,” Lys hisses under her breath.
“Halt!”
An armored figure approaches them, spear in hand. Looking back, she recognizes the symbol of Lolth on the chestplate, but as a child everything is so strange and unfamiliar.
She turns to bury her face in mother's collarbone, fisting her mother's tunic with tiny hands. She can't stop shaking, but she tries her best to once again not make a sound.
“You can let us go,” her mother is saying, and it even sounds insane to her childhood self. “There's no point in pretense, I know half this city is looking for me, and I know you know who I am.”
The guard remains oddly silent.
“If you’ve ever questioned this, any of this,” her mother continues, “please let us go.”
“Us?”
The guard, voice unexpectedly soft, sounds uncertain. Lys shifts slightly; Tavrielle isn't sure what's happening, but she can only assume the guard somehow didn't see her.
Or there'd been some kind of illusion cast on her.
There is an oddly long stretch of silence. Tavrielle can feel her mother's heartbeat pounding against where her fists are gripped.
“Go,” the guard says, voice still soft, but slightly louder than before.
“Thank you,” her mother breathes out. “If you ever wish to… cross paths again,” she whistles a short, sweet tune. “Do that, in public, sometimes. One of ours will find you, and you'll be given safe passage.”
The guard snorts.
“Clearly your methods of passage aren't as safe as advertised,” she says pointedly, and her mother chuckles. “Now leave, before I change my mind.”
One more quiet moment, some kind of exchange, and then the swooping feeling returns.
When Tavrielle looks up again, they appear to be in the thick of a glowing mushroom forest. She cannot see any city or wall in the distance, and she wonders how far (or close) they are to their previous location.
“Oh thank fuck,” Lys murmurs, pressing a relieved kiss to Tavrielle's temple. “I don't think Tamora would've blessed us twice. Also don't say fuck, baby, that's a grownup word.”
She walks up to a particularly large blue mushroom, and whistles a different tune than the one she'd performed for the guard. The mushroom ripples once in front of Tavrielle's eyes, and then her mother walks them through it, leading them to a descending flight of stairs.
Tavrielle thinks back to the guard who'd let her and her mother go. For some reason, it's easier to reconcile with the realization that not all Lolth-Sworn Drow are evil, as opposed to not all Seldarine Drow are good.
(She'll think about this double-standard later, when she's older.)
She feels oddly numb, and she hasn't been able to have a proper look at her mother yet. She can smell blood somewhere, but mostly she just smells her mom: fresh tilled dirt and subtle spice.
She never does find out how she and her mother looked that day, standing before the guard. Looking back, she thinks her mother probably didn't want her to see, for as soon as they reach the bottom of the stairs, Lys’ fingers are in Tavrielle's hair and words are whispered against her scalp.
Unconsciousness claims her for the third time in 48 hours.
(She doesn't know it yet, but she won't see the surface again for six years.)
Her mother has lost the tops of her ears at the hands of Tavrielle's grandmother.
Tavrielle is sure the vile woman did much worse, but the only lingering effects are the loss of her mother's pointy ears.
The only lingering physical effects, anyway.
“She said I don't deserve to call myself a Drow,” she tells Tavrielle later, while laying together on a futon on the floor.
A futon on the floor of the Twice-Sworn Resistance, a rebel Drow group of once Lolth-Sworn Drows who'd turned away from Lolth and embraced other gods, primarily Eilistraee.
Oh, and her mother just happens to be one of the main three generals of the Resistance. Or had been, up until Tavrielle's birth.
Her mother does not worship Eilistraee, and while Tavrielle always knew that, it feels... weird, somehow, now.
But that isn't what she's thinking about (and won't be for several years).
Tavrielle reaches out and gently brushes her fingers along one of her mother's mutilated ears.
“Does it hurt?” she whispers.
“Not anymore,” her mother says with a smile, brushing a few stray strands of Tavrielle's hair off her forehead.
“That still means it hurt before,” Tavrielle says, giving Lys an unimpressed look, and the older Drow laughs.
“Both things are true: yes, it hurt, but now it doesn't.”
Tavrielle still doesn't like that answer, doesn't like the idea of her mother hurting, doesn't know how to process how foreign and frightening her mother's ears now look. But she's too young to articulate all this just yet, so she settles for a petulant pout.
“Come now, don't be such a sourpuss,” Lys chides jokingly. “We still match.”
A burnt orange gem surrounded by gold still sits on her mothers left earlobe. Sometimes, Tavrielle could swear she sees a symbol etched into the jewel, but it's always just a trick of the light. It's twin sits on her own right earlobe: a matching set, much like her and her mother.
Tavrielle isn't really sure what to say to that, but she does feel a smidgen comforted. She tucks herself under her mother's chin.
“I don't like grandma,” she murmurs, and she feels her mother's arms wrap around her.
“I don't either,” her mother murmurs back.
“Is dad bad too?” Tavrielle asks, and she's close enough to her mother's throat that she can hear Lys choke on her own spit.
“W-what?” Lys coughs out, pulling away slightly to look down at her daughter's face. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You never really talked about grandma, and she's bad,” Tavrielle states. “So is that why you never talk about dad either?”
“No, not at all, baby,” Lys says, pulling her daughter in close again. She rests her chin on top of Tavrielle's head. “I'm sorry, I should've talked to you about all this… before now.”
Tavrielle doesn't say anything, and her mother sighs.
“Your father was one of our informants on the surface. House Vandree… well, they have a habit for being interested in the surface. Curious. Not in a good way, though.” Lys’ grip tightens on Tavrielle ever so slightly. “Sometimes they like to bring things back down to the Underdark and put them on display. And sometimes those things are people.”
Tavrielle thinks of her cage and shivers.
“What's House Van… House–”
“Vandree,” her mother supplies with another sigh. “In Drow culture, there are things called Noble Houses–”
Tavrielle abruptly pulls back.
“Like princes and princesses?!” she exclaims, eyes wide. Lys smiles sadly and boops her daughter on the nose.
“Not quite,” she says. “But kind of. There's many of them, but eight are particularly special. Of these eight, the… main mommy of the family is extra important. And those eight main mommies… I guess you could say they rule over the rest of the Drow.”
“And these are bad mommies,” Tavrielle guesses, brief excitement dying down to contemplation. “Like grandma?”
“Yes,” Lys says, giving her daughter another smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “They are very bad mommies.”
“Is grandma one of the eight?” Tavrielle asks.
“No, but she'd like to be,” Lys replies. “She needs more power though, to be able to do that.”
“How does she get power?” Tavrielle asks with a frown.
“By killing people,” her mother answers honestly, beginning to rub soothing circles on Tavrielle's back. “And tricking people. And lots and lots of lying.”
Tavrielle shivers again, processing.
“So grandma… isn't a princess,” Tavrielle starts, and her mother snorts.
“No, she is very much not a princess.”
“But she's important, and the… the House is important,” Tavrielle says, "but grandma can only be a Big Mean Mommy if she does bad things? And she doesn't like being a Normal Mean Mommy, she wants to be the Big one.”
“Exactly, good job, baby,” Lys says, ruffling Tavrielle's hair, causing her daughter to grin. “So grandma's house is called House Vandree. My last name is Vandree, but yours isn't.”
The grin slips off Tavrielle's face and she blinks in confusion.
“I have a last name?” she asks, and Lys lets out a bark of laughter.
“I'm a terrible mother, aren't I?” she says, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Not telling you your last name. To be fair, you've never needed it.”
Tavrielle feels herself deflate a little.
“Why don't I get your last name?” she asks, trying (and failing) to keep the hurt out of her voice.
“Oh, baby, it's not like that, it's not a bad thing,” Lys soothes, pulling her daughter close again. “Being part of a Drow House is a curse, not a gift. I didn't want people to treat you badly just because of your last name.”
She runs her hand through Tavrielle's hair, twirling a section on her index finger when she gets to the end.
“I didn't want people to treat you badly for how you look, either,” her mother adds quietly. “I was hoping… well, I was hoping you'd look less like me, less like her.” She chuckles, a bittersweet sound. “But all your daddy did was trade out my skin and eye colour for his.”
Tavrielle wrinkles her nose before pulling away to compare her arm to her mother's.
“I'm the same colour as daddy?” she asks, surprised.
“Perhaps you're a touch darker,” her mother says with a smile. “He was half Moon Elf.”
Tavrielle stares between the two shades of blue, her own icy pale hue and her mother's deep indigo.
“... it's bad I don't look more like daddy?” she asks, keeping her eyes fixated on the two arms.
Her mother touches her chin, gently bringing Tavrielle's eyes to meet her own.
“You look perfect,” she says seriously. “But other people might not think that way. They're wrong, never forget they're wrong, but they'll try to make you feel like you're bad just because of your looks and your last name.”
“So you gave me a different last name?” Tavrielle observes, putting the pieces together.
“Exactly,” her mother says, but for some reason, Tavrielle doesn't feel proud to have made this connection. She thinks for another moment.
“You said… it's not bad that I don't look like daddy,” she starts slowly, struggling to put words to her unease.
Lys is still smiling at her, face open and patient.
“But it's… it's bad, to look like you,” Tavrielle finishes, and her mother's smile freezes. “You could give me daddy's last name, and that's good, but you can't give me… you can't make me look like daddy, and that's bad.”
Her mother stares at her for a moment, smile still frozen. Her eyes fill with pain, then become glassy, and her smile softens into something more natural but somehow incredibly sad.
“I'm giving you mixed messages, aren't I, baby?” she whispers, stroking Tavrielle's cheek. “I'd say you're too smart for your own good, but I think you're actually the right amount of smart for my own good.”
Tavrielle blinks, not understanding at all.
“You're right,” Lys says, tears beginning to leak from the corners of her red eyes. “I told you you're perfect, and then I told you it's bad to look like me. I told you two things when only one can be true, and that's confusing.”
Something begins to ache in Tavrielle's chest, and she reaches up with both hands to touch the wet trails on her mother's cheeks.
“Your grandma isn't the only Drow who's a bad person,” Lys explains, her quiet voice oddly steady despite her tears. “A lot of Drow are bad. So bad, that looking like one means people will think you're bad too, even if you're not.”
Lys gives her daughter an apologetic smile. “I did want you to look like your daddy. I wanted to take you away from here, away from all the bad people and-" she pauses, gives her head a little shake, then continues. "I wanted you to grow up without people judging your face before your soul.” Mirroring Tavrielle, Lys cups her daughter's face with both hands, and runs her thumbs over Tavrielle's pale eyebrows.
“Being a Drow means people will be mean to you, baby. People will not trust you, people will not let you speak, people will not protect you. Not all people,” she adds with a watery smile. “But a lot of people. And I didn't want that for you.”
“Is that why I never got to go to the city?” Tavrielle whispers, tears now running down her own cheeks.
“That was half the reason,” her mother admits. “I was scared grandma might have spies, sneaky liars that are good at hiding and stealing, and they'd take you away from me. I thought if something happened to me, you'd at least still be safe with…” she trails off, eyes growing flinty.
“Why did Aunt–” both Tavrielle and Lys flinch, and Tavrielle internally berates herself. Why did she still call Erelaena her aunt? Why was that still so automatic? “-why did they do that?”
“I don't know,” her mother answers honestly, her face hardening into something a little bit frightening. Tavrielle lets go of Lys’ cheeks to tuck below her chin again, not liking the look on her mother's face. It reminds her a little of her grandma, but she will never, ever tell her mother that.
(She's too young still to understand that looking that way can be justified, as can any actions that may follow.)
She thinks of Erelaena crying; her mother hadn't been conscious, hadn't seen, and somehow that feels important. But Tavrielle can't find the words to tell Lys right now, not when she looks like that.
“... would grandma have… put me on display?” she asks, voice barely a whisper.
Her mother's arms become steel around her.
“I don't know that either,” her mother says. “But you will never have to find out.”
(She didn't end up learning her last name. This is one thing she does remember to ask, but much later.)
Two days into their stay at the Resistance underground compound, and her mother announces a strict “no divine talk” rule when either herself or Tavrielle are present.
It's odd, because up until this point, Lys had never seemed to care either way about the gods. Not on the surface, anyway, or at least not to Tavrielle's knowledge. They just didn't really talk about them, and when Erelaena or Nathvyr would tell her the odd story, her mother never protested.
She very much protests now.
“I grew up being force-fed religion,” Lys tells her daughter pragmatically. “I don't want anyone here trying to influence who or what you believe in.”
Tavrielle would've believed her, her mother can be terribly convincing, but something… something doesn't feel quite right.
It doesn't feel bad though, not really, and so she lets it go.
This continues for a year, and then two. It's hard to not talk about religion when most of the Resistance worships Eilistraee, but they try their best to respect Lys’ wishes.
It's only when Tavrielle starts asking questions that things become complicated.
“What made you worship Eilistraee?” she asks, out of the blue, one day in the mess hall.
Rez’nor, the half-orc man who'd pulled her mother to her feet with a sniveling Tavrielle in tow, chokes on his food.
She sits at a table with five Resistance members: Rez'nor and Finidia, the other generals who make up the Resistance's leadership triad with her mother; and three of their closest subordinates: Shatyree, Quevas, and Bouldrom.
All of them go strangely silent.
Finidia, another defected Lolth-Sworn Drow, thumps Rez'nor on the back.
“Don't get Rez in trouble with your mother,” she chides as Rez reaches for a glass of water.
Ten year old Tavrielle pouts.
“You all get so weird about the silliest things,” she grumbles. “I'm not asking you to tell me all her teachings,” she'll never admit that she already knows most of them; Finidia secretly gave her a book on all the gods last year, and she's read it so many times the bindings have come undone. “You're not a Drow. So why Eilistraee?”
“That's quite personal, Tav,” he finally replies, voice hoarse. “And also a bit rude to presume only Drow can worship Eilistraee.”
She knows this already. She'd been trying to bait him.
“Reeeeeeez,” she whines, putting both her elbows on the table to hold her face with both hands.
“Taaaaaaav,” he whines back, moving his arms to mimic her.
“Uhg, fine, I'm not hungry anymore,” she snaps, standing up with her tray.
She doesn't see the group exchange wary glances as she walks away.
“Lys can't keep her in the dark forever,” Finidia murmurs, watching the young half-Drow's retreating figure.
“She's going to be a nightmare as a teenager,” Rez'nor says with an exasperated but fond smile.
“You said she finally started swordplay?” Quevas, a male Drow, asks.
“Yes, she was relentless for weeks,” Shatyree, another female Drow replies. “I honestly thought they were going to kill each other at one point. I'm still surprised Lys caved.”
Rez'nor snorts.
“Kill each other?” he says, voice coloured with amusement. “Those two would kill themselves before harming each other.”
“Physically,” Finidia points out. “Lys is still harming her psychologically.”
“You could say Tav is doing the same,” Shatyree responds with a sniff.
“She's a child,” Finidia responds, rolling her eyes. “She can't be held to the same standard. When she finds out what Lys has done, it will break her.”
“Don't be so dramatic,” Shatyree retorts sharply.
“Easy, easy now,” Bouldrom, a male Duergar, says, holding his hands up placatingly. “Yes, Tavrielle is still a child, and as such we should respect the wishes of the one who is raising her.” He gives Finidia a pointed look and she flushes, averting her eyes. “That does not mean I agree with Lys’ methods,” he continues, moving his gaze over to Shatyree, “but it is not our business to interfere.”
“Not our business–” Finidia starts, but Quevas gently places his hand on top of her own.
“I feel the same way you do,” he says gently, “but if Lys isn't the one to tell her, she may never forgive her.”
(Tavrielle doesn't hear this conversation first-hand. Finidia tells it to her later, shows it to her later.
It's her way of asking for forgiveness.)
The years go on. Sometimes, Tavrielle can hear singing, but she always assumes it's someone else in the compound. She feels an itch in her soul, and for whatever reason, the singing is the only thing that soothes it. She's thankful to whoever it is.
They must be very shy, because she never hears that singing while in public. The Resistance has their fair share of bards, but no voice comes close to the one Tavrielle hears when she's alone.
She learns how to garden from her mother. The soil in the Underdark is more difficult to work with than surface soil, Lys tells her, but that doesn't mean it's not workable at all.
She doesn't get to leave the compound often. She's allowed to go on supervised walks around the mushroom forest, but she isn't allowed to do much else.
“You're fourteen,” Lys tells her in exasperation one day. They're standing on either side of a large table in her mother's office, a map of Menzoberranzan spread out between them. “I'm not sending you on any missions.”
“It's a supply run!” Tavrielle exclaims in frustration. “We do them all the time! When was the last time they've been attacked, mom? When?”
“That doesn't matter–” Lys starts.
“It does!” Tavrielle yells, stomping her foot like the total almost-adult she is.
(This memory is particularly embarrassing to look back on.)
“I'm losing my mind,” she continues, beginning to pace. “This can't be my only life. It can't be. Mom, please, I…”
There is a look of horror on her mother's face. Tavrielle's pacing immediately stops, heart clenching in her chest.
“Mom? What's wrong?”
“Baby,” Lys begins, and Tavrielle flinches. She hasn't heard that nickname in years. “Do you… have I made you feel trapped here?”
Tavrielle is stunned by both the question and the sudden shift in mood. She stares into her mother's eyes, and her heart breaks a little, because as angry as her mom can make her, she doesn't like hurting her.
“Yeah,” Tavrielle whispers, suddenly fighting the lump forming in her throat. “Yeah, you have.”
Lys’ eyes are glassy, but the tears don't fall. She gives a single nod and then turns away.
“I'll… make some arrangements,” Lys says quietly. “Your sword lesson is soon, is it not? I'll follow up with you when you're done.”
“Mom…” Tavrielle starts, but her mother fully turns her back to her.
“Later, baby,” she says, face obscured. “Later, okay?”
“Okay,” Tavrielle whispers.
She walks away, confused. She should feel triumphant, but, instead she just feels… empty.
A weird realization begins to form, and it churns her stomach: it's true. She's been trapped, and it's exhausting. She hates that she has to fight with the person she loves about everything, or at least everything she finds important. She wants to learn, wants to grow, but she's never allowed to. Knowledge is withheld from her for the sake of giving her a choice, but how can a choice be made if she's not allowed information about her options?
She's surprised her mother even acknowledged her sword lessons. It's something she had to fight tooth and nail for, so when she was finally granted permission, she did not take it for granted. Tebyrr, her instructor, says she is one of the most talented students he's ever had, and yet, she can't help but sometimes feel ashamed of her talent. Her mother has never overseen a single lesson, and almost always redirects the conversation whenever Tavrielle tries to bring up her progress.
It feels like her mother hates a part of her, and Tavrielle doesn't know how to deal with that. It actually feels like her mother hates two parts of her: her swordwork, and her interest in the divine. Both are met with silent, but obvious, disapproval, and Tavrielle feels like she's failed her mother somehow by just being herself.
And that hurts. That hurts a lot.
Things are beginning to feel more and more wrong each day. There is an ache inside of her and she doesn't know what to do about it. The only thing she's certain of is the unrelenting feeling that she's not supposed to be here.
She doesn't know what she's looking for, but she hopes she can find it. It feels like a missing part of her is out in the world somewhere, and every day she doesn't search for it weakens her soul.
She rubs her right ear absentmindedly before making her way to the training grounds.
She feels the sun on her skin again for the first time in years, and it's glorious.
Quevas laughs at her antics as she spins in circles with her arms thrown wide.
“Quevas!” she calls out to the older Drow, jubilant. “Dance with me!”
She's so happy that she doesn't notice Quevas' expression shift. She takes his hands and pulls him toward her, her feet moving almost of their own accord. Her steps feel strangely natural, almost unbearably right, and she lets go of Quevas' hands to twirl on her toes.
Settling, she grins up at him, and immediately notices something isn't right anymore.
He's still smiling, but there's something cagey about it. His eyes have become shuttered, and he looks away nervously, back toward the mill they came up through. A field of wheat sways in the wind behind him, almost as if it'd been dancing along with her.
No, he isn't looking at the mill. He's looking at the modest house beside it, where some of their surface members live. They maintain the wheat farm and mill as a front, serving as one of the main surface access points for the Resistance.
“Quevas?” she asks cautiously.
“Ah, don't mind me spoiling your fun,” he laughs, striving for it to sound good-natured but instead coming out terribly strained. The man is an awful actor. “Just looking at the sun. We should put on our disguise kits now since we really should get going soon. Especially since we're not staying the night.”
A silly condition set by her mother. Tavrielle resists the urge to roll her eyes, undeterred by the man's poor excuse of a deflection.
Tavrielle can't help but feel sorry for Quevas. He holds the most geographic knowledge of the closest surface city, but is rarely the one to go into it. He usually stays with the couple who lives here while Shatyree and Rez'nor handle the actual haggling and hauling. His primary job is to direct the Resistance members via telepathy should they run into trouble and require a quick escape.
Though their surface members had lived here for a few years, their knowledge is still not as detailed at Quevas'. Also, neither of them can cast telepathy and Lys refuses to let wizards live on a wheat farm. Having witnessed some of Quevas' accidental fiery fiascos, Tavrielle doesn't blame her.
Quevas usually didn't go into the city for this very reason: he is absolutely atrocious at lying. This was a test for Tavrielle: go into the city with Quevas, do not allow anyone to talk to him unnecessarily (and thus also her), and bring back a few basic supplies. If everything went smoothly, she would be allowed to join Shatyree and Rez'nor on their next run.
Her mother is setting her up to fail. And judging by Quevas's panicked glances at the house, they are being watched. Likely by assassins, also sent by her mother, to take care of anyone who may grow suspicious of her and Quevas' blunders.
Tavrielle takes a deep breath.
“Quevas,” she starts, and the man looks back at her with the worst fake-calmness she's ever seen. “I know you're not supposed to tell me.”
Quevas' eyes grow comically large, and he actually sways for a moment. His gaze is solidly fixed on her now.
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he says, voice three times higher than usual.
Tavrielle considers him. Perhaps her mother is testing Quevas too.
“I'll pretend I believe you,” Tavrielle says, “if you convince Shatyree to teach me how to pickpocket.”
Quevas doubles over, coughing uncontrollably.
“W-what?” he rasps, staring at her in horror.
Tavrielle gives him her best innocent smile.
“I won't spend this whole trip asking you questions, and watching your body language, and then asking more questions when you give yourself away,” Tavrielle says sweetly, “if you convince Shatyree to teach me how to pickpocket.”
Quevas looks at her as if she's a devil come straight from Avernus.
“Rez'nor said you'd be a terrible teenager,” he mutters, the horror on his face shifting into grim acceptance.
“But you still love me, right?” Tavrielle says, flashing him another grin. “And so you'll help me?”
“Coercion is not help,” he says, looking her up and down. “How did we go from dancing to this?”
“I don't know, Quevas,” she says, staring into his eyes. “You tell me.”
He puts his head in his hands and groans.
“You truly are your mother's daughter,” he grumbles into his palms, and Tavrielle knows she's got him.
“I'm happy to talk more about the dance,” she says lightly. “But are you?”
“I knew this day would come,” he's still talking to himself, both literally and figuratively, “but I didn't think I'd have to be the one to deal with it.”
Tavrielle waits, and Quevas sighs. Finally, he lifts his face.
“I suppose Shatyree owes me a favour,” he says reluctantly.
Tavrielle grins again and claps her hands together.
“Then it's time to cash it in, my dear Quevas.”
Somehow, her mission with Quevas goes off without a hitch. It could be because the man is too busy sulking, allowing Tavrielle to do all the talking, but it doesn't really matter in the end. All that matters is that she gets to do a run with Rez'nor and Shatyree, and that Quevas actually convinced Shatyree to give Tavrielle a lesson in picking pockets.
It must have been some favour, because she knows Shatyree hates her.
It's strange because out of everyone Shatyree and Rez'nor are her mother's closest and most trusted confidants. Rez'nor has always been like an uncle to Tavrielle (a word that still hurts her, sometimes), but she and Shatyree have never gotten along. She doesn't know why, it's just something that simply is: like the sky is blue, and her grandmother is a bitch.
Shatyree doesn't say a word to her during their entire journey through the Underdark. To be fair, it's only a half day's walk, and Rez'nor does his best to fill in for her uncomfortable silence. Tavrielle assumes Shatyree is just trying to think of a way out of the favour; despite having an unpleasant personality, Shatyree is surprisingly honorable, and someone asking for a returned favour isn't something she'd refuse.
Even if that returned favour involves coaching the bane of her existence.
Rez'nor gives up about two hours before they reach the mill. While she would always respond to Rez'nor, Tavrielle didn't particularly feel like being the one to try and continuously initiate conversation, and so the three are silent during their ascension.
By now, Tavrielle's (definitely petty) pleasure at having one-upped Shatyree has faded and folded in on itself, turning into a ball of anxiety in her gut. She's still only fourteen, and hasn't quite mastered the ability to not care what others think of her.
(But does she ever really master that? Shh, don't answer.)
Having Shatyree be rude to her in passing is one thing. Having Shatyree pointedly ignore her for hours is something else entirely. It makes her feel small, and it makes her feel icky.
“Rez,” Tavrielle says as they step off the makeshift elevator and into the mill. “Could you go ahead for a sec?”
Rez'nor pauses, looking from Tavrielle to Shatyree.
“You sure that's a good idea?” he asks.
Shatyree scoffs.
“I do,” Tavrielle says, trying to give him her best reassuring smile.
Rez'nor eyes the pair for another moment before shrugging, and makes his way out of the mill.
Shatyree finally turns to acknowledge Tavrielle, eyebrow raised expectantly.
“Look,” Tavrielle says, doing her best to hold the other Drow's gaze. “I know you don't like me. I don't know why, and it probably doesn't matter since I don't think there's anything I can do to change that.”
Shatyree says nothing, eyebrow still raised.
“But you like my mom, and my mom likes you,” Tavrielle continues, unable to stop herself from looking away. An embarrassing pressure begins to build behind her eyes. “Sometimes, I think my mom likes you better than she likes me. But I'm getting off track.”
She sees Shatyree shift slightly in her periphery, and decides to barrel on.
“I know Quevas asked you for a favour, and even though you're a giant bitch sometimes, you're really good when it comes to stuff like that,” Tavrielle rambles.
Shatyree lets out a noise that's something between a snort and a cough, but when Tavrielle looks back at her again, the woman's face is utterly impassive.
“But I can tell how much you've been dreading this, and–”
Shatyree is suddenly in her personal space. The woman is taller than her, and though not by much, it still feels like Shatyree is towering over her.
“You're right about a few things,” she says, red eyes unreadable. “I am a bitch. I do always follow through with favours. And I don't like you.”
She backs away again, just as fast as she'd approached, and crosses her arms.
“You're wrong about two things though,” she says, still staring into Tavrielle's eyes. “Your mom loves you more than anything or anyone on any plane,” she says seriously. Tavrielle blinks, something pinging as odd about the wording. “And yeah, like I said, I don't like you,” Shatyree adds, “but maybe that's not set in stone.”
Tavrielle's mind goes blank.
“What?” she sputters, incredulous.
“Also, you're shit at staying aware while emotional,” Shatyree says, producing Tavrielle's small coin pouch as if it had been hidden in her elbow. She uncrosses her arms and tosses it back to a stunned Tavrielle.
“Come on,” Shatyree says, turning so Tavrielle can't see her face. “We have work to do.”
(In the future, Tavrielle will forever blame Shatyree for her endless love of snarky people with secret, soft hearts.)
More time passes.
She learns how to pick both pockets and locks from Shatyree. The singing is everywhere now, not just at the compound, and she realizes she's the only one who can hear it. It feels... secret, somehow, special, and so she doesn't tell anyone about it. It guides her intuition, leads her away from certain pockets in favour of others, grows somber when Shatyree eyes particular chests.
“Not that one,” she'll tell Shatyree.
The woman will always raise an eyebrow at her, but she never goes against Tavrielle's wishes.
Sometimes, she even sees Shatyree smiling. A sad smile, a strange one, and Tavrielle never asks about it.
She learns how to haggle with Rez'nor. The half-orc is abundantly charming, and he teaches her how to use insight to appeal to others. He even teaches her to flirt, much to Shatyree's chagrin.
(It is the one thing Shatyree never tells her mother, and Tavrielle is infinitely thankful for that. She doesn't even want to imagine what her mother would do to poor Rez'nor.)
She walks past a broom store one day and the scent of hay hits her with a tidal wave of nostalgia. She begs her mother to allow a stable to be built by the wheat field, and finds a surprising supporter in Bouldrom.
“She needs a hobby,” she overhears him saying one night. She's sixteen now, she should know better than to eavesdrop outside her mother's office, but in her defense the door was left wide open.
“She needs to be slowed down,” her mother hisses, and Tavrielle can just imagine Lys running her fingers through her short hair.
She'd cut it all off recently, even shaved the sides of her head to better expose her damaged ears. Tavrielle isn't sure what prompted the change, but her mother looks badass.
She wishes she could tell her that. Things have only grown more strained between mother and daughter since Tavrielle began her trips to the surface. A distance has grown between them, and Tavrielle doesn't know how to cross it.
Bouldrom laughs, breaking her train of thought.
“And what do you think will happen if we try to ‘slow her down’?” he asks with another chortle. “Just get her a damn horse. At least that'll keep her busy for a while, and keep her close.”
“For how long?” Lys whispers and Tavrielle feels her heart seize at the bizarre tone of anguish.
“Lys,” Bouldrom says, voice quieting down, sobering. “She's almost grown. You can't keep her from–”
“Don't you say it,” her mother hisses, and Tavrielle feels as though she's been struck by a Witchbolt. “Don't you dare say it. She has a choice and–”
“Does she?” Bouldrom's voice is still quiet, but his tone has gone steely. “Because as it stands, every time she tries to make a choice for herself, she has to fight you on it. Is that what freedom looks like, Lys?”
“Get out.” Her mother says, voice flat.
“Lys…”
“Get out!”
Tavrielle scrambles away from the door and tries to run away as quickly and quietly as she can. She's not sure when she started crying, and she's even less sure of when she'll stop.
(Later, much later, Bouldrom tells her that he watched her run down the corridor.
“Why didn't you go after me?” she asks.
“Because I'm not the one you wanted to go after you,” he replies.)
Her mother, along with the other generals, agree for a stable to be built. It takes around a year to complete, and Finidia is almost as excited as she is.
“I used to race Riding Lizards,” Finidia tells her, one month before the stable is due to be complete.
The pair are alone in Tavrielle's private room, where they'd spent the last several nights reading about horses together. Tavrielle is seated on her cot, which has been pulled away from the wall, allowing Finidia to stand behind it. The older woman is braiding a silver ribbon into her young friend's hair.
“Really?” Tavrielle asks, tilting her head back to look up at Finidia from where she sits on her cot.
“Why would I lie about that?” Finidia tuts, but her eyes are smiling. “Now look ahead again and stop moving.”
“I didn't think you were lying,” Tavrielle grumbles good-naturedly. “I was just surprised. You've never talked about that before.”
“Yes, well,” Finidia's hands still for the briefest of moments before resuming braiding. “Most of my childhood memories are bad ones. My riding Riding Lizard is no exception. Her name was Menzoberra,” she gives a gentle, playful tug on Tavrielle's hair. “I was such a creative child, I know.”
Tavrielle chuckles.
“I loved her too much. Love is a weakness in the eyes of the Noble Houses. I needed to be toughened up.”
The mirth leaves Tavrielle, and a tingle of dread runs up her spine.
“My mother killed Menzoberra in front of me, slowly,” Finidia continues factually, continuing to braid. “After, she had Berra's head stuffed, and mounted it on my bedroom wall. It was a reminder of how I'd failed her ideals, and a warning not to do it again.”
Tavrielle turns slowly, and Finidia's hands drop from the younger half-Drow's hair. She doesn't protest the disruption of her handiwork this time though, and just gives Tavrielle a tight smile.
Tavrielle pulls the older woman down beside her onto the cot, and wraps her arms around her.
“I think Menzoberra is a great name,” she whispers, and Finidia lets out a choked, surprised laugh.
While Tavrielle's hurts for Finidia, she also feels the stirring of something else. Something that's been building, something that haunts her in the night, something that contributes to the ache in her soul.
She wants to do something about this hurt. She wants to stop it, to fix it. She knows it's impossible, she knows this pain goes back centuries. She knows she is one person, and she knows there's thousands of Drow with stories like Finidia's.
But there is an itch inside her, an ever growing discomfort, that calls for her to take some kind of action. She has no idea what to do, or what this feeling is, but she knows it doesn't just end with the Drow.
She wants to change the world. That should scare her, overwhelm her, but it doesn't. Even if she never lives to see that better world, she wants to be someone who actively works toward it.
Finidia pulls back and accidentally bumps her cheek against Tavrielle's right ear. It jostles her earring, and Finidia gasps out in pain.
“What? What happened?” Tavrielle asks.
Finidia is staring at her with an unreadable expression, holding a palm to her cheek.
“It's nothing,” she says dismissively. Her eyes are bloodshot from holding back her tears, giving her face a tired appearance. And that's all she looks like: a little tired, but mostly back to her old self.
Her face is deceptively open.
Finidia is the polar opposite of Quevas: she is an excellent liar. Tavrielle assesses the older woman for a moment before putting on a soft look of her own.
Her softness isn't a total mask: she cares deeply about Finidia. But she knows Finidia is hiding something. They've all been hiding something for years.
And she's the dumbass who never even spared a second thought for the weird earring she shares with her mother.
The singing starts up again, but it's almost ominous this time; there's an edge to it Tavrielle's never heard before.
The singing is almost… expectant, and Tavrielle knows she's on the cusp of discovering her lifelong secret.
The question is, though: is she ready for it?
(The question is more loaded than that: is she ready to go against her mother, completely against her mother? Is she ready to extend the chasm between them forever?
She isn't, and she'll never be.
Her only choice is to push through anyway. And isn't that funny? Isn't it like what Bouldrom said?
How is it that the one who so desperately wanted to give her a choice is the one who ended up taking it away?)
During her next surface run, Tavrielle walks over to an accessory shop.
An enchanted accessory shop.
She doesn't try to sneak away, doesn't try to hide it. She looks both Shatyree and Rez'nor in the eyes and tells them: “I think I need to go in there.”
Rez'nor goes pale, and Shatyree looks away, hands clenching into fists at her side.
Surprisingly, it is Shatyree who speaks first.
“I think you do, too,” she says quietly, still looking away.
Then she stalks off into the crowd. Rez'nor watches her go, before turning to eye Tavrielle warily.
“Everything is going to change,” he tells her sadly, placing his large hand on her shoulder. “But it's long overdue, and for what it's worth… I love you, we love you, and I'm sorry.”
He turns, walking away in the same direction of Shatyree.
Tavrielle watches him go, feeling her heartbeat echo over every inch of her body.
They're respecting her choice, she realizes painfully. They're giving her a gift she's never fully received, not really.
Numbly, she enters the store.
“Oh! Hello there, miss,” says a middle-aged Dwarf. There's silver in his beard, a clean central stripe, and for some reason that feels…
Significant.
That's silly, she tells herself. Tons of people get silver in their hair as they age. What am I thinking?
“How can I help you today?” he asks gently, and she blinks, realizing she's been standing frozen for the last several seconds.
“Ah, I,” her voice catches, and her cheeks flush. “Sorry, ahem, I'm… I mean, I was wondering if you knew about… well, enchanted earrings.”
She's fumbling this so badly, but the man's face remains kind.
“Like the one on your ear?” he asks, and Tavrielle reminds herself to breathe.
(It's one thing to guess, it's another thing to have it confirmed.)
“Yeah,” she says, voice faint. “Like the one on my ear.”
The man steps down from his platform behind the counter, and slowly walks around, picking up a folded step stool along the way. He approaches her cautiously, as if she is a wild animal, keeping his body language open and his eyes sympathetic.
He gestures to the step stool in his hand, and then toward Tavrielle.
“May I?” he asks.
She can only nod.
Gingerly, he opens the step stool and places it beside her. Stepping up, he peers at her earring, stroking his silver-streaked beard.
“It's a modification of an Amulet of Proof Against Detection and Location,” he murmurs.
Tavrielle stares at the wall behind his counter, full of various trinkets, and feels the words echo deep inside of her. She doesn't understand, not yet, but knows this is it: the grand reveal.
Her life, unraveling in a small shop with a stranger.
She wishes her mother was here.
The singing has starts up again, and it is so loud.
“It's… different, though,” he continues, intrigued. “There's more to it, but I won't be able to tell you for certain unless you're able to remove it. Also, it's cracked.”
For some reason, this catches her attention.
“Does that mean something?” she asks, tension coiling in her body.
“It might,” he hedges, stepping back down off the ladder. “I take it someone's been trying to hide you from something, or someone. Someone powerful, by the looks of those extra inscriptions.”
“Inscriptions?” she whispers.
“I have True Sight,” the Dwarf says, picking up his ladder again and shuffling over to the shop door.
He turns the lock, and Tavrielle begins to shake.
“That's to keep others out,” he tells her gently. “Not to keep you in. You can leave anytime you'd like.”
He steps away from the door, moving back behind his counter and onto his platform, as if to prove his point.
“Do you remember when the earring cracked?” he asks her.
“I didn't even know it was cracked,” she replies, mind racing.
The singing grows impossibly louder; she doesn't know how to turn it down, doesn't know how to stop it.
She's never wanted to stop it before, it's always been something that soothed her. But now? Now, she's afraid.
He assesses her for a moment before placing both hands on his countertop where she can see them, interlocking his fingers.
He really isn't going to hurt me, she thinks, and her knees buckle. She sinks to the floor and he does not move from his place behind the counter, continuing to keep his distance.
She feels thankful, and strangely fortunate.
“Do you think you can remember the moment where it may have cracked?” he asks softly from above her.
She opens her mouth to say no, but something stops her. The singing subdues itself, no longer an almost-wail, instead settling into something soothing.
An almost-lullaby.
The tune is oddly familiar, and she feels herself being pulled into her own mind.
She is eight years old again, and she is being thrown into a cage. She lands on her right side, unable to speak, unable to move, and hears the ting of metal hitting metal…
… of her ear hitting one of the bars.
Her mother is thrown beside her, unconscious and in chains, like a sack of potatoes.
Her vision swims, and somewhere in the recesses of memory she hears a scream. But the singing drowns out the screams, carrying her to sleep, protecting her from having to listen to her mother's torture.
She feels the rumbles of an explosion, feels the lack of pain in her little body, and she realizes the singing has healed her.
“The crack may have allowed whoever you've been hidden from to break through, just a little,” the Dwarf says from somewhere in the present.
She is still in her own mind, floating but longer afraid. She feels silly, actually, for having lost faith in the singing for a brief moment.
She knows what it is now, who it is. She thinks she's known for a long time, deep down.
“Eilistraee,” she whispers, and her earring shatters.
Bonus:
In the not-so-distant future, she thinks: seven thousand souls.
But then…
She thinks about spinning in the sun after only six years, and can't even fathom waiting twenty decades instead.
She thinks about feeling as if there is a missing piece of her, somewhere out there in the world. She thinks of the longing to claim that piece, the desire to feel whole again.
She thinks about aching, every day, and suddenly being relieved of that.
She thinks of choices, and how she struggled so desperately to have one all her own. She thinks of being told the choices made on her behalf were for her own good.
She looks deep into Astarion's eyes, seeing all the pain and fear there. He's shirtless and begging, and all her friends are looking at her expectantly.
Expecting her to make his choice for him.
“Is this really what you want?” she asks.
“More than anything,” he tells her.
She inhales, closes her eyes, and sends both a prayer and an apology to Eilistraee.
She exhales, opening her eyes again.
“Alright,” she whispers, submitting her mind, her eyes, to him.
Later, Eilistraee will forgive her. But she will never forgive herself.