Chapter Text
Standing in front of Gortash always sends a tremor through your legs. Not because the so-called Avatar of Bane is a figure of awe or because his politicking has earned your respect - he hasn't, and it hasn't. No, it’s because Karlach stands beside you, her fury barely contained, her entire body wound tight with a storm’s worth of grief and rage. You can feel the fire beneath her skin, so close to breaking through, and you know, she is seconds from erupting.
But she doesn’t. Not yet. She holds her ground, burning with fury, every breath a struggle for composure. She waits.
For you.
And when the moment comes, when the fighting begins in earnest, you let her go.
This battle isn’t yours to lead, even if you need Gortash’s Netherstone to defeat the greater evil ahead. It’s not about strategy, not for Karlach. It’s personal. Deeply, achingly personal. But his death won’t mend the pieces of her shattered hope. It won’t give her peace. You know this, but she doesn’t. Not yet.
Still, you stand back, handling the guards and giving Karlach the space she needs to face him. The others support her, each in their own way, and together you weather a fight that feels as if it stretches across lifetimes. In some ways, it did.
It is brutal. Messy. Long. More than once, fear claws up your spine, cold and merciless, but you keep going. You have to.
When the last of his men fall, a wave of relief crashes over you, so strong it nearly drops you to your knees. You want to reach for Karlach, to wrap your arms around her and hold her tightly. But you don’t.
You let her speak. Let her scream. Let her mourn. And when she asks you to drink with her, you accompany her without hesitation.
That night, you climb to the terrace atop the Elfsong Tavern. You listen. You sit beside her in the quiet, beneath a sky that doesn’t know how to mourn her pain. She thought she'd feel lighter, free. Instead, she grieves. Not just for Gortash, but for herself - for a heart that burns too hot, for a future that was never truly hers to dream of.
The others join you in time, one by one, bringing laughter, comfort, shared silence. It becomes a night of release, of drink, of weary smiles, of held hands and long overdue hugs. For a few fleeting hours, they are just people who love each other.
You laugh. You exhale.
And when the moment comes, you curl into Gale’s embrace, burying yourself in the familiar rhythm of his breath and the warm scent of home that is his scent.
You wish for peace, for this to be over. But a few days later, your boots splash into ankle-deep blood as you tread the path toward the temple of Bhaal. Each step feels heavier than the last.
You don’t want this. Not yet. You wanted another night tangled with Gale, another lazy morning waking up surrounded by warmth and trust and the soft-spoken quiet you only share with him.
Instead, you are marching toward a nightmare. Toward the place where everything went wrong. Too many times.
This is where you failed before. Where you screamed yourself hoarse trying to stop her. Where you watched, helpless, as Orin tortured and killed, laughed in your face.
You remember the pain in their eyes, the betrayal, the despair. You remember every death. Every failure. Every moment she took from you.
You cannot fail again.
You don’t scream now. Not outwardly. But inside, you are nothing but fear. Your heart thunders in your ears, your fingers twitch with panic, your palms slick with sweat. The fight begins, and you cling to your resolve like it’s a lifeline.
You can do this. You will get it right this time.
The others push forward with relentless focus - you do your part, casting, supporting, refusing to fall apart.
But your hands shake. Every spell feels like it’s on the edge of fumbling. And both Gale and Halsin notice. Halsin stays close, protective, calm. Gale doesn’t say anything. But you can feel the question in his gaze like pressure on your skin.
Orin dies.
It’s slow. Too slow. You watch the life drain from her with no triumph in your heart. Just a hollow ache.
You scoop up Yenna the moment she wakes, her arms thrown tight around your neck, her legs wrapping around your waist as if afraid you’ll vanish. You hold her as you carry her from the nightmare, clinging to her as tightly as she clings to you.
Back at the Elfsong Tavern, you brew tea with shaking hands. Yenna accepts it silently, still trembling, and when Halsin offers her a bedtime story, she nods and gathers up Scratch and the owlbear cup. She disappears into the safety of routine.
You sit in front of the fire. Let your body go slack. Let the tension bleed from your spine and limbs. Astarion presses a kiss to your hair on his way out to hunt, Karlach and Wyll curl up nearby. You realize, absently, that Lae’zel is gone again.
Gale joins you quietly, passing you a cup of wine as he settles beside you.
“Talk to me,” he offers gently, not demanding but not asking either.
You sigh. “I’m alright,” you lie. “It’s just been... a long few weeks.”
He tilts his head. His eyes move over your face, searching, reading. He doesn’t call you out. Just rests a hand on your back. You lean into him, eyes closed, smiling faintly.
You want to tell him. Everything. About you failures. About the deaths. About how many versions of him you’ve loved and lost. How many times you failed, how many times you died. How many nights you’ve begged the stars for this to be over.
But you do not. Not yet. You cannot.
He’s still thinking about the Crown, haunted by it. You see it in the way his eyes stray toward the horizon, in how often he reaches for silence when before he would’ve reached for your hand. You need him focused. Clear. Grounded. Not lost in the tangle of timelines and impossible grief.
You’ve never made it this far before.
That terrifies you more than anything else.
When the time comes to make your final stand, a speech is expected. You are not prepared. You haven’t written anything, haven’t practiced. So you do the only thing you can: you speak from the heart. It’s messy. Honest. Vulnerable. And somehow, it’s exactly what they need.
They cheer. Every person you have helped, every friend who chose to stay by your side roar their approval and join you for the battle.
And still, your stomach churns.
The Netherbrain looms ahead. Vast. Overwhelming. You know its size. What you didn’t expect was the pressure. The weight of it pressing down on your thoughts, twisting into every crevice of your mind.
At some point, your nose starts to bleed. The pain is excruciating.
You’re terrified—not just for yourself, but for all of them. This is the unknown. The unwritten. You do not know what happens next.
And then you see them. The Emperor. And his companions. It takes you a moment to understand, these are your Dream Guardians.
The battle up the brain is harrowing. Each fight a step closer to something you don’t want to face. You aren’t thinking about victory. You’re thinking about what comes after. About Gale. About the Crown.
Mindflayers swarm. A red dragon dies, too slowly. The sky is filled with Nautiloids. Your panic grows.
The final chamber is strange, otherworldly astral. You barely have time to comprehend it before you’re thrust into combat again
This is it.
And you are not excited. You are afraid. For yourself. For Gale. For every single one of them. For what this might mean.
You lock eyes with Halsin. He nods, smiling gently. And then you grip Gale’s hand and leap into the fight.
When the Netherbrain dies, you feel it - an ending in your bones. It crashes into the bay and you fall with it, Gale casting Feather Fall just in time.
Karlach burns, someone screams. And you realize the sound is coming from your own throat.
She’s dying. Burning up. Her heart giving out. You hold her. You wrap yourself around her, crying into the flames, into the unbearable wrongness of it all, ignoring the pain and scorching of your skin.
You beg her to go to Avernus. You tell her Wyll will go with her.
And when she agrees, something inside you cracks.
You turn and see Astarion already disappearing into the shadows, the sunlight too much for him now. You want to scream. Instead, someone presses a healing potion into your hand and you drink it like it might dull the ache inside you.
It doesn’t.
Gale stares at the water, his thoughts already drifting to the Crown. You swallow your pain. Force yourself to rise.
You follow him.
It takes hours to retrieve the fragments. He’s drained, but not spent. Magic still coils in his fingers, but his shoulders slump with fatigue. Finally, the pieces lie before him, arranged with care on a cloth torn from your cloak.
He studies them for a long time. Then, finally, he looks up. Smiles.
“This can wait another day.”
You do not drink. You help. Rescue efforts need hands, and you have two of them. You spend your days healing, digging, offering what comfort you can. Gale rebuilds the Crown in your room. He pauses only to eat, to rest, to sink into a bath beside you when you beckon him close.
When Halsin departs, you cry into his shoulder. Promise to visit. You’re not surprised when Shadowheart and Scratch leave with him.
You fill your days keeping looters at bay, organizing supplies. You don’t stop moving because if you stop, the grief might catch up.
This all feels wrong. All the deaths, all the suffering, all your unshed tears – for an end without Astarion, Karlach and Wyll by your side.
You are alive, yes, you made it. You finally made it. And still.
When Gale asks you to join him at the Stormshore Tabernacle, you don’t hesitate. You go and kiss him goodbye, swallowing your tears, hiding the shake of your hands.
Mystra summons him and the few minutes you wait are the longest of your life. You have never been a believer, not prayed to any god, especially not after all you have been through but today, you pray.
For his return.
For him to make the right choice.
And then he returns, radiant, whole and beaming. The orb is gone.
That night, as he grins at you across the steaming bath, handing you a glass of wine he chose with care, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
“I have to tell you something.”