Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Again,” the instructor ordered, voice crisp.

Varsh Ykis watched closely as his charges took position. He had to squint to see them all, even in the small courtyard of a small, isolated creche; thick, frost-kissed fog filled the mountains and would for months. 

That was half the reason Qenoth was located here in the first place. The mists were as much protection as the mountains themselves, and the mountains were more treacherous than a drow and twice as savage. There was no climbing them, no “stumbling upon” to speak of—they were black teeth of jagged marble, hospitable only to strange lichens and the occasional adventurous breed of moss.

No—to find Creche Qenoth, you first had to know exactly where it was. And then, for some perverse and godless reason, you had to want to go there.

Ykis had been born here and would die here, loved it with every part of himself that was not reserved for his Prince; but even he longed for the sun by now. It was the height of deadwinter; contact with the mists alone was enough to freeze solid the wrinkles in your clothing, skin cracked and bled if not constantly tended, and ice coated every external surface like an armor of glass. To hear the trainees complaining, ice coated several internal surfaces as well, though he had personally checked their bathing facilities and the water from initiate showers almost never froze completely . At least not during the day.

He cleared his throat. The young man nearest him, sluggardly in his movements and glaring sleepily at his instructor, jumped and hastily adjusted his posture. Ykis raised an eyebrow and moved along.

There was no indulgence to be had for inclement weather at Creche Qenoth. If they spent cold days huddled up in their beds, they would train only a few weeks out of the year. His young ones were lined up as usual, in precise eight-by-five rows, on the gray flagstone courtyard—barefoot in thin training robes, uncomplaining.

Ykis was not a cruel man; and Remi’c, their instructor, was no sadist. Great braziers burned at all times around the courtyard, and groups rotated every other exercise so that every trainee took their turn in the cold-but-never-freezing center. The fires leeched moisture from the air, and magic kept the floors dry of snowmelt—wet clothes in these mountains were the great deathbringer, more feared than ghaik. Thick snow clung to the razor-sharp, broken spires of black marble that surrounded them, and gathered in towering piles on rooftops, but no child in the care of Varsh Ykis would suffer more than mild discomfort.

Gith’s children faced enough trials. The cold was bracing, hardship built character—but it need not be torture.

Besides. The current cohort was still young, just shy of twelve—far too young to harden deliberately. They had a handful of refugees now, as well, a small group of survivors of liberated creches from across the planes. It was mostly a gaggle of shaken teenagers, veiling their uncertainty with false bravado, old enough to be trusted with manning the walls in junior positions; and a trio of thirteen-year-olds, who had been folded with minimal infighting (and some very clever teambuilding challenges, if he did say so himself) among the existing ranks.

And Ar’nel.

“Maintain formation!”

The boy’s brow furrowed in frustration as he shuffled forward. He was too old for the nursery but visibly too young for the cohort. An awkward seven summers, his legs were just enough shorter than the other trainees’ that he could either maintain good form within his own kata, or maintain equidistance from his cohort in the lineup—never both. 

Instructor Remi’c was merciless—a githyanki trainer had no choice. He would praise Ar’nel’s form—which was excellent, he had clearly been mentored by a true master—in individual work; but if the boy was to train alongside his elders he must learn, one way or another, to compensate. It couldn’t be the first time Ar’nel had been forced to overcome such challenges. The boy was short and scrawny for his age, nearly stunted, with pale gold eyes and the kind of weak lungs that would, a decade ago, have gotten him culled before toddling.

Ykis tried to contain his wince at the thought, not wanting to add to the boy’s burdens. Ar’nel bore up bravely under his obvious disadvantages—he had a strong soul and a proud heart, and his watchful, patient demeanor and thoughtful style of speech would have marked him out for leadership had his unfortunate timing not doomed him to mediocrity.

They had also received the transfer of a few eggs, which concerned him. Orpheus—the Prince of the Comet, alive, Gith’s son returned, the Great Mother’s own blood sprung forth anew!—did not claim Vlaakith’s iron, perverse control over the very flesh of her people. The choice to breed, or not, was the blood-right of any thinking creature. Was the stripping away of that right, the reducing of Gith’s children to mere incubators, the horror of twisting and betrayed flesh, not the foulest, most reprehensible crime of the hated ghaik?  

But the cohort system existed for a reason. There was safety in numbers, strength in coming of age surrounded by fellow-warrior cousins. The shu'kyani under Prince Orpheus were volunteers, not Chosen—but volunteers who remained rigorously scheduled, for everyone’s sake. These eggs, off-timed and clutchless, would struggle in their training as Ar’nel did.

“Anla, Vet’ran—much improved. Your balance work is paying dividends. Trainee Yitral! Extend fully and keep your stance throughout the full pattern. Again!”

The cohort stepped back into formation. Training staves clicked in unison against the stone, braced to ready position, and—

—and faltered, midway into the first swing of the ancient pattern-dance, at an echo of distant, unnatural thunder.

The children of Creche Qenoth knew well the sounds of their home range—the deadly as well as the beautiful. But it was clear within moments that this was no mountainsong. The low, heady thrum was too brief to be a far-off avalanche, not sharp or clear enough for the thunder of sentry drums. 

A long pause. Guardians and crechelings waited, tense, staring into the featureless midwinter fog. Fingers clenched and unclenched around weapons.

Then, again. A sound like a rush; less a noise than a feeling , a wide shuddering impact, the fuzzy-edged adrenaline-whisper of blood in one’s own ear. Momentary, then gone. But louder this time. 

“Captain,” said Ykis, keeping his voice low, never turning from the source of the eerie, sourceless pulsing. “Douse lights. Move the crechelings to—”

A red dragon shattered the morning air.

In the thick half-frozen mist, it might as well have teleported. The concussion of its great wings echoed and redoubled off the sheer cliffs, a near-visible distortion. Torches flickered and died; every flame in the roaring braziers cringed into its coals like istiki . The air flashed and burned with blinding sunlight—cleared to crystal in the dragon’s wake, silver-white fog torn to shreds by the force of its passing.

In a flash of raw dread Ykis managed to think, Vlaakith—

But the dragon did not rain fire and death on his half-trained children; no lich-queen’s warriors followed the charge. The brief, undisciplined scramble of terror that had begun in the center of the courtyard resolved as the crechelings found their courage, and remembered their awe.

What they now knew to be an Orphic kith’rak circled wide; a single low pass roared directly over the creche, the very ground shivering with the impact of its sheer speed, then a long, languid correction down the ravine. The great dragon spilled momentum from flared wings, stalled itself dramatically—perfectly framed between two sharp stone peaks, a beautiful maneuver that Ykis suspected was entirely for the benefit of his crechelings—and fell back in a slower, controlled stoop to land.

Back toward a courtyard that was currently occupied by heart-pounding, awestruck trainees.

With a rush of consternation Ykis opened his mouth to give the orders he should have given the moment a kith’rak made their presence known—Qenoth was a small creche, rarely blessed by an unannounced visit from such vaunted rank, but a lack of practice was condemnation , not excuse. 

Before he could begin clearing a landing area, however, the kith’rak swept to the side with an easy indolence, as if that had been the plan all along. Perhaps it had; perhaps it was a gracious dragon-knight allowing a small and obscure creche to keep face. The dragon mantled and reared to kill the last of its speed before sinking mighty talons into the sheer rock of the mountainside, settling in a final surge of wind and power.

The red dragon glanced back at the creche with imperious disdain, draping its tail along the inner wall; psionic power flared around the rider as she dropped easily from its side, foregoing the offered bridge entirely. The second figure—a pale, ugly thing, istik, a prisoner or a servant perhaps—began picking its way down from the saddle along the dragon’s spines, while the kith’rak stood from the impact of her leap and brushed snow from her armor.

“F-formation!” hissed Remi’c belatedly. “Formal obeisance! Greet the kith’rak as befits her rank—!”

The cohort startled, but had barely begun to move before the order was interrupted by a child’s gasp of delight. Ar’nel broke ranks and rushed forward; Remi’c hissed, “Learn your place—” and a long, thin cane whistled through the air, but he aborted the movement with a sudden jerk before it made contact and then Ar’nel was out of range of both of them. Ykis felt his stomach lurch with fear as the knight’s flashing golden eyes locked onto his charge but couldn’t suppress burning frustration toward Ar’nel himself, either—the boy was young for the cohort but more than old enough to understand field discipline in the presence of a kith’rak —

A kith’rak who smiled like the blaze of stars, sweeping the boy up with a rough love-growl as he flung his arms around her neck.

“You were gone for so long!” cried Ar’nel.

“Yes.” The kith’rak’s voice sent a jolt down Ykis’ spine—an unashamed gentleness he had never in his lifetime heard from a dragon-knight. “Your body and mind require time outside the Astral Plane, and the rage of battle has kept us locked within it. You understand this.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I just—”

“Chk. You apologize as if you have cause for shame.” She drew a hand along his cheek as she set him down. “I have come to retrieve the heart I sundered. Do you think I do not weep for the joy of it?”

Ar’nel swallowed through a smile. “You missed me?”

“My days were my own, my nights’ sleep uninterrupted, my whims and passions unrestricted, and Quuthos could fight at my side unencumbered by the need to defend a helpless passenger,” the kith’rak said bluntly. “It was utter misery. I have hated every second and your mother feels the same. You are Varsh Ykis?”

Ykis swallowed, shaken to his core, head swimming with dumbfounded awe. His first thought, upon seeing this rider, had been: So young for her rank—too young, surely, to be kith’rak so soon… But there was something in her presence, in her regal bearing, the proud toss of her head as she swept russet hair from her face and managed to look down her nose at a man nearly a foot taller than her—he could not help, now, but recognize her.

“Y—es,” he managed. “Yes. And you are Jhestil Kith’rak, chainbreaker, Lae’zel of K’liir. Knight Supreme, the Prince’s own silver, the sword of the Comet.”

“It is as you say.” She inclined her head, the barest fraction. “My mission takes me far from here—but outside the Astral. I do not intend Ar’nel to return now that his identity is known.”

Ykis bowed deeply. “Traitors abound,” he murmured. “Secrecy is safety. We will bear his name to the grave with pride.”

“I expect you will.” 

It was impossible to tell whether the silky tone was a threat, or simply the kith’rak ’s way. She turned with no further attempt at conversation; the istik woman he’d dismissed had finally clambered down the dragon’s tail, and Lae’zel ignored Ykis completely in favor of offering her an arm.

“I can dismount a dragon on my own,” she muttered; but she allowed herself to be handed down to the flagstones, all the same. And the jhestil kith’rak …did not look at her like the cupbearer he had imagined. 

Nor did Ar’nel, clearly—he bounded from Lae’zel’s side and buried his face in the woman’s ribs, clinging tight. She seemed to be favoring one arm—it was awkward against her side, fingers stiff—but the knuckles of her free hand stood out white against Ar’nel’s dark braids as she held him.

“Shh,” she murmured, softly enough that Ykis barely heard. “We’re all right.”

Ykis swayed slightly. “If there is any service we can provide to—”

Lae’zel’s glare was poison. He held his tongue.

After a long moment, the istik —elven or half-breed, now that he looked at her properly, wearing moonsilk robes under gleaming mail—patted Ar’nel between the shoulder blades. It was clearly a familiar signal; the boy nodded into her chest, and pulled back.

“Unless you plan to sleep in sweaty training clothes for the next year,” the priestess informed him archly, “I would cordially invite you to pack your things. And bathe.”

“Quuthos will attend you,” added Lae’zel. 

Ar’nel grinned widely and bounced in place. “I’ll be fast!” he promised, bounding away before he’d finished speaking. 

“And bathe!” the priestess repeated after him. “Properly, with soap, thank you!”

The outline of the dragon Quuthos shimmered and diminished, resolving into the form of a noble-featured gith draped in scarlet silks. Lae’zel, and the priestess that Ykis could only assume was her mate, waited in silence until both figures were well out of earshot.

A pause.

“Clear,” said Lae’zel.

The rigid tension vanished from the priestess’ arm in a single, sharp flourish as she released her hold on a spell he hadn’t even noticed her casting.

Remi’c stumbled forward, no longer immobilized as the threads of brutal magic imprisoning him dissolved. The thin switch flew from suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered damningly across the silent courtyard. Ashen-faced, he fell to his knees.

“Noble kith’rak,” he gasped. “I swear— by the Risen Prince I did not know he was your son—”

“No.” Ykis had lived his entire life in mountains where boiling water poured from a pot would shatter as ice on the ground; Lae’zel’s voice was colder still. “You did not.”

“Of course you didn’t. You thought he was a young boy without a legendary hero to defend him.” If the kith’rak was ice her mate was a slowly-building inferno, the acid burn of mercury dripping from her tongue. “You thought he had no one, not even a clutchmate. So you tried to beat him. For acting like a child. Is that what you think constitutes a defense?”

Remi’c bristled; but, despite being spoken to in such a tone, and by a soft istik priestess no less, he kept his gaze respectfully lowered.

“Our ways might seem harsh to… unfamiliar eyes,” he began. “But it is done out of— kith’rak, surely you understand that—were he an ordinary soldier, that the need for discipline—”

“You would appeal to me over the head of my mate?” Lae’zel’s voice was steel over ice, a deadly-soft rasping whisper. “Do not tempt me, t’chaki. Or we will see how you speak of discipline when I remove the hand you raised against her son.” 

Remi’c blanched, and very wisely shut up.

“...Then I place myself at the mercy of the Moonmaiden.”

The priestess gave a distinctly unpleasant smile. 

“I learned mercy at the feet of Shar,” she told him, sickly-sweet. “Best take your appeals elsewhere.”

With difficulty, Ykis found his tongue. “Noble ones,” he said quietly. “I assure you it will not happen again.”

Shadow and moonlight flared around the priestess’ hand. “I’m happy to guarantee that.”

Divine magic flared in a vicious scythe as she slashed her hand through the air. Remi’c cringed into the icy flagstones, but the spell paid him no mind; instead it curled around Lae’zel, misty tendrils obscuring her features and then dissipating, leaving behind—

Ykis blinked,

Leaving behind a perfect, breathing copy of Laakan, one of his twelve-year-olds. Ykis had raised the girl from an egg; with a blade to his throat, he could not have known the difference.

“You understand,” said Laakan with Lae’zel’s voice. The illusion dissipated, and she continued, “You speak true, varsh. Such an outburst will not happen again. Because some day I will return. Perhaps in a week; perhaps in a year. Perhaps in ten. But when I do, it will not be as kith’rak. I will wear the face of one of your children—one of Gith’s children. I will see what you truly are. And it is on that day I shall pass judgment.”

Ykis bowed low, feeling the weight of the gift on his shoulders. He could not resent her. She was right. The years had accustomed their people to cruelty under Vlaakith; it was his duty, above all, to teach them freedom again. From oppression, and from fear. 

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Something flickered in the priestess’ grey eyes—for the first time, something other than anger.

“You’re not the only ones who’ve ever needed a second chance,” she told them both. “We can do better. Don’t waste it.”

Chapter Text

They’re nearly, but not quite, across the bridge when a burly dwarf sidles up to them.

“I’m glad you sent word,” he mutters under his breath. “Gods, but you’re good, Shadowheart. I’d like to think I could have spotted you on my own after all we’ve been through, but…”

A smile crosses her face, soft but impossible to suppress. The figure, the face, are totally unfamiliar—but the voice she knows.

She murmurs, “It’s good to see you, Wyll.”

“In a manner of speaking,” he allows. “Let’s get the four of you undercover. You might be able to keep the illusion up indefinitely, but I don’t trust this Seeming scroll.”

They cross the bridge in careful silence, wary of being spotted. By appearances they’re a group of farmers; Lae’zel playing the part of a smooth-faced half-elven man flanked by his red-haired human wife and her similar-enough-looking brother, and a part-elven daughter walking in the center. It should be enough to avoid triggering any watchful eyes on the lookout for two githyanki of entirely different genders, a half-elf, and a shapeshifted red dragon.

Should. 

If there’s going to be an assassination, Wyrm’s Crossing would be the place. She feels Lae’zel relax, just barely, when they enter the Lower City without incident.

Wyll almost immediately veers right, which causes Shadowheart to misstep and gesture vaguely in the opposite direction. “Are we not…?”

Dwarf-Wyll gives a heartbreakingly familiar grin over his shoulder. 

“Not this time,” he says. “Don’t misunderstand, I’ll put you up wherever you would feel most comfortable—money’s no object, this is my treat. But the Elfsong’s too popular. Too crowded, if you’re trying to lie low. We found a nice, quiet tavern for the night—a private basement with a sewer exit for emergencies, no prying eyes, no organized crime to draw unwanted attention, and the owner is a friend of Jaheira’s. I wanted things as safe as it was within my power to make them, once you told me you were bringing your son.”

At that Lae’zel does relax. Shadowheart knows better than to undermine her authority with public displays of affection—but this is not the Orphic Host, and there are no soldiers watching them. She slips her fingers against Lae’zel’s palm and is rewarded with a single squeeze in response. It’s brief, but warm.

They should have known not to worry. If any man in a hundred planes can be trusted with the safety of a child, it’s Wyll Ravengard.

He doesn’t take them far; they duck down a few sidestreets, leave the worst of the bustle behind, and arrive at the door of a modest but clean establishment by the sign of the Dove & Badger. He catches the eye of the middle-aged tiefling behind the bar, gets an absentminded nod, and guides them down the stairs, keeping a steady eye on the exits at their back.

When they reach the basement—which is a warm, dry, well-lit space, cheaply but comfortably furnished, with heavy storm doors closing off the entrance to the undercity—he wastes no time dropping his enchantment. The dwarven form melts away. 

In its place rise a tall, wiry frame. Wyll has been changed by the past decade in way the two of them have not; he has a handful of new scars on one bare arm, more lines on his handsome face, a chip taken out of one delicately arching horn, but otherwise he looks exactly the same. Constantly-shifting weight, devilish watery eyes burning like the Hells, and the warmest smile on the Material Plane.

“My dear friends. And… new friends, I hope.” He gives Quuthos a courtly bow that’s just on the right side of too dramatic to be taken seriously; clasps Lae’zel’s arm between his hands with a mutual nod; and then, with a much less overwrought gesture than he gave the dragon in their midst, kisses Shadowheart’s hand. “It’s a pleasure and an honor. Though some of you have changed quite a lot since last we met. It’s all right, you know. If you’re afraid. That’s generally a wise response to a devil.”

Ar’nel folds his hands behind his back, coming to a loose parade rest as Wyll crouches in front of him.

“I’m not afraid,” he says, just a touch shyly. “You won’t hurt me. You’re the Blade of Avernus. You broke your own chains to spite a devil, and gave up your powers for freedom.”

“Did I?” Wyll places a hand on his heart. “Gave up all my powers, you say? Hmm. That does sound like something I would do. But it doesn’t quite explain… this.”

Ar’nel clutches at his ear in abject shock, blinking wildly at the gold coin Wyll has, apparently, just pulled from its depths.

Wyll tips him a wink and hands him the coin. “Just a bit of magic I came by honestly. Now, good sir, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage; your parents seem to have told you all there is to know about me, but I don’t even know your name. Perhaps this fine lady might be willing to make an introduction?”

“You’re as shameless a flirt as ever,” says Shadowheart, unable to keep the fondness from her voice. “And this is Ar’nel.”

“To our people he is Adlishar, the ‘first of many’.” Lae’zel’s voice rings with muted pride. “But his true-name belonged to his mother’s father; it is the higher honor. We guard it close.”

“An honor not to be accepted lightly,” says Wyll, exchanging meaningful nods with Lae’zel. Then, “Now, I hope—and don’t get angry, Lae’zel—”

Lae’zel, apparently on principle, growls deep in her throat. Shadowheart steps on her foot.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Wyll continues. “But we’ve all missed you terribly, both of you. And Ar’nel was still an egg, the last anyone saw you…what I mean to say is, I might have mentioned that you would be in the area. Discreetly! Discreetly,” he hurries to add, as both Lae’zel and Shadowheart have visibly tensed. “No one you don’t already trust. I kept it in the family. Team Tadpole! Just the old band. Close friends and allies.”

It’s…acceptable, and Shadowheart slowly relaxes. There’s no one by that description who hasn’t already held her life in their hands—in Ar’nel’s case, that’s extremely literal. They’re not here on vacation, but…it will be nice. To see some of the others again.

“That’s the spirit!” Wyll looks extremely relieved by whatever her expression has just done. “They should be here soon, but I wanted…a bit of time, for this first one. I wasn’t sure…well. Ar’nel, how…much have your mothers told you? About their old friends in Faerûn?”

Ar’nel glances up, uncertain; Shadowheart nudges him encouragingly, and he says, “A…pack of well-meaning idiots?”

Wyll hastily tries to cover his laugh. Shadowheart closes her eyes.

“The other thing, dear,” she says.

“Chk. You would censor the boy for speaking truth.”

Shadowheart pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know,” she informs the room at large, “I generally mean it as a compliment when I say he takes after his father.”

Wyll laughs again at that, warm and easy, but before he can respond—

“Father?” The voice is familiar and not; echoing, thick, reverberating against Shadowheart’s skull. “Fuck, that’s hot. I love it for you, Lae.”

Shadowheart knows, even as she stiffens and pulls her son behind her, that she’ll regret the knee-jerk response for the rest of her life. She knows—does not need the long-dead tadpole to know—that Lae’zel is running the same calculations with one hand on the hilt of her sword.

They knew. They expected this. It’s not as if they could forget —what she did for them, the blood-price on the salvation of Baldur’s Gate, the freedom she’d won at such terrible cost. But it’s been over a decade, spent locked in a viciously unending interplanar war, and neither of them can suppress the instinct. There is only one possible response to the sight of that bulbous head, the unnatural sway of the tentacles, the pallid too-smooth skin, the psionic ripple—

The mindflayer halts. Its hands pull anxiously back to its chest, wringing in a heartbreakingly familiar gesture as it hovers halfway across the room. It hesitates, sways back and forth, then gives an awkward little wave.

“...Hey-ho, soldier,” it says weakly.

And Shadowheart breathes, “Karlach.”

She’s crossed the room before she realizes she’s moved—the empty space suddenly unbearable, after all this time—and flings herself forward before her instinct can second-guess her heart again. She has the unique joy of seeing a mindflayer stumble, which she doubts will ever happen again. Then Karlach laughs—Shadowheart feels it in her chest and her mind both, liquid silver like starlight—and sweeps her up in a crushing bear hug, nuzzling close with tentacles politely tucked out of the way.

It takes a long moment for Shadowheart to realize she’s crying, and less than a heartbeat to decide she doesn’t care. She spent thirty years of her life steeped in loss—in love as entropy, grief as inevitability. Forced to endure and inflict it, forced to worship it. She hadn’t—it’s been so long, and yet suddenly it feels like they never left. She hadn’t realized how badly she missed them all.

She lets the tenderness linger, and tries to put a lifetime’s worth of love into a single embrace. Karlach sighs happily into her hair and holds her closer.

Shadowheart thinks for a moment.

“Hmm,” she says.

“Huh?” says Karlach. Then, “Oh, that’s right! I secrete mucus now! Wild, yeah?”

“So it would seem.” Shadowheart disentangles herself as delicately as she can without hurting Karlach’s feelings further. Thankfully, it seems to work; it’s not…the easiest thing in the world, reading a mindflayer’s body language, but even hovering in midair she manages that familiar little half-bounce and—gods, it’s her.

“Can.” Karlach gulps. Shadowheart doesn’t know whether a mindflayer can gulp or not, but Karlach manages it. “Can I…?”

Lae’zel is rigid enough to creak, but grants permission with a twitch of her head. Tentacles quivering with what Shadowheart is rapidly beginning to read as delight, Karlach very slowly takes a knee.

“So, uh,” she says cautiously. “H-hey. Hey, little guy. I’m, um…you must be wondering why your mum’s friends with a mindflayer, huh?”

Ar’nel frowns, bristles, and snaps his head up. Shadowheart has time to think, Oh no, before he demands, “You accuse my parents of dishonor.”

“Whoa,” says Wyll.

Karlach’s shoulders hunch. “What? Aw, kid, no. Listen, it’s—the transformation’s not what makes you evil, yeah? It’s the Elder Brain. Have you ever heard the story about how we—”

“Yes!” says Ar’nel. “I heard it from my father, who promised to write your glory in the stars! To teach every githyanki child of your courage and sacrifice! Mla’ghir, liberator, the tiefling who defied Avernus, the ghaik who slew a Netherbrain! Thrice betrayed, thrice ascended! Your story is engraved in Tir’su slate in the library of every free creche across the planes! It’s an honor to meet you and you didn’t even think I knew your name!”

Karlach’s too-small eyes blink rapidly.

“Damn,” she says to no one in particular. “He really does take after his dad.”

Lae’zel smirks, openly preening. “That he calls your meeting an honor is no small praise,” she brags. “With his own hands the Prince of the Comet blessed Ar’nel’s birth. You are placed in nothing but the highest of company.”

Ar’nel, suddenly shy, presses back against her; Lae’zel squeezes his shoulder, gives his long layered braids a reassuring tug, then nudges him forward again.

“...Right.” Karlach shakes herself. “Let’s…try again, yeah? And real talk, kiddo—you gotta call me Auntie K, all right? None of this liberator stuff. I’m just…a friend of your folks’. That work for you?”

Ar’nel pulls himself to parade rest again, then ruins it—Shadowheart hides her smile—by looking up bashfully from under his long eyelashes.

“Yes, Aunt Karlach,” he mumbles.

“There we go. You know, I’m honored to meet you too.” Karlach very carefully extends a hand, then second-guesses the motion and pulls it back. “I remember the first time we laid eyes on you! That githyanki creche was intense, glad your mum pulled you out of there. It’s nice to know the good in it survived. Kind of symbolic, right?”

“The best of Creche Yllek lives on in him,” Lae’zel murmurs. There’s a deep gentleness in her voice, her eyes. “The varsh who risked his own life to save a ‘failed’ egg; the warriors who guarded it loyally even when they began to doubt. Youths who questioned—who were willing to die for the compassion they believed in! Ensnared by Vlaakith’s corruption it might have been, steeped in cruelty and betrayal—but not alone in that. The githyanki people are lessened by their loss.”

“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it.” Karlach blinks rapidly. “Watching something beautiful, growing out of…Hells. What am I doing? Eggy! Little egglet! Gods, you’re all grown up! Get over here!”

Ar’nel grins. He screws his eyes shut—Shadowheart doesn’t miss that, and doesn’t blame him—and leans in, letting Karlach pull him in for another of her trademark hugs.

“It’s Ar’nel, right?” she babbles, bouncing as she ruffles his carefully braided hair. “Aw, Shadowheart. You named him after your dad? I can’t think of anything a father could want more. That’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. Gods, I can’t believe you hatched safe! And you’re so handsome! Oh, I could just eat you up—”

“I apologize for my outburst,” Lae’zel says stiffly.

Karlach peers cautiously over a chair, with which she has been attempting to fend off a whirling ball of githyanki violence. 

“No problem, mate.” Somehow, despite being almost entirely psionic, her voice manages to sound strangled. “I get it! I do. My bad, my bad, foot in my mouth…”

“Lae’zel,” says Shadowheart slowly. “The sword, perhaps, dear?”

Lae’zel sheathes her silver blade with ill grace. She mutters something under her breath that definitely includes the word ‘vlaakith,’ which…the reflexive verbal backsliding is certainly a good indicator of how upset she is by her loss of composure. ‘Loss of composure’ being a very mild term for the impressive amount of property damage she managed to fit into exactly six seconds.

“There we go.” Wyll looks pointedly between all of them in turn. “Now, let’s everyone remember that we’re friends here.”

“Speak for yourself,” growls Quuthos from the base of the stairs. He pointedly examines the nails of one hand—which are perfect, of course, because the form is an illusion —before slamming it clawlike into the wall. The foundations of the tavern shiver worryingly; but the flames douse themselves, reducing to merely the smoldering remains of a former oak table. “I will not easily forget this indignity. Should you wish the ghaik or devilkin eaten, however…”

Lae’zel rolls her eyes. “You shall be the first to know. Cease complaining; we are both of us bound in service to Prince Orpheus, and I know well that your pride in that service is not less than mine.”

“You test my patience, girl,” says Quuthos, which means Lae’zel has won the argument and he knows it.

(She does not, as Shadowheart learned exactly once, respond well at all to hearing the same line from her mate. Well. She does not respond appreciatively, rather. Shadowheart certainly had no complaints at the time.)

But the panicked instinctive scramble seems to be over now. Shadowheart waits for another long moment; then, the invocation barely more than a sigh of relief on her lips, sends a wave of healing magic across the room. Bruises heal, abrasions wash away; Karlach makes an interesting expression as a nearly-severed tentacle knits back into place. 

Shadowheart does one last check—no further injuries—and allows herself to relax in full. The tension in the back of her skull eases as the glow of a blinding silver beacon drains from her spear. The basement dims back to natural firelight, and Shadowheart finally releases the death grip holding Ar’nel pinned against the wall behind her.

Wyll gives a long sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“All in all,” he admits, “That went…about as well as I should have expected. Uh, that is—I never doubted you for a moment, Lae’zel. Really!”

Lae’zel shoots him a filthy look and opens her mouth. Shadowheart clears her throat loudly.

“Chk.” Even the left hand of Orpheus, however, knows better than to test Shadowheart’s most unimpressed expression. Lae’zel hisses at her, then mutters gracelessly in Karlach’s direction, “I am on edge for other reasons. Your loyalty and friendship are beyond reproach; would that my behavior were the same.”

Karlach sets the battered chair down and brushes her hands together awkwardly.

“It’s all good, Lae. I know it’s…a lot to get used to. Still getting used to it myself, honestly. And I’ve had a lot more time around me.”

“Faerûn is better for your survival, sister. Ghaik or no.” Lae’zel, to her credit, takes Karlach’s hand between her own and clasps her arm warmly, without hesitation. 

For her part, Karlach doesn’t try for the same overwhelming embrace she’s offered the rest of them. Even Shadowheart has to admit there was something…instinctive, something bone-deep and screaming, about willingly placing her head so close to those swaying tentacles and the razor-lined maw hiding behind them. Karlach seems to recognize it as a bridge too far; she accepts the arm-clasp, rests one hand on the front of Lae’zel’s pauldron, and doesn’t push for more.

“C’mon,” she says. “We should—uh. Actually, Wyll? Maybe you should say the next bit.”

Wyll’s laugh is…stressed, a little forced, but genuine.

“I thought a nice family dinner might be the way to go,” he explains, which earns a giggle from Ar’nel and an expressive eyeroll from Lae’zel. “It wasn’t easy getting everyone’s schedules lined up—Halsin can’t make it, something about a pregnant unicorn—but Gale’s teleporting from Waterdeep any minute now, and—”

“Oh, you’re joking,” says Astarion incredulously, frozen halfway through the sewer access hatch and wearing an expression of deep personal betrayal. “Everything we’ve been through, the year I’ve had, and—You couldn’t wait five minutes?!”

Shadowheart pauses, mystified, halfway toward greeting him. “What are you…?”

He waves an arm wildly in response. The gesture encompasses most of what had once been a very nice little basement room—the charred rug, the splintered table, silver bloodstains and broken glass across the floor, sadly creaking brass mounts dangling off the wall where they once held tasteful wall sconces that Lae’zel has since reduced to their component molecules.

“Ten years!” Astarion wails. “Ten years I’ve been waiting for that fight! And I missed it!”

Chapter Text

Shadowheart’s not sure how she ended up being volunteered to haul broken furniture out of the way.

But—that is, she wasn’t about to make Ar’nel do it, not when this may well be his only chance to meet his family. Astarion had vanished after loudly announcing that he was so disgusted by their lack of consideration in scheduling the gith-vs-illithid unregulated basement cage match of the century that he simply couldn’t bear to look at them sober, which strikes Shadowheart as less likely than a resurgence of his devastating allergy to physical labor. And asking Quuthos to haul furniture would be absolutely out of the question even if he hadn’t vanished upstairs the moment Astarion gave him an excuse.

(Wyll is doing his best to help, but he’s a rapier in human form—lean, deadly, and liable to snap in two if used to lift more than five pounds at a time.) 

And Lae’zel and Karlach—

Shadowheart sighs, puts her shoulder into the burnt upholstery of a very sad former couch, and shoves it another foot toward the back of the room.

Lae’zel and Karlach need their moment. It’s hard enough for Shadowheart to unlearn the last decade-and-change of brutal fighting and constant vigilance. For a githyanki, the effort is nothing short of heroic.

The silence has, nevertheless, been stretching a bit too long. Shadowheart is just about to speak up and break it when they’re interrupted by a flash of blue light, a rush of air, and the sound of a tinny clarion call in the center of the room.

“Hello!” calls the translucent, glittering form of Gale. “Is this recording? Has it—Ahem. Hello, all! You are speaking to a prerecorded and non-sapient arcane projection of your beloved friend—at least, he hopes to still be remembered as such—Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep! At this very moment, I am in the process of preparing a teleportation spell to your location. Should tragedy have befallen you in the meantime, perhaps due to a moment of ill judgment under high emotion, worry not! I have in my breast pocket the Scroll of Resurrection previously discussed with our friend Wyll, in the hope of resolving any disputes of unnecessary fatality.”

Lae’zel fixes Wyll in a withering glare.

“I never doubted you, Lae’zel,” she mocks under her breath.

He mutters back, “Was I wrong?”

“T’chaki.”

“Kainyank.”

Lae’zel whips around, wearing an expression of abject delight. Ar’nel elbows her surreptitiously in the ribs. Meanwhile the shimmering illusion of Gale, blissfully unaware of its surroundings, is continuing to talk.

“...should activate at the conclusion of this message, assuming I’ve gotten my timing right. I must ask everyone to please vacate the area that my illusory self is currently indicating, as teleportation spells are notoriously finicky. I should very much like to avoid exploding myself or anyone else this fine evening, a statement which has thus far described rather more of my life than is reasonable! Should anyone be occupying the space when I attempt to teleport into it, the results would be quite messy indeed. Now! Assuming the majority of you are alive and conscious, I shall place my trust in you and assume you have indeed abandoned my teleportation target with due haste. Thank you, my friends, and I shall see you in approximately ten…nine….eight…sev—”

There is a blinding flash of light. When Shadowheart blinks the stars from her eyes, the image of Gale is no longer blue and translucent; the flesh-and-blood Gale of Waterdeep has replaced it, wearing casual house robes, a floppy hat, and a wide grin.

“One!” he exclaims triumphantly.

Behind-and-around him, the preprogrammed illusion continues, “Five…four…three…”

“Oh.” Gale points. “You know, I really thought I had it this time.”

There’s a low, affectionate purr as Tara nuzzles his cheek. “You’re getting ever closer, Mr. Dekarios.”

“Hello, Gale,” calls Shadowheart. “Your very favorite cleric would still love to know how exactly you got your hands on a Scroll of True Resurrection.”

“Which,” adds Wyll, “I am pleased to report will not be needed.”

“Ah, Lae’zel! I knew you had it in you. Never doubted for a minute.”

“Chk.”

“The resurrection scroll, Gale, you don’t just order one of those from—that’s one of the most powerfully sacred objects on Toril—”

Gale beams around at all of them, spreads his arms, and says loudly, “Let’s eat, shall we?”

It ends up being—almost eerily like the old days, really.

As the would-be dinner table has been sliced neatly down the center and most of the other furniture reduced to kindling, they set up on the floor. With the smoke from their smoldering sofa still hanging acrid in the air, it even smells a bit like the campfire they’re missing. Wyll discreetly ducks upstairs to fetch Astarion and some plates; the rest of them sprawl in a loose circle, jockeying for position as if none of them have ever left. 

And Gale, as always, is setting out food. Piping-hot mouthwatering dishes, produced out of a leather knapsack he has apparently enchanted for the occasion. Well, the word he uses is ‘prepared,’ but Shadowheart is comfortable assuming magic is involved after several deliciously spiced cod, a steaming pot of fennel-and-cabbage stew, some kind of horrifying jellied eel pudding that has been lovingly carved into the shape of a brain ‘so that Karlach will feel included’, three different salad bowls, and an entire side of venison are casually extracted from an apparently empty pack.

“Gale!” she protests as he sticks most of his torso inside the pack and emerges triumphant with a platter containing a pair of roast pheasant. “We’re in the basement of an inn, you didn’t have to cook.”

Gale waves this off. “Nonsense. I haven’t had the opportunity to feed all of my friends at once in a decade, Shadowheart, let me have this. Besides, I only did half the work.”

Lae’zel gives the food a sudden distrustful glare. “And who did the other half?” she demands. “I do not like this. Do we know them?”

“Would you believe it?” replies Gale, warmly unconcerned. “Yenna. I know! She has grown into quite the chef in her own right. Still learning, but give her another ten years. The upper crust of Waterdeep will be slitting each other’s throats to hire that girl.”

Shadowheart is—she’ll admit it—enchanted by the news. “You brought her to Waterdeep?”

“Well.” Gale tries to shrug off the warm admiration in her eyes. “I wasn’t about to leave her on the streets. Who should have taken her? Withers? Astarion?”

“I resent that,” says Astarion, peering into a bottle of wine. “Which isn’t to say I disagree, of course.”

Shadowheart’s lips twitch. She sits forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her interlaced fingers, and asks, “How have you been, Astarion? Really. You were going to build a colony of free vampire spawn in the Underdark, last I heard—how has that been going?”

“Badly!” Astarion exclaims with manic cheer. “But enough about me, darling.”

“Well. Jaheira, I suppose,” Gale allows. “Halsin certainly had better nurturing connections than I ever will, but Yenna’s a city girl at heart; druidic environs are certainly restorative, but she would never have truly felt at home. Though it is possible…”

Shadowheart arches an eyebrow, and Astarion rolls his eyes dramatically and pouts, “Oh, fine. But I’m telling you, I’ve heard every possible bit of advice already. Why don't you implement democracy, Astarion? When I tell you I've tried, but darling, if you thought politicians were soulless bloodsucking monstrosities already, you should see what they can get up to in a representative council consisting entirely of the most psychologically unstable vampire spawn in the history of Faerûn.”

“Rolan, Cal, and Lia owed us a favor, and that’s putting it rather mildly,” Gale muses. “And they certainly have the room for it these days...”

Shadowheart squeezes Astarion’s hand reassuringly. “It was always going to be difficult,” she acknowledges. “But if there’s enough stability to have political crises ten years in, you’ve got to be doing something right.”

“Oh really!” Astarion flashes her a dazzling grin. “Thanks ever so much. That’s exactly the impression I was given when they passed a damned city-wide ordinance legalizing citizen-arrest extrajudicial drawing and quartering. For just me! I was mentioned! By name! Those wretched little hellspawn underlined it!”

“Ah,” says Shadowheart.

Gale cocks his head. “Or Isobel, in a pinch; she and Aylin still need time to heal before they go taking on that kind of responsibility permanently, if ever, but they would never have abandoned a child...”

“Do you know, Shadowheart.” Astarion sighs and sets down his half-full bottle. “I strongly suspect this ‘governance by consent’ business would go significantly more smoothly if not for my deeply intimate and personal betrayal of one-seventh of the population. Followed, of course, by my unwitting role in their centuries-long psyche-shattering mass confinement in an unspeakable horror dungeon.”

Shadowheart considers this, before settling on, “I…imagine you’re not wrong.”

“Still!” Astarion makes a gallant attempt at a smile. “They do keep reviving me whenever they get lucky, so I’ll consider that progress. Do you know, I think one or two of them out of the original seven thousand are finally starting to only want me dead, and not vivisected in Avernus for eternity? It’s touching, really. The power of forgiveness has warmed my cold dead heart.”

“The point is: Talent must be nurtured!” Gale concludes. “Yes, I trust Boo’s judgment with a child when it comes down to it, but the rodent is no culinary expert. Not to worry, I arranged a very proper apprenticeship with a fine innkeeper’s family. Very respectable, excellent reputations among their servants. I stop by every so often to make sure she’s happy. Mind you, she’s an adult now, but still. Ah, but I’m rambling! Come on, then, let’s not let the meal go to waste.”

“Is…your draconic friend not joining us?” asks Wyll as the party starts shifting to allow space for rearranging entrees.

Lae’zel twitches one ear. “Quuthos does not break bread with strangers,” she informs the group. “Nor does he share the…delicate palate of Faerûn. His joys are in blood and flesh alone.”

“Oh, finally someone who speaks my language,” sighs Astarion, this time with only his obligatory edge of sarcasm. “I knew I liked him.”

There’s not much to arrange for supper, but it’s still a welcome respite from the rough campfires of their adventuring days—and the martial setups that have overwhelmingly been Shadowheart’s reality since. A few salvaged cushions, only mildly scorched, serve as seating; the others fuss over Ar’nel getting one until Lae’zel rolls her eyes and bowls Wyll horns-over-ass with a single affectionate shove, at which point Tara delicately steps onto his vacated seat cushion and settles there with the grace and entitlement of a queen.

“Well, it’s hers now,” Gale informs him, briefly glancing up from pulling an increasingly unlikely number of wine bottles out of a belt punch.

Wyll gives a good-natured laugh. “Far be it from me to argue.”

Ar’nel is enraptured. He folds his hands his lap, kneeling straight and formal in the githyanki style, and asks, “Forgive my impudence. Are you really a tressym, Lady Tara?”

Her ears flicker with delight, purring increasing threefold as she tucks each foot deliberately under her body. “The boy knows tressym!” she exclaims. “And manners! Which he certainly didn’t learn from his mother, did he, Shadowheart.”

“It was one time, ten years ago, and I apologized —”

“‘Your’ tressym,” Tara gripes. “Really. To answer your question, young kit, I am indeed a tressym. The finest example of my kind, I daresay! And I would be delighted to answer any questions you might have.”

“What do mice taste like?” Ar’nel asks immediately.

Without blinking, Tara responds, “Now, that is the kind of nuanced and intelligent mind I like to see in a young man. It depends a great deal on the kind of mouse and the quality of its diet. A good honest field mouse, for example…”

In all the rapid-fire overlapping conversation, however, it’s impossible not to notice that one voice is conspicuously absent.

Shadowheart nearly steps in—but she is not the only one to realize it.

Lae’zel takes a deep breath. Then, deliberate, her body language carefully loose and nonthreatening, she turns to look Karlach in the eyes. Her voice is still slightly formal when she speaks, but there’s warmth in it, too.

“You look well.”

The thing is—she does. It’s a nearly incomprehensible thing to say about a mindflayer, but…the longer Shadowheart looks, the more undeniable it is. 

Karlach looks like herself. She’s long since shed the awkward, ostentatious Imperial robes; she wears light mail, bright silver rings over well-kept leather, that suit her well. Her muscles, overstretched-taffy appearance aside, look better-defined than Shadowheart has seen before—she’s been working out, regaining physical strength, not just psionic. And she probably needs it—there’s a double-bladed greataxe resting in the corner. One edge has been silvered and the other plated in iron—the better for hunting all manner of the infernal.

And—something, it’s hard to nail down, but as Shadowheart settles back with a plate of pheasant and a bottle of cheap wine, she can tell it’s there. Something that had been missing after the transformation is restored, something—

“Oh, Karlach,” she murmurs. “You lost your tattoos, didn’t you?”

Karlach draws herself up, smiling with her eyes. Her tentacles spasm horribly in what might be the muscle memory of a grin.

“Shedding your whole skin’ll do that, turns out,” she says. “Good riddance—most of that was Zariel’s crap. Branded me like fucking livestock. Wyll convinced me to get back what I wanted, though. Kept this one.” She flexes, and points to her left shoulder. “Demonsbane. Damn right. Took a while to design the rest; took a lot longer to figure out how to make the ink take. You know. ‘Cause of the mucus. Blurg’s a champion , though. Society really came through for me!”

Shadowheart’s fist clenches reflexively as Lae’zel gives a low hiss. Karlach winces and holds up her hands, glancing apologetically between all three of them.

“I know,” she says. “I know, trust me. But they’re not all eggnapping weirdos. That guy was an outlier, honestly. The rest of ‘em are pretty stand-up. I mean, come on, you remember Blurg! Omeluum’s my brain guy in a pinch, even. All ethically sourced.”

“What,” says Shadowheart. “He’s got…organic, grass-fed, cage-free brains?”

“There are,” Karlach explains, “so many cults in this city.”

“Used to sleep easier not knowing that,” Wyll admits. “Last charming little murder-nest we found had been rounding up—Actually, let’s skip the details. Little pitchers have big ears.”

Lae’zel glowers. “Glassware should not possess auditory capabilities.”

“He meant Ar’nel,” sighs Shadowheart.

“Ar’nel’s ears are perfectly proportional for a healthy githyanki of his developmental stage!”

With his usual good-natured honesty, Ar’nel wiggles a hand in midair. “They’re pretty long,” he acknowledges. “My mother says they’re handsome and Quuthos says they make me look like a mule! What’s a mule?”

“Oh! I know that one!” exclaims Karlach. “You get vodka and ginger beer, right—”

Before Shadowheart can open her mouth to continue this cascading farce, Wyll steps in.

“It’s been mostly cultists and devils,” he confirms, neatly getting them back on track. “And don’t let Karlach get away with saying ‘we’, either. She did all the work, those first few years. It was difficult. More difficult than I think I was ready for, learning to be the Blade with nothing but…well, a blade. It turns out hunting the murderous and infernal for a living is a lot harder when you can’t throw around eldritch blasts, or…call down walls of living hellfire.”

“Mmm.” Lae’zel’s razor teeth snip through a bit of connective gristle. “I did wonder how you would cope with the transition. The loss of considerable powers is no simple thing. Nevertheless—I had faith in your abilities. You are a mighty warrior, with a noble spirit. It was inevitable that you would triumph in this challenge as all others.”

 “I…thank you, Lae’zel.” Wyll blinks rapidly, visibly touched. “That means more to me than you may know. It’s not quite the rollicking infernal adventure I’d planned for, mind you—even as a mindflayer, we try to keep Karlach out of the Hells. Zariel’s claim to her may be void, but the memories are strong as ever. I couldn’t ask that of anyone.”

“Promise you, we’ll hunt Mizora down one of these days. I am not eating her brain, though. Eugh. I know where that thing’s been.” Karlach nudges him with her shoulder—for once, her body language is easy and unforced, the comfort only ten years of implicit trust can buy. “I’ve told him not to let me hold him back, but he never listens.”

That gets a gentle chuckle. “It’s hardly some great sacrifice. My father is here—and we both still have friends in the city. Besides. If there’s any cause more worthy than supporting a friend, it’s working to heal the cruelties of the past. I can think of far worse ways to spend my life than this—helping a good woman, who was dealt a bad hand, find a new lease on life, and having the privilege of watching her blossom.”

“Aw, Wyll.” Karlach’s tentacles quiver and twist on themselves; unable to stand it, she lowers her massive bulbous head and nuzzles his shoulder, careful of the horns. “I love you too.” Then, “That’s mostly just a fancy way of saying he’s my wingman, though.”

“That…is a decent part of it,” Wyll admits.

Karlach gives him one last squeeze and sits up.

“You know, when the ceromorphosis hit I remember thinking—you know. There was—there were some bad nights, at first. Astarion was a real gem to both of us—Wyll with the sparring, and me with the…horrifying creature of the night stuff. I just kept thinking…All the things I’d wanted to stay for, the touch, the intimacy, I got to live and be part of the world but I was losing what I wanted more than anything, right? Because who’d want anything to do with me now, besides you guys?”

Lae’zel looks guilty. “Karlach,” she begins.

Astarion’s lips twitch. “No, no,” he says. “Let her finish.”

Karlach gives one of those strange and horrifying tentacle-faced grins.

“So, being a mindflayer? Turns out: People are into that!” she exclaims, and Wyll laughs.

“I am happy to report there are plenty of people, in this city and beyond, who are more than able to see our friend Karlach as she truly is,” he says. “A gentle, kindhearted soul who—”

“—is absolutely drowning in beautiful kinky fuckers!” Karlach finishes happily.

“Yes,” says Wyll. “That’s exactly how I was going to phrase it in front of the ten-year-old.”

“Oops.”

Lae’zel waves this off with a vague twitch. “He is more than aware of the realities of sex. As, apparently, are an adequate number of Faerûn’s citizens. That does surprise me. I had thought most of them too closed-minded to consider even such an obvious attraction; I am pleased to be wrong.”

Shadowheart—inhales half a bottle of wine, chokes, gags, and spends a solid thirty seconds coughing up burning merlot before she’s able to stare at Lae’zel incredulously.

She’s not remotely surprised to hear about their friend’s good luck in the romance department—Karlach’s charm is as infectious as ever, Shadowheart had already been admiring her tattoos and physique, and there are plenty of people who are into tentacles—but—

“Are you—are we allowed to acknowledge the tentacle thing?” she demands. “Are gith allowed to—you’re sure that’s legal? I assumed even talking about it would be…I don’t even know! Summary execution?”

“Chk.” Lae’zel rolls her eyes with her entire body. “Do not be foolish, Shadowheart. My people invented ghaik pornography. The erotic works of Tu’narath were exploring the subject in detail while your civilizations still warred over muddy pastures.”

The silence at the metaphorical table is profound.

“...What?” Lae’zel demands. “We are not savages. Githyanki may live for thousands of timeless years within the Astral Sea. Such unending-but-uncertain lifespans have taught us much of the pleasures of the flesh! Our eternal vigilance means we shy from decadence, but something as simple as the fantasy of the taboo is not unknown to us. It is natural, indeed to be expected, that a subset would experience an attraction-to-the-perverse toward ghaik, safely reserved to the realm of fantasy. It would be ridiculous to punish such a thing with death.”

“I was making a joke,” says an utterly poleaxed Shadowheart, who personally thinks she deserves a medal for being able to form words at all. “But that’s…honestly a very mature mindset. Much more nuanced than I expected, from—”

“The punishment is merely a public flogging,” says Lae’zel irritably.

Shadowheart meets Astarion’s eyes across the dinner spread. Astarion, who is already looking back at her, raises an eyebrow and makes a silent gesture, magnanimously ceding the floor.

Since obviously someone has to say it, Shadowheart coughs delicately and asks, “So… is there a downside, or—”

“Be. Silent.”

Shadowheart smirks into her bottle, making sure to toss her head back for the next swig of wine at exactly the right angle to both bare her throat to Lae’zel and send her long braid falling ever-so-casually off one shoulder. The perfect position to be yanked, if only they were not in the middle of a meal with their entire family.

Poor Lae’zel.

Amid the suddenly deafening sound of faintly crackling ex-furniture, Gale closes his eyes and turns his face to the heavens.

“Just once,” he sighs. “Just once. Can we not have one nice family dinner?”

“Oh, do let’s!” Astarion sits forward eagerly. “I can tell you all about my day at work! I got set on fire.”

“Now,” says Tara, eyes bright and tail twitching. Ar’nel, thank the Moomaiden and Lady Shar herself just in case, is utterly captivated and in fact scribbling notes furiously in his adventuring notebook as she speaks. “There is one delicacy that surpasses all others in rodentia. Its appreciation is essential, if you’re to develop a refined palate. The miniature giant—”

“Tara.” Gale’s voice is firm. “You are not to eat Boo. We’ve discussed this repeatedly.”

“Oh! I would never, Mr. Dekarios! Never indeed! This is purely academic.”

“Why did those ghastly children even have vials of holy water?!” Astarion wails. “They’re also vampires!”

“Welcome home, mate,” Karlach says, winking at Lae’zel and gesturing around the little room. “Missed it?”

“Mmm. In the years since our paths diverged, I have achieved my wildest dreams,” Lae’zel murmurs. “Achieved? No. Surpassed a thousandfold. I roam the Astral with a silver sword in hand, the noblest of Tiamat’s children at my back, and the most beautiful woman in all the planes beside me. I am a proud father, a revered kith’rak. I serve my people as a warrior for their freedom, not a slave to a false queen. Gith’s true heir turns the Astral Sea to liquid silver with the song of his power and I fly free in his wake.” 

She closes her eyes, wistful.

“...Yes,” she breathes. “Yes. I have missed it.”

Shadowheart shifts closer. She laces their fingers together on the rough wooden floor, letting some of her warmth brush over Lae’zel’s skin. The press of closeness is returned instantly, and she melts—she can’t help it—into the contact. The others are kind enough to let the moment linger; Wyll, when he speaks, is polite enough not to draw attention to it.

“And we’ve missed you terribly. Which…and not that you ever need a reason, Shadowheart,” he begins warmly.

Oh, no.

"But...it's been ten years. What brings you back to Baldur's Gate?"

Ten years since the thrice-damned tadpoles and she can still feel Lae'zel's smirk at her side like a physical presence. Shadowheart sighs.

“Yes,” Lae’zel purrs, all tenderly vulnerable connection gone from her voice. “Do tell them, Shadowheart.”

“Shut up, Lae’zel—”

“As our secrecy would suggest, this visit is not a social one,” Lae’zel interrupts, addressing the group. “We have come at the behest of Orpheus himself—a mission of great delicacy, and great importance. Is that not right? Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart’s glare is pure poison.

“...Right,” says Karlach slowly. “Vibe’s a bit weird in here, is that just me?”

Shadowheart inhales deeply through her nose.

“If you must know,” she says. “Someone has stolen a priceless artifact from the githyanki.”

No one reacts. There is, in fact, a distinctly suspicious lack of reaction. Even Astarion barely twitches beyond a telltale near-raise of an eyebrow.

Karlach breaks first.

It’s a tiny thing—an involuntary facial twitch from the mindflayer valiantly holding eye contact across the remains of a venison platter. Unfortunately, the long prehensile tentacles exaggerate the movement. Shadowheart’s glare snaps to Karlach’s face, the twitches intensify under her stare, and after a few seconds of agonizing struggle—

“Baaaahahahahaha! You’re joking!”

Wyll buries his face in his hands. Gale bites his lip, eyes screwed shut as he shakes in silent hysterics; Astarion fairly cackles, while Karlach gives up entirely, toppling over backwards and clutching her stomach as she points and laughs.

“Oh, that’s brilliant! How the turn tables, eh, Shadowheart?”

“The irony hasn’t escaped me, no. It’s really not this funny.”

“Tell me it was stolen by Sharrans,” gasps Karlach. “Oh, please—”

“No, no, let me guess,” Astarion interjects. “There’s a sordid Selunite conspiracy to steal the Astral Prism for unclear but nefarious purposes—”

“Wait, now hold on,” demands Gale. “You lost the Astral Prism again?”

“I didn’t lose—it’s not the Astral Prism!”

“Did you steal it? Fess up, Shadowheart, come on now.”

“What did the Sharrans want that thing for?” Wyll tilts his head. “Did we ever ask? There was so much going on—”

Astarion points at Wyll. “Now, that’s the right question to be asking. If we know what the Sharrans were up to, maybe we can figure out what schemes those dastardly Selunites are cooking up—”

“There is no Selunite conspiracy!”

Chapter Text

“This is degrading,” says Quuthos flatly.

Shadowheart nearly snarks back at him before remembering—

Well. She tries very hard not to think of it as remembering her place. Lae’zel had made the mistake of phrasing it that way— once. She hadn’t even been trying to condescend at the time, she’d been entirely matter-of-fact and inoffensive, Shadowheart hadn’t even been angry, it just—something must have shown in her eyes. A bone-deep hurt, the shadow of a ringing slap across her face, a shriveling terror she could no more explain than suppress…

She hadn’t even realized how much the words had hurt her. Lae’zel was the one who cut herself off mid-explanation—who caught Shadowheart by the chin, firm but gentle, forcing her to meet frightened golden eyes. Who murmured comfort and praise and reassurance, breathed my joy, my light, equal in all things into her neck, one leathery thumb pressed softly over Shadowheart’s lips to silence any attempt at waving off the moment of insecurity. Refused to let her elide it, tipping her slowly back into violet moss on some long-forgotten world while warm lips wrote hymns against her skin, long tongue drawing out any doubts and smothering them in slow, liquid heat before they could pass Shadowheart’s lips—

She blinks rapidly. There’d been a point to this train of thought…?

Ah yes.

The point is: She is not kith’rak. It’s a violation of his trust, his rights under the treaty, for her to try to censure or give orders to an allied dragon. Even being Lae’zel’s mate doesn’t actually entitle her to any privileges with Quuthos—if she weren’t also his knight-rider’s shield-mate, a recognized unit in battle, he wouldn’t technically be obligated to acknowledge her, let alone tolerate her taking liberties. 

Of course those are old rules, Vlaakith’s doctrine; the realities of the Orphic Host, an openly rebellious army, make such rigid boundaries nothing short of idiotic. Still…

Shadowheart is careful about her manners, all the same. Quuthos is blatantly fond of them, respects Lae’zel more than he’s willing to let on, is willing to snark back and forth with Shadowheart when he’s in a good mood, and his feelings toward Ar’nel border extremely close to love—but he’s a red dragon. His pride is…well there’s rather a lot of it, to put it lightly. She doesn’t want to risk what they have by overstepping.

“I am an astral warrior,” continues Quuthos. He does not appear to be addressing anyone in particular. “A mighty red dragon. Flame made spirit. Spite made flesh. The scourge of Faerûn, the blood of Avernus. My presence warps the very land to my will and my fury shakes the stars.”

He glares at his drink. It’s blue. There’s a little umbrella in it.

After a long moment, he says, “I am pretending to be a gnome.”

Immediately forgetting everything of which she has literally just reminded herself, Shadowheart snaps, “It’s your illusion. No one is making you be a gnome.”

The gnome-that-is-Quuthos curls its lip slightly. It’s the barest twitch, an unimpressive baring of tiny gnomish teeth.

The growl that follows is entirely draconic.

It’s less a sound than a reverberation —a rumble almost too low to hear, resonating in her chest, making her teeth shake as it shudders through the building’s foundations and shakes dust from the rafters. Quuthos’ eyes glow with a flickering, half-crazed demonic light that makes every hair on the back of Shadowheart’s neck prickle with animal fear.

There’s a pause, as Quuthos lets the final echoes of infernal rage die down.

With great dignity, he flicks a forked tongue into his drink, fishes out and consumes the umbrella in a single bite, then raises the glass flute and takes a grumpy sip.

“...allowing you to capture my cleric!” Gale sits back happily, hands folded over his stomach. “Congratulations, my young gith friend; your first successful use of the Theskan double-counter gambit!”

Ar’nel nods, gazing at the board with an expression of intense focus.

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Dekarios,” he says seriously.

“I think so as well,” says Gale. Then, with no change in his affable tone, “You didn’t understand a word of that, did you.”

“I understood the words!” Ar’nel protests, genuine offense making his ears twitch. He can’t have his parents’ friends think poorly of him. They have only known him as an egg—which is so embarrassing—and with no ritual sparring opportunities on the horizon, he can only hope to use wargames to demonstrate his prowess, and thus show that his mother and father have done their duty to the highest standard.  “I speak fluent Common and Elven as well as Gith and Draconic! And I can read and write tir’su and a little bit of Infernal even!”

“Really! You don’t say. I’ve been getting a bit rusty on Draconic myself, now that you mention it. Fascinating language. Intensely magical. You didn’t retain a word of the lanceboard strategy, don’t change the subject.”

Ar’nel flushes. “Your lanceboard set has custom designs.” He tries not to sulk. But it’s true, Gale’s lanceboard set is a display piece, and the elaborate designs are distracting! “And the moveset is just similar enough to lead me into making mistakes. I keep getting the pieces confused with dragonchess.”

“You play—!” Gale sits forward. “Now that is the best news I’ve gotten all night!”

“Oh, dear,” purrs Tara. “ Now the poor boy’s done it.”

Karlach laughs. “Run while you can, kid! I’ll hold him off!”

“We may die in the attempt,” says Wyll. He does a very good job of sounding completely sincere. “But for you, it’s a sacrifice we’re willing to make.”

“Really.” Gale scritches Tara indignantly behind the ears. “Uncultured swine, Ar’nel. We are an unassailable bastion of intellectual clarity, besieged on all sides by overly-sarcastic ingrates!”

“Watch it, mate,” warns Karlach. “I’m exactly the right amount of sarcastic, thanks.”

“Never quite had the inclination for dragonchess myself,” admits Wyll. “I appreciate the challenge and the beauty of it of course, don’t misunderstand me. But a good lanceboard match will last a few hours; the last time Baldur’s Gate hosted a dragonchess championship, one of the grandmasters died of old age.”

“Dragonchess makes my brain hurt,” says Karlach bluntly. “Like, this brain. The ‘explode an unspeakable Netherese monstrosity with the power of thinking about it really hard’ brain. You play that for fun? Gods, but that’s impressive, egglet.”

Ar’nel fusses self-consciously with his braid. “I’m not very good,” he hedges. “Jhestil Kith’rak Voss says I’m hopeless actually. My mother says he’s biased because he’s been playing for seven thousand years and I’m ten. But my father says I have the soul of a great warrior and I owe it to the githyanki people and the great Prince of the Comet to hone the steel battlefield of my mind until even the great ancients fall before me.”

“Well,” comments Astarion from where he’s lurking in a corner with a glass of wine. “She hasn’t changed a bit.”

Ar’nel tilts his head.

“I asked Prince Orpheus what he thought once,” he confesses. “The True Heir told me that Kith’rak Voss only wants to spark defiance in me and secretly thinks I’m good.”

“I’m sure he’s right.” Wyll places a warm hand on his shoulder. “I don’t entirely approve of that approach, I’ll be honest. It’s far better to use praise than negativity, if the goal is to encourage a child to achieve great things! But Voss is from another time, and I’m sure he’s doing the best he—”

“And then I asked the Prince if he would teach me some techniques.” Ar’nel continues. “And he said that if he ever had to think about dragonchess again he was going to lie down on the battlefield and let a ghaik eat his brain.”

“—knows how to do, in order to inspire—oh.” Wyll blinks. “I…see.”

Ar’nel leans closer to him and whispers, “Prince Orpheus spent five and a half thousand years trapped in the Astral Prism with just his honor guard, two dice, and a dragonchess set.”

The entire room makes noises of understanding.

“That would tend to do it,” agrees Gale. “By lucky coincidence, however, I have no such aversion! What I do have, I’m happy to inform you, is a very fine dragonchess set gifted to me many years ago! What do you say. Care to join me in a battle of wits across the planes?”

Ar’nel is honestly getting tired of chess—or at least, chess against such a verbose opponent—but he knows his duty. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Dekarios.”

There’s a…noise. It takes a moment for everyone in the room to register the strange sound and sensation of a mindflayer clearing its entirely telepathic throat.

Silently, not quite wordless, an almost-but-not-quite-painless wave of mental pressure washes across the room. Accompanying it is the clear thought: I love you to pieces, but for fuck’s sake, Gale.

“Counteroffer,” says Karlach. “Hey, kid—You wanna see me suck the insides out of this sunmelon?"

“With one blow of my claws I could reduce this tavern to rubble,” Quuthos reminds no one in particular.

“Yet you are a gnome,” Lae’zel growls. “We are aware.”

“Anyway, that’s taking politeness a bit far,” adds Shadowheart. “Call a spade a spade, won’t you. This place is a brothel at best.”

Lae’zel gives an irritable hiss, glaring into the corners as if she can somehow make their contact materialize by sheer force of hatred. Shockingly, it doesn’t work.

“I do not understand why we could not simply meet at the Elfsong,” she spits. “Of all places. We are drawn outside the protections of the city proper, with limited escape routes from an open and easily-barricaded bridge offering little to no cover. It is foolishness. And the jhestil kith’rak is not known for foolishness, nor for poor tactical decisions. I do not understand why we are so frequently sent to Sharess’ Caress!”

Shadowheart drains her glass. “Because Voss is a dirty old man?”

“The drinks are cheaper,” counters Quuthos. “My people know the value of gold and treasure—much of this alcohol is clearly being sold at-cost.”

Lae’zel sulks into her wine. “Libations are not this establishment’s primary source of income, that much is true enough.”

“Oh, it makes perfect sense from an operational security perspective,” Shadowheart allows. “It’s brilliant, honestly.”

Lae’zel’s look is skeptical; but, sensibly, on the topic of subterfuge and nefarious scheming she doesn’t argue with Shadowheart outright. “Explain.”

Shadowheart leans forward. “Think about it. With the reputation Sharess’ Caress has gathered? It’s entirely normal for people to show up wearing conspicuous hooded cloaks to avoid being seen, skulking around and obfuscating their identities, using fake names and obvious glamours…Exotic customers wearing odd clothing don’t attract—well, they might attract a certain form of attention, but they don’t stand out like a sore thumb.”

“Mmm.” Lae’zel gives a slow nod. “I was not aware based on the reactions I received that large numbers of istik might have that kind of… fascination, with githyanki.”

“Well, most people do have better taste and higher standards than I do, that’s true enough,” says Shadowheart breezily. Lae’zel’s eyes narrow, but before she can do anything about it, Shadowheart continues. “The point is, it’s not suspicious here to show up preoccupied with meeting a specific person whose name you don’t know, to be overheard negotiating, to slip off into small rooms with odd packages…and, well. Certainly no one is going to make note of a patron meeting strangers in a private room, whether they stay in there for minutes or hours. I think it’s inspired of Voss, really.”

She pours herself another glass of cheap-but-decent wine. Takes a sip. Considers their surroundings.

“Besides,” she adds. She lets her eyes trace languidly, hungrily, over the lines of a nearby orc’s rippling shoulders. “There are certainly worse views in Baldur’s Gate.”

“Chk.” Lae’zel, glowering, reaches out and gives Shadowheart’s braid an irritable jerk, breaking her concentration. “This place strips the passion from sex. I do not object—”

“Did you just pull my hair? Are you twelve—”

“—to the trade of desire for coin or the sale of pleasure,” Lae’zel continues in a warning growl. “It is right that great artists receive accolade and wealth for their skills. My people revere no art so highly as sex, other than the art of war! But this place and its detachment—! Tsk’va. Erotic negotiation in a githyanki brothel is never so…. anemic.”

Shadowheart’s lips twitch. “A lot of brothels on K’liir, were there?”

Lae’zel makes a familiar expression—like she’s just bitten into a rotten lemon—and Shadowheart presses the advantage.

“Since you know so much about them,” she insists. “I’m sure you must have had a great deal of experience to be so confident. You know, on one of all—what, two?—of the occasions you actually left your creche before getting kidnapped by mindflayers with the rest of us?”

Lae’zel glowers.

After a long silence, Quuthos states, “I once patronized a brothel of the githzerai.”

“I don’t need to know this,” Shadowheart replies immediately.

“There are few pleasures more intense than the shameful fantasies of a culture of ascetic philosophers. They mated with nearly the violence of dragons.”

“I don’t—”

“All four of them.”

“I don’t need to know this!”

“You started it,” grumbles Quuthos, petulantly. Then, “I sense the approach of Voss’ contact.”

Lae’zel sits upright. “Does he have the artifact?”

A low growl in the affirmative. “He fears being followed. I can detect no hunters on his tail, but he will be fearful if approached too quickly. Patience.”

Their collective hopes of getting this over with quickly dashed, the mortals at the table slump back into their chairs. There’s a long, resentful silence. It’s broken, naturally, by Lae’zel.

“...And the music is terrible,” she mutters. “Alfira was better.”

She…wasn’t, is the thing. She categorically wasn’t, Alfira had been quite good but barely-trained and her inexperience showed in the rough edges of her compositions, she was a talented amateur at best—but the fact that Lae’zel thinks otherwise is so utterly fucking charming that Shadowheart melts. Even the most affectionate snark suddenly feels too cruel to stomach.

“Please,” she says instead, unable to keep a deep fondness from her voice. “You’ll never find her in a place like this. Our sweet Alfie, surrounded by all the most attractive people in Baldur’s Gate? She could never take her eyes off her little soldier girl long enough to play.”

That at least draws out a snort. Lae’zel shakes her head and swigs her cheap beer. “I do not understand the appeal. She was a poorly-trained, unimpressive specimen with no appreciable skills…Mmm. But if she brings the girl joy…”

“Be fair,” protests Shadowheart, who was always a piss-poor liar and thus can’t actually disagree. But her impression of Lakrissa doesn’t matter—not when the girl she loves looks at her like she hung the moon and stars. “Alfira’s a good girl. She needs someone to make sure she takes care of herself sometimes—Town Guard Number Fifty-Seven was always very good at that. Besides.” She allows herself a bit of a smirk, lets a lilt into her voice. “It’s terribly hard to resist a woman in armor.”

Lae’zel gives her a quizzical look.

“You speak the truth,” she says slowly. “But the tiefling seemed willing enough…”

“Maiden have— Lae’zel! That is— not what I meant, I—”

“Ah.” Lae’zel makes a sour face. “You speak in idiom once more. I understand.”

“Moonmaiden grant me patience,” Shadowheart breathes into her hands. “For if you grant me strength I’ll kill her.”

Lae’zel rolls her eyes, but her brief fit of irritation passes suspiciously quickly. She sets her drink aside and leans one elbow on the back of Shadowheart’s chair, smugness blazing in her golden eyes.

“Do not,” warns Quuthos.

Blithely ignoring him, Lae’zel leans closer, teeth bared, strong fingers splayed along the back of Shadowheart’s chair tauntingly close but refusing to make contact. She breathes deep against Shadowheart’s temple, teases her breath along one ear without doing anything with it, then murmurs, “You find me irresistible, Shadowheart.”

It’s not even a question, which nettles her pride a bit. Just because her arrogance is earned doesn’t make it—well, all right, it is blindingly attractive as well but that doesn’t make it any less obnoxious.

“Not nearly as irresistible as you seem to think you are,” she complains. “Honestly, Lae’zel. Who brings a girl to a brothel and won’t even share a hall pass?”

“I,” Quuthos announces, tipping the remainder of his drink down his gullet and finishing off the glass flute with a few quick, horrifying crunches, “am leaving.”