Work Text:
When it’s all said and done, Baldur’s Gate holds too many memories to settle down there—and for her , that’s saying quite a lot.
She longs for someplace quieter. Greener. But—civilized, still. Someplace with running hot water and a real bed. If she never camps again, it’ll be too soon.
Of course, Selûne guides, and Shadowheart compromises.
She chooses the real bed, and Wyll sets her up with quite the deluxe model. It looks absolutely ridiculous in the center of her shabby-but-serviceable one-room cabin on the outskirts of the former Blighted Village.
It’s rededicated as “Moonmaiden’s Hope” on a rainy summer afternoon, and with each day that passes, it comes to look less, well… blighted.
And each day, the Temple of Selûne just northwest of it looks less defiled.
Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise that she wasn’t the only one longing for a new start at the end of the Absolute. For a quieter, greener pasture. For a safe place to rebuild a life from scratch. For atonement. For hard work that feels like it matters, that’s tangible. To fall into bed each night aching down to the bone from clearing rubble, hauling lumber, mixing plaster, shingling roofs, and so on, but to awaken the next day feeling that much lighter for it.
It was meant as a restoration project, just a public works initiative penned by the Grand Duke Ravengard himself. But to Shadowheart and so many others, it becomes a balm, a reason for being, a purpose.
A home.
She blinks, and a year passes.
But when she closes her eyes, she can remember every minute of it.
*************************
Sometimes, when Shadowheart raises a hammer to strike a nail, the board before her abruptly transforms into a mangled face, its eyes hanging out by the nerves and its silver hair streaked with blood.
Sometimes, she reaches for hedge clippers to shape up an azalea bush, and sees fingers and toes popping off hands and feet instead of branches from the trunk.
Sometimes, she dunks a head of lettuce into a tub of water to rinse away the dirt, and its buoyancy feels like resistance and her ears ring with a garbled plea for mercy.
They’re memories, she knows. Not her imagination. Not obsessive thoughts.
She sees these things with utmost clarity because she did them, and now she remembers them.
Sometimes, she was downright gleeful to do it, proud to carry out the works of Lady Shar; others, she sobbed through the event but gave it her all regardless, desperate to cool the soul-burning pain in her own hand.
Sometimes, she can still feel the cold touch of Viconia DeVir brushing tears from her eyes while she cowers, small and alone and in pain, can still hear her telling her she’d done well… this time. That perhaps she would be a Dark Justiciar one day, after all.
But sometimes, when she freezes with her hammer, clippers, or produce, one of the other acolytes, workers, volunteers, or refugees lays a hand on her shoulder and coos reassurance.
The vast majority of the people in the gradually-restoring town and temple never knew a black-fringed Sharran fanatic called Shadowheart—only a silver-haired hero and a humble servant of the Moonmaiden. They don’t come to her with a list of her sins, but with recommendations regarding the teas, herbs, prayers, or books that help their loved one who suffers from flashbacks of the war, too.
Shadowheart supposes it’s more or less accurate, so she doesn’t correct them.
She’ll carry the weight of her past forever, she knows, heavier with each memory that slides back into the psyche, but she won’t squander her parents’ sacrifice. Shar’s hold on her is no more, and she won’t take up the mantle of torturing herself.
… So she tells herself, but then sometimes, she kneels praying for forgiveness at the feet of her Idol of Selûne until her knees bruise and her back locks up.
But then other times, she remembers to give the positive memories that trickle back the same weight as the negative.
Sometimes, she drops the perfect dry log into the bonfire, and she remembers the festivals she attended as a little girl, bathed in Selûne’s light and wrapped up in the warm embrace of her community.
Sometimes, she catches the gaggle of wayward teens in town skulking about with a tin of paint, and after she’s scared the shit out of them, she leads them to a wall that still needs to be torn down and rebuilt and shows them how a seasoned tagger does it.
Sometimes, she gently evicts a mouse from the temple pantry, and she remembers Nibbles snoozing in her cupped hands while she insisted to Nocturne that he was safe to pet, and then she remembers how her heart raced and her belly fluttered when her friend finally gave in, and their fingers brushed together around the little mouse.
Shadowheart treasures all these positive memories, but that one, she takes extra time to hold in her heart. How grateful she is to know that despite everything she was forced to endure in the cloister, she still found shreds of joy here and there. She was an instrument of an evil goddess, the pet project for a failing Mother Superior, a brainwashed child forced to torture her own parents, yes, and those facts will weigh on her soul forever—
But sometimes, she was just a girl bumbling through her first crush.
It reminds her that life went on even then, and so it would, now.
*************************
By the second summer, Moonmaiden’s Hope is positively thriving .
At times, the streets are so full of life that it almost feels like being back in Baldur’s Gate. If the census keeps growing, hells, maybe they’ll get a sewer system and running water, someday.
A girl can dream, Shadowheart figures. She certainly wouldn’t be opposed to checking another item off her wish list. The luster of her luxurious bed hasn’t quite worn off, but over time, she comes to realize that a pillowtop and silk sheets alone can’t sustain a woman forever.
On that note, despite the constant bustle around her and the sincere satisfaction she finds in all her work, she starts to find herself, well… lonely.
Sex, she has often enough to keep from going insane. She prefers to keep her hands off the locals, as long as she’s so involved in community leadership, so she finds it elsewhere: Sharess’ Caress or the Elfsong, when she finds herself in the city for town business or visiting friends; meet-ups with Halsin here and there; the occasional invitation to join Isobel and Dame Aylin for “advanced rites”; Lae’zel, once when the gith suddenly dropped out of the sky on a red dragon and took her for the ride of her life, in at least two meanings of the word.
So, it’s not a hunger for touch that makes her bed feel so empty. It’s a strange kind of loneliness—melancholic, bittersweet, like she’s missing something she once had, but no longer does.
Once it’s on her mind, it stays there: grief for a love she doesn’t remember.
It pricks at her when she sees teenagers awkwardly flirt.
When she catches a young couple canoodling in a secluded corner, like they’ve found a piece of the world all their own.
When the first engagement announcements get tacked up in the square, and the first inquiries for nuptial rites come through the temple office.
It clicks one cool autumn evening when Alfira and Lakrissa visit to hand-deliver an invitation to their wedding, giddy and tripping over their words.
Right away, something about it needles at the corner of Shadowheart’s memory; but it all but slaps her across the face when the tieflings turn to depart, and Lakrissa’s high sleek ponytail turns black as it swishes in the twilight, as she wraps her arm around the waist of the easygoing, purple-haired Alfira.
In an instant, the figures before her transform in her mind’s eye, and Shadowheart sees herself expertly dodging a horn to press a kiss into shiny purple hair, like she’d done it a thousand times, and the understanding that she had comes thundering back with such force that she nearly collapses on her own stoop.
Lady of Silver, she—she found it again, her lost love, and she just—
She just let her go, completely forgotten.
*************************
By spring, the third after slaying the netherbrain, Shadowheart’s assets are as follows: a small cottage with a newly-built bathroom, bringing it to two whole rooms; one large, luxurious, achingly empty bed; a flourishing flower garden with two white marble grave markers; four chickens; one barn cat (shared amongst the community) who sometimes lets her pet him.
Not too shabby for a god-slaying hero , she thinks ruefully, swirling her goblet of wine as she leans against the rooftop railing.
The humble life suits her, and she truly loves it—but contemplating it against the backdrop of the vibrant gold-and-red Elfsong Tavern, and amidst the revelry of a Elturellan wedding… well. It’s no wonder she needed to step away a moment for a little fresh air and the peaceful embrace of moonlight.
It seems fitting that Alfira and Lakrissa’s wedding would mark the first complete reunion of the tadpoled party since the final battle, since saving the refugees was the first event that really brought the group together. Wyll and Gale look dashing in their finery—which is to say, they critically over-dressed; Astarion acted like he was being dragged along kicking and screaming, yet appeared through the basement passageway suspiciously on-time and suspiciously-receptive of hugs; somehow, Gale got a hold of Lae’zel and convinced her to bring a nice githyanki-silver flatware set instead of hshar'lak heads for a gift; Karlach finally mastered her glamor spells, and last Shadowheart checked, was having the time of her life. All of them, plus all of the surviving tieflings, and appearances by Jaheira, Halsin, Isobel and Dame Aylin…
Well, it’s wonderful, but Shadowheart still finds herself amiss of someone.
Through the roof, she can still hear the party, all its music and, presently, raucous laughter and a rhythmic chant of “ up! down! up! down! ” As Shadowheart excused herself, Wyll and Karlach were rounding up groups for tossing the brides in the air, a Baldurian folk custom to bless a new marriage; it’s said that every “up and down” the couple undergoes on their wedding day is one they won’t have to face later.
She wonders forlornly if the cloister did such a thing for her and—
The footsteps approaching from behind are tentative, but familiar in the most distant sense of the word.
Shadowheart whirls around, her wine sloshing carelessly, and for a moment isn’t sure if the figure before her is a figment of imagination, summoned by sheer longing, or flesh and blood.
Their eyes meet, green on lavender for the first time in three years.
Gods—violet hair, lilac skin, lavender eyes? Shadowheart did always love flowers.
The instant that thought crosses her mind, something shifts in Nocturne’s eyes and something like a thick sheet of glass jumps between them, leaving both of them painfully exposed but out of reach of the other.
She didn’t expect that Shadowheart would remember .
Stopped in her tracks, unsure how to proceed, Nocturne eventually produces a tense, “Lovely couple, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Shadowheaert echoes mindlessly, wringing her hands around her glass. “I—,” she starts, but doesn’t know where to go, so she substitutes, “I sort of was the one who got them together.”
Cautiously, haltingly, Nocturne steps closer. She looks so different without her Sharran robes, but her simple blouse and skirt, on the surface, are the only change from their last meeting three years prior. She manages a good imitation of her typical wry smile. “Oh? Lakrissa told me that her sweet bard was simply powerless to resist her charm and wit.”
Shadowheart chuckles at that—awkwardly, as they have so much to discuss, but the small talk feels like a shackle around her neck, dragging her along. “She’s full of hot air. She worships the ground Alfira walks on, though. It’s sweet,” she blabs, and then as an afterthought, waves her hand dismissively and adds, “Well, actually, it was pretty pathetic for a while.”
Half a snort makes it out before Nocturne claps a hand over her nose and mouth, an unflattering sound Shadowheart abruptly recalls that she loves but Nocturne hates, but still Nocturne’s eyes twinkle and much of the tension melts out of her body language. She lets her laughter fit out then, melodic sweet, through it managing to admonish with a waggled finger, “Shadowheart! Judgemental !”
The laugh spread the three syllables of her name into at least eight, and Shadowheart is fairly certain she’s never been funny, per se, but she must have lived to make Nocturne laugh and say her name that way.
Slowly, she reaches out to take her hand, her grasp initially loose enough that it could easily be broken; but Nocturne squeezes her fingers, so she steps closer and pulls Nocturne’s hand to rest over her heart.
Their laughter fades, and although Shar no longer has any hold over Shadowheart, she can feel the Dark Lady’s black veil being pulled over them.
It’s somewhat comforting. Shar, hiding in the shadows, obscuring truth, surrendering the past—that was their home—together, even—for decades.
But it isn’t who Shadowheart is anymore. And she hopes the same for Nocturne.
“Why didn’t you tell me we were married?” she asks softly, the sincerity making her voice wobble.
Nocturne bites her lip, but strokes Shadowheart’s thumb with hers. “You’d just faced down Viconia and the entire cloister. You were about to find your parents.” She takes a deep breath, and lets it out with a shrug. “You hardly remembered me. You didn’t remember us . It’d have only upset us both.”
Shadowheart gives it a few moments to sink in, the bittersweet truth of it, before gently arguing, “You’re right. I think you always were, between us. But I wish you didn’t bear the burden all alone.”
Bitterly, Nocturne counters, “Shar gave you plenty enough to bear alone.” Softer, like the touch she lays on Shadowheart’s scarred cheek: “It was never easy, but I was always glad to take what I could off your shoulders. It’s what you did for me, when we were young.”
Tears sting at Shadowheart’s eyes. Her impulse is still to hide them, as if pain would still explode in her hand to punish her for it, but there’s only the rasp of a lightly callused thumb brushing them away. Still, she deflects, “Beating up, um… Buddug here and there hardly makes up for treating you like a stranger.”
“I walked with you to the Mirror. I knew what you were giving up,” Nocturne confesses quietly. “I was so proud that you were chosen for the mission. But then weeks passed without any word. I was overjoyed when you finally turned up, but… you’d changed. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to be able to accept that you’d turned away from Her shadows. Or if I could ever forgive you for…”
She trails off, but Shadowheart hears slaying our Mother and our brethren like there were still a tadpole feeding others’ thoughts to her brain. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “They were our family, but—”
“Shar kept you like a pet,” Nocturne interjects gently, but it lands like a slap regardless, making Shadowheart flinch. As if soothing the sting of her words, she brushes silver bangs aside. “Sometimes, I think Viconia only kept me around as a spare leash. If they couldn’t use your parents against you, they’d use me. I don’t know if you remember, but I do. It took some time, but once I understood… I was horrified that I ever didn’t.”
Shadowheart sniffles and swallows thickly, finding her tongue too thick and clumsy to reply, but she finds the hope in Nocturne’s words.
Too much has changed for them to ever be what they were again, but there’s enough left over that perhaps, they could be something .
Maybe even something better, with both of them free of the Lady of Sorrows.
Slowly, Shadowheart wraps her arms around Nocturne’s shoulders, again providing the opportunity to be pushed away, but her long-lost love only draws her in faster and tighter. She expertly dodges a horn and presses a kiss into shiny purple hair and, as true as can be, quietly declares,
“I missed you.”