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The tree leaves whisper an innocent, percussive rustle in the late evening. They have already forgotten Vlaakith’s spectral visit just hours earlier, carrying no echo of her harsh voice. And they are unaware of the thundering march of the Absolute’s army drawing closer and closer by the day. They are simple, unburdened, having surrendered their troubles to the breeze.
When she first arrived in this land, Lae’zel had derided the naivete of its life. Faerûn’s inhabitants—its peoples, its flora and fauna, its very essence—seemed to content themselves with such a flippant and soft existence, lacking the urgency and severity she equated with survival. She had judged them pathetic in their aimlessness.
Now, Lae’zel wishes, for just a moment, to feel the lightness of the leaves.
But she promptly dismisses the thought. There is no room for lightness after she’s denounced Vlaakith to her face: the final, booming, cathartic collapse of the slow crumble set into motion by their visit to the crèche. Lae’zel’s hands, although empty at present, mold to the shape of an imaginary Astral Prism. She thinks of Orpheus trapped within, of the vast purple-hued skies that encase him. Her ears fill with the ringing of the Astral Plane, with the buzz of his restraints, all mingling with the hot rushing of blood in her head, a storm roiling in the numb hollow of her body.
So deep is her immersion that she almost misses the tread of footsteps coming up behind her. Shadowheart’s footsteps, she discerns: her gait is the quietest of their party, fitting of someone who had devoted herself to the pursuit of secrecy. The footsteps slow, then stop, still a short distance away.
Lae’zel doesn’t allow Shadowheart to deliberate in silence for long. “Well?” she asks, turning, steeled. “If you have come to gloat, save your words. I have no patience for them.”
Shadowheart stands, backlit by the now-dwindling campfire. The edges of her shadow on the ground flicker soft, melding into the mass of dark surrounding them. She is not dark though, the way she once was—she seems radiant, somehow. Brighter—perplexingly so. She’d grown steadily, albeit incrementally, lighter ever since they’d emerged from the Shadowfell. This was different though. Lae’zel noticed this morning when they were packing their bags to set off toward Rivington, but she still can’t identify exactly what has changed.
Shadowheart raises a brow and says, “Usually gloating implies a victor and a loser. I didn’t realize we met the requirements.”
“Tch.” The sound carries little of the bite Lae’zel had intended. “Everything that I and my kin have been taught—all that we have believed in—now laid bare as false: is this not the loss you seek?”
Shadowheart doesn’t answer. The perpetual scowl on her face deepens instead. “If you want to be left alone, I’ll let you be.” She lifts a bowl, which appears to contain some stew. “But you hardly ate tonight”—a pause—“and Gale was worried.”
“How could I? My people’s plight sickens me.”
“Well, you’ll need your strength to do anything about that, and,” Shadowheart replies, making a vague gesture to them and to the camp behind her, “about our own plight. You should eat.” She walks over and sets the bowl down on the rock slab beside Lae’zel, then clears her throat. After a brief hesitation, she says, “I’ll… leave you to it.”
As Shadowheart turns to leave, Lae’zel feels a flicker and a fading—like a flame going out—in her head. She shivers at the loss of warmth, at the loss of—connection, she recognizes. It’s a familiar sensation, that they have all undoubtedly grown used to, the psionic connection of the tadpoles that plague them. Usually, though, Lae’zel can easily distinguish the moment their infected minds meet. Sometimes, it is an overwhelming sensation. Sometimes, it is more subtle, a prickling intrusion of tendrils picking through her brain. Always, it is jarring and unwanted, a reminder of their infection, the very same condition she was raised to fear. Her hatred of it runs deep in her blood. But this time, she hadn’t noticed the meeting of their minds, only their parting and the cold left between.
“Wait,” Lae’zel calls out.
Shadowheart stops.
Lae’zel grimaces, then continues, “You make assumptions and put words in my mouth. I never said I wanted to be left alone.”
Shadowheart turns again, the beginnings of a terrible knowing smile curving at the corner of her mouth, and says, “Oh? So you want me to stay?”
Lae’zel barely meets her eyes. “You may stay if you wish.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Shadowheart’s voice is coy. Annoyingly so.
“I am simply preventing you from disturbing the others’ rest with your chatter. You are the one who sought me out.” Lae’zel cuts off. Shadowheart still makes no move. The two of them stare at each other in an infuriating, quiet impasse. Finally, Lae’zel concedes, with a light huff, “I would not… mind your company.”
“Was that so difficult?” Shadowheart quips.
Thankfully though, she must deem the invitation enough. She walks back over to sit on the rock, and the warmth returns to shroud Lae’zel’s mind, swaddling it. It doesn’t seem to be a conscious connection between their brains; at least, Shadowheart makes no mention of it. Normally, Lae’zel would balk at allowing such a connection to remain, but tonight, it is an oddly comforting presence.
Shadowheart slides the untouched bowl of stew between them closer to Lae’zel, and says, “Here. You must be hungry.”
“I hunger only for my people’s freedom,” Lae’zel declares, although she takes the bowl. Now that the rush of emotions has had a few hours to calm, her mostly empty stomach complains of its dull ache.
Shadowheart watches her as she spoons a sizable bite into her mouth. “How is it?” she asks.
“Rather bland,” Lae’zel decides. She considers the taste, dissecting it, referencing her still-expanding knowledge of Faerûnian foods. Some kind of meat, likely beef, from their leftover jerky—tough and watered down. A mash of vegetables and potatoes, which they had for dinner—also watered down. The broth tastes faintly of wine. “Who made this?”
“Gale, of course.”
Lae’zel squints sideways at her. “You lie. Gale made the mash, but this is not his creation. The technique is haphazard, and the dish lacks his usual meticulous use of spices.”
Shadowheart shoots her an annoyed glare. “Fine,” she says, her voice sharpened in defense. “I made it. I know I’m no cook, but I didn’t know you were such a critic.”
A foreign tinge of regret nudges at the back of Lae’zel’s throat. “No matter,” she says. “It serves its purpose to fill the belly and nurture the body, as any meal should.” She downs another heaping spoonful to illustrate her point.
“You don’t need to dull the blow.”
“As you say,” Lae’zel says. “And I don’t need your pity. I am capable of feeding myself, and not so weak as to languish after missing a single meal.”
Shadowheart opens her mouth, an indignant retort surely on her tongue. She sighs instead. “Gods help me. It isn’t pity, Lae’zel.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s—” Shadowheart falls silent for a few seconds. “Back in the Shadowlands,” she says, “after everything that happened in the Shadowfell… you took over my scouting and supply gathering duties, without saying anything. Would you call that pity?”
“Chk. Obviously not,” Lae’zel answers, surprised. In retrospect, she should’ve expected Shadowheart to notice. She had always been observant. Probably making sinister notes in her mind to later use against her enemies, Lae’zel had imagined once. But Shadowheart hadn’t brought up the extra help after her ordeal, and Lae’zel hadn’t planned to either. She continues, “You were hurting, and you clearly needed time to heal, away from the oppression of the shadows. I saw a need, and I filled it.” She pauses, then adds, “It brought me no joy to see you suffer.”
Another smile—gentler, this time—twitches at the corner of Shadowheart’s mouth, although it doesn't quite catch. “Is it so hard to believe that I don’t enjoy seeing you suffer either?” she asks.
“I am not,” Lae’zel says, shoulders squared, “suffering.”
“Maybe not.” Shadowheart shrugs. “But I know what it’s like to cast off your god and the life you thought you had.”
Her words are a hand outstretched. Tentative, surely, given their turbulent and even violent history. But Lae’zel knows she speaks true, that she is sincere. She had felt a strange pride when Shadowheart discarded Shar’s spear, a shiver down her spine. In that moment—even before then—Lae’zel had understood that of all their companions, Shadowheart most closely knew Lae’zel’s path because she walked one so similar herself: the ever-upward climb, the turns, then the moment the ground fell away beneath her. Still, where Shadowheart slowed and faltered in the aftermath, Lae’zel will not; she must forge ahead with unwavering feet and a resolute heart.
“I may have renounced Vlaakith and her hold on me, but my purpose lies in Prince Orpheus now,” Lae’zel says. “There is no suffering in that, only pride.”
Shadowheart considers her, her gaze narrow. “You’re quick to throw your lot in with Orpheus. Not even taking a full night to mourn your former queen?”
“Why would I? Vlaakith isn’t dead, as much as I wish she were.”
“You’re—” Shadowheart sighs again. “Not literally. I mean, your loyalties to her. Who you believed she was.”
Lae’zel snorts, a curt, harsh noise. Its bitterness surprises her. “I’ve had time to judge her lies for myself already. She doesn’t deserve my grief. Nor will I leave room in my new life to coddle the old.”
“But you still think about it, don’t you? The life you might’ve had?” Shadowheart’s voice has grown soft, a tone she never affords to Lae’zel. It’s rather unsettling—curious, or hopeful perhaps? No—not exactly hopeful: desperate. Not the sort of desperation that pleads or begs, the kind that Lae’zel finds sickening, but something more cautious and subdued, less familiar to her. It is the desperation of a survivor crawling out of the rubble after an earthquake, searching for others who might’ve also lived. Shadowheart must still contemplate her uncertain future. And now she wants to know if Lae’zel might stumble about in the ruins alongside her.
“Enough,” Lae’zel says. “That life was a lie, never to come to fruition. Are you just here to sow doubt?”
Shadowheart’s momentary softness hardens again, a retreat. “Oh, I’m still perfectly capable of that—you ought to be grateful I’m not. Most people would be glad to have someone to talk to at a time like this.”
“You speak as though you’re doing me a great service, but I know you’re here for your own comfort, to sort out your dilemma. I will,” Laezel adds, “listen to what you have to say. Just don’t expect me to pretend I’m in the same predicament.”
“Yes—fine, I might be here for me, but I’m also here for you! Why can’t the two coexist in your thick skull? It’s called commiserating.”
“It sounds utterly inane.”
“It’s actually quite productive in good company, which I’m beginning to doubt you are.”
Lae’zel scoffs. “Then leave.”
Shadowheart does not move. Neither of them speak. Lae’zel eats her stew, and tries to pretend Shadowheart isn’t there. Somewhere behind them, the campfire has gone out and with it, the chatter of the camp. In the distance, Rivington rests as well. Lae’zel can just see the faint glow from refugee camps, clusters of them clogging up the already crammed neighborhood. Burdensome, she might’ve called the refugees once. Soft. Like the tieflings in the Emerald Grove. But perhaps they are worthy of some respect. They’ve made it this far, after all, ragged and filthy, clawing their way from their corners of the coast just to try and live, despite the bleak and nebulous future bearing down on them. For some, running might be just as brave as fighting, Lae’zel has learned.
Finally, Shadowheart clears her throat. She says, slowly, “After all this… assuming we’re able to free Orpheus, you’re really just going to go off to face the Lich Queen with him.”
“We will,” Lae’zel says fiercely, “free him. And naturally, I will follow him. We may soon rid ourselves of these parasites, but I am not fully free until my people know the truth, and Vlaakith reigns no more.”
Shadowheart scrutinizes her again for a long moment. “I can’t tell if I should pity you or envy you.”
“Neither,” Lae’zel says, frowning, disapproval warring with curiosity. “But why?”
“You denounced one ruler only to immediately pledge your service to another. We, of all people, understand what that means. You barely know Orpheus—how can you trust him?”
“He lives. His power protects us. That is enough to tell me that the texts on his supposed betrayal are backwards, and that Kith’rak Voss was not lying.”
“Voss too—you’ve only met the man twice,” Shadowheart points out.
Lae’zel clicks her tongue impatiently. “That matters not. I don’t expect istik to understand the bond of loyalty that exists between my kin, nor our honor.”
“I might not understand, no,” Shadowheart says, “but I think you’re staking an awful lot on unknowns.”
“What would you have me do then?” Lae’zel challenges.
This seems to give Shadowheart pause. “I’m not sure,” she says. “You could go your own way, without following either of them—follow what you want.”
What Lae’zel wants. An easy ask, an easy answer: liberation. Her Prince unshackled and that parasitic ghaik that calls itself the Emperor gone. Her, wielding a silver sword, at the Prince’s side. Her brain, fully hers again. But then, as if to remind her that her mind is now a wayward thing, other scenes seep through—Vlaakith bestowing a red dragon upon her in her court; sweeping above treetops and cliffsides and god-isles on her steed; her old varsh in Crèche K’liir, commending her; snow, known to her only in text and not in flesh; her heart full and her mind light—
No! Lae’zel feels her jaw clench. Her grip on her bowl tightens. These unbidden thoughts taint her mind, almost taunting, shameful, stirring up a frustrated anger inside her. How dare they try to challenge her resolve and her duty!
“Impossible,” she retorts, quickly reining the stray thoughts in, even as her voice rises. “How can I know the tyranny gripping my people and do nothing about it? Shall I watch them live their lives thinking they have been liberated from one master only to unknowingly toil away their lives beneath another?” Lae’zel’s lip curls in disgust at the thought. “You,” she spits, “may hate gith, but I will not stand by and do nothing!”
Shadowheart’s face flushes, the color barely visible in the dark. Her mouth half-opens with a stilted, “I don’t”—her voice smooths out again—“hate the gith.”
Lae’zel stares at the pale pink across Shadowheart’s cheeks as she averts her gaze. Her own mind seems to clear and relax. The crescendo of anger within her abates in the absence of fuel to its fire. With nowhere left to burn, the heat hisses out in a sigh.
“G’lyck. You’ve seen what lengths Vlaakith has gone to to imprison and now exterminate Prince Orpheus. He is our greatest—perhaps only—chance. He is our savior, and yet he remains chained. It is a travesty. He must have his freedom.”
Shadowheart kicks the toe of her boot into the earth. “I’m not arguing against anyone’s freedom. That would be quite hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?” she says. “I was just—worried about you.”
Lae’zel shifts uncomfortably in the wake of Shadowheart’s admission. She squints into the bowl in her lap and says evenly, “I know what I’m doing. There’s no need to worry yourself.”
“Great,” Shadowheart returns, “but that’s not going to change anything. Believe me, I don’t want to either.”
“Don’t expect me to thank you for it.”
“Fine. I’m used to it.”
Quiet again. At an unexpected loss for words, Lae’zel reaches farther back in their conversation. “You said you envy me as well,” she recalls.
“...Yes.” Shadowheart scuffs her boot against the ground again.
“Explain.”
Shadowheart’s mouth presses into a thin ungiving line. Judging from past uses of such an expression, she has offered up enough information today and will budge no further. Lae’zel would not blame her. The warmth from their prior subconscious connection seems to have mutated into a prickly thrumming throughout her body, driven by the drumbeat of her heart. Almost anxious. It both urges her to leave and roots her to the spot with stiffened limbs. Lae’zel refuses to be the first to run, so she stays. She downs another few spoonfuls of the stew—now cooled—to cement her position. She’s starting to think Shadowheart might give up, when she shakes her head and looks back over at Lae’zel.
“You have everything lined up,” Shadowheart says. “A purpose. Conviction. Just like that.” She snaps her fingers. The crack is sharp through the still night. “I don’t have any of that.”
Lae’zel’s brow furrows. “You envy me for the very same things you tried to warn me of.”
“I know it makes no sense. It’s not like I’m itching to dedicate my life to another god.”
“You would be wise not to.”
Shadowheart tilts her head, looking genuinely surprised. “Oh?”
“I overheard Dame Aylin speaking to you. She isn’t very discreet,” Lae’zel adds in explanation. Her superior hearing had easily picked up Aylin’s voice, which was already prone to carrying. “You were abducted by Sharrans while undertaking a Selûnite rite of passage, correct?” Shadowheart hesitates, then nods, and Lae’zel continues, “A god who cannot protect those in their service from another seems to me a god of questionable worth.”
A beat passes. Then Shadowheart lets out a few chuckles, real ones. Perhaps it’s the still relative novelty of Shadowheart’s laughter—at least in a private setting, or the unexpectedness of it in the moment, its brightness, or just a leak between their infected brains, but Lae’zel feels some of the tension within her snap, a gentle give. Whatever force held her body taut loosens a little.
“Well,” Shadowheart says, glancing back at the camp. “I wouldn’t say that to Dame Aylin. But I suppose… point taken, for now.”
“Do you disagree?”
Shadowheart sighs. “I don’t begrudge Selûne for what happened. I think. I can hardly remember that night.”
“Hm. You’re quite forgiving,” Lae’zel says.
“Maybe I learned it from Selûne back then,” Shadowheart quips. A momentary grimace twists across her face. A second, and then it’s gone. “I suppose… I had to be forgiving, to put up with everything Shar put me through.”
Lae’zel huffs in distaste. “You Faerûnians put too much faith in your gods.”
“That’s rich, coming from someone who was basically kissing Vlaakith’s feet not too long ago,” Shadowheart replies.
Heat flares up Lae’zel’s neck, but seems to stop short of her voice. She narrows her eyes instead. “I would spit upon them now, if I could,” she grits out. “But then… then, it’s what we were taught and we had to do, to survive.”
Shadowheart’s smile is tight-lipped, yet not unkind. “I know.”
“When Orpheus takes his rightful place, it will be as a king,” Lae’zel says, “not as a god.”
“Kings, queens, gods,” Shadowheart muses. “What’s the difference, really?”
“A king would fight alongside his people,” Lae’zel answers, “where a god would not sully their hands.”
“Mmm.” Shadowheart’s thoughtful murmur sounds far off. She starts again, slowly, as though carefully meditating on each word as it manifests, “It’s comforting though, isn’t it, to have a future laid out for you? Instructions on how to get there. People who believe, just like you. And all you have to do is follow.”
Lae’zel’s instinctual retort is already formed on her tongue—that such comforts are only illusions for the weak, but the look on Shadowheart’s face when she turns halts it behind her teeth. Lae’zel’s eyes meet Shadowheart’s, and find no weakness there. Their strength isn’t new; loathe as Lae’zel might’ve been to admit it once, Shadowheart had always been resolute and stubborn. But now, tonight, there is none of the usual in her eyes—no defiance, no taunt, no judgment. Nothing being hurled back at Lae’zel. Instead, Lae’zel feels as though she’s being simultaneously pierced and drawn in. She cannot look away. She holds Shadowheart’s gaze—wide and clear green as the leaves greeting the pale morning, sparkled with dew, veins bared to the sunlight. Honest. So it is as simple and novel and powerful as that: the woman who so valued her secrets presents this sliver of her naked and undarkened truth.
Lae’zel blinks and releases her breath and makes to speak, only to find that her retort has dissolved in her mouth, leaving the bitter wordlessness of her own truth. There was a comfort in duty, in a secure future, even if it must be hard won in steel and blood. There is still a comfort in the duty awaiting her now.
Perhaps oblivious to Lae’zel’s lapse, Shadowheart sighs and gives in, “I know it’s a lie—”
“There is something different about you,” Lae’zel interrupts, at once regaining her voice and verging on the conclusion of her day-long realization.
Shadowheart tilts back, confused, defensive. She raises a brow.
Lae’zel says, awed, “Your hair—it’s white.”
Is that really it? Lae’zel blinks and frowns. She scans Shadowheart’s stunned face. The change is obvious now, the dark bangs that once curtained it parted to frame it instead in white. Bright, in the moonlight. So bright, as Shadowheart breaks into full-chested laughter.
“I did it last night. You’ve only just noticed?” she asks, once it subsides.
“What,” Lae’zel snaps, finding her bite again. “There are more important things to occupy myself with than superficial changes in hairstyles.”
“Uh-huh. Nobody else in camp seemed to have trouble multitasking.”
Lae’zel feels her upper lip twitch in annoyance as she jerks her head to look decidedly away. “Chk. Perhaps they are all vain.”
Shadowheart scoffs. “As if you don’t spend twenty precious minutes every morning applying your paint and perfecting your hair.”
“That,” Lae’zel asserts, “is my pride and discipline as a githyanki warrior.”
“Right.” There’s a pause. Then Shadowheart clears her throat and says, “Well then. What do you think?”
“About what.”
“About the new look, of course.”
She sounds indignant, exasperated, yet when Lae’zel turns back again to assess her, she finds that Shadowheart actually looks rather sheepish. Her left hand has lifted absentmindedly to toy with the stray strands parted at her forehead. She meets Lae’zel’s gaze, but it seems to take her a certain effort to hold it. She glows bold and breathtakingly free despite her uncertainty.
“It suits you well. You no longer hide in the darkness,” Lae’zel says after a moment, simple and honest.
“Thank you.” Shadowheart clears her throat again, eyes flickering down. She half-jests, “I’ll try to live up to that.”
Lae’zel thinks of the Selûnite pair in their camp and their similarly light hair. “Is it a tribute to Selûne? Another rite of passage?”
Shadowheart shakes her head. “The idea started that way, but maybe, it’s more for… me than anything else. A farewell to Shar, I suppose. But devoting myself to the Moonmaiden… I don’t know if that’s what I want.”
“What do you want then?”
Shadowheart gives her a calculating stare. “Don’t laugh,” she says finally.
“Have you ever seen me laugh?” Lae’zel says flatly.
Shadowheart rolls her eyes. A single muffled noise resembling mirth catches in her throat. “Very funny. I’m serious though.”
Lae’zel lifts her chin. “As am I. I give you my word.”
It takes a moment for Shadowheart to accept this promise. Then she says, “I want to free my parents from Shar. I want this tadpole out of my head. Beyond that…” She inhales slowly, her eyes closing as she leans back, bracing against her hands behind her. “I’m… not sure yet. I’d like to learn about myself—who I was… who I am. Find peace, somehow, away from the city, and from Shar. Preferably somewhere with plenty of sun… maybe even a dog of my own.”
Peace: a temporary roost, a means to an end. Lae’zel knows peace in the time she carves out for meditation, in the silence after her old curfews, in near-scalding water soothing sore muscles. A respite, until the next battle. But to desire peace as an end in itself is something she has not considered and cannot quite fathom. She observes Shadowheart’s closed eyes and gently arched brows. Shallow creases between them etch a landscape of past worry that for now, is at rest, barely visible.
“I can feel you staring at me,” Shadowheart tells her.
Her eyes remain shut, but Lae’zel still looks away with a huff. “I’m ensuring you don’t fall asleep like that and injure your head,” she says. And then, “You look at peace.”
At this, Shadowheart lets out a short laugh and sits straight again. “If only it would last.”
“This will all be over soon. Then you’ll be free to claim it for good.”
“Hm… perhaps,” Shadowheart muses. And then, “What about you? What do you want?”
Lae’zel scowls. “Are you dense? I’ve told you—”
Shadowheart waves a dismissive hand. “After that. After Orpheus is free and you’ve dealt with Vlaakith, what then?”
What then. For all her resolve, Lae’zel does not know if there will be an after, at least for her. Death is always a possible outcome. To face the Lich Queen and any loyalists foolish enough to yoke themselves to her cause is a colossal undertaking that Lae’zel cannot be sure she will survive. She hasn’t dwelled on such an outcome. It doesn’t matter, after all; she would die in the name of Orpheus, for the cause of her people’s freedom. She would live for the same.
And if she could live—what then? Lae’zel isn’t sure. Every great, glorious want she’d built now lies torn and shaken from its false foundation. She doesn’t know how to fill the space left behind. She aches when she thinks of it. Her footing among the wreckage is shaky. A red dragon rises into the empty skies of her mind, into the hollow—not hers to ride, but she dares to mount it and settle into the space atop its shoulders, in the sanctuary of her thoughts. Her burdened heart races powerfully as she pursues her imaginary flight from earlier, soaring from sky to sky, unbound by the planes and their laws.
“I saw that,” Shadowheart says quietly.
“Saw what?” Lae’zel replies, too quickly. She feels the connection between their minds sever just as the words leave her mouth.
“The dragon.” And as if anticipating Lae’zel’s rebuke, Shadowheart immediately adds, “It’s not my fault you're projecting your thoughts.”
Lae’zel feels her face warm. Had they been so loud? “It is the dream of every young githyanki trainee to one day ride a red dragon.”
“And it’s still your dream,” Shadowheart infers.
“I don’t know,” Lae’zel admits. Each word comes deliberate and heavy, said aloud, a tombstone settling into place. She feels her lip curl and her jaw clench, but not the anger that usually precedes. Her chest aches again. “Tsk’va,” she breathes. “Vlaakith laid the foundation of my future and my every desire. I don’t know what I can or cannot want anymore.”
Shadowheart’s smile is thin, but gentle. “Your world’s been upended,” she says. “You’re… allowed to mourn what you’ve lost.”
Her voice is gentle too, without its usual edge. It could be easy to indulge in the comfort there, but it borders on coddling, creeping too close to pity. Lae’zel shakes her head. “For everything I’ve lost, I have gained far more. I should not be in want of anything outside the path that lies clear before me,” she says.
“You say you should not,” Shadowheart notes, with emphasis, “meaning—you do want more, don’t you?”
To answer yes seems a blasphemy Lae’zel refuses to be complicit in. And yet, denial tastes sick and rancid in her mouth: half-truth, half-lie—cowardly, especially alongside Shadowheart’s honesty. There was a time when every fiber of her longed for the simple, ruthless life that she led in Wildspace, that she knew awaited her in the Astral Plane. Toril has tainted her with its softness, she thinks.
“I don’t know,” Lae’zel repeats. “I will confess to wondering what it is like to desire peace. Or what it is like to covet dreams that are purely my own. But I won’t allow incessant fantasizing to weaken me.”
“You know,” Shadowheart says, “I used to believe the same. Under Shar, we were always taught that to want is to stray too close to hope, and we were never to hope for more. Purge it all, they told us, it makes you weak.”
“A sound practice, in some respects, albeit from a rotten source.”
Shadowheart makes a half-amused disapproving noise in her throat. “On the contrary. I’m starting to realize they were afraid that wants and hopes would make us stronger, too much so.”
Lae’zel considers this for a moment. Hope, or some relative of it, had brought her this far, after all—hope of truth in Voss’s words, hope and a determination to live, against all odds. “Perhaps,” she concedes. “So long as they are sufficiently tempered.”
“I never would have pegged you for such an ascetic,” Shadowheart says with a light shake of her head.
“I know my priorities,” Lae’zel corrects her. “There will be a time for wanting more, after Orpheus takes his rightful place. Until then, that is my hope, and I will content myself with my path.” Her declaration rings proud, with finality, but even as she says it, she feels a twinge in the pit of her stomach. They are near the end now, so close to the city and the Elder Brain. Lae’zel has known she would one day leave Toril. She won’t mourn it. She will not dwell or regret. But as she battles in the Astral Sea, a small part of her, she understands, will always wonder about the peace she might have known and the strange life she might have led.
Shadowheart’s face has fallen somber again, almost sad. The creases at her brow have been relined—in worry, or sympathy, or pity; Lae’zel isn’t sure she wants to know. Mercifully, Shadowheart presses no further. Instead, she sighs, “You devote yourself so readily. And here I am, going back and forth over whether or not it’s selfish of me to want such a quiet future for myself.”
“You have no war to fight, no more gods to do the bidding of—why should you want otherwise?”
For a while, Shadowheart says nothing. When she speaks, her voice is thinly layered with careful nonchalance. “Penance, I suppose,” she says.
Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “There is no one you need to answer to.”
A chill sweeps between them on the breeze. Shadowheart shivers. “I’ve done many things I’m not proud of—I can’t even remember much of them. But part of me wants to make up for it, somehow.”
“And how exactly will you make up for it?” Lae’zel questions. “Will you reverse the damage done?”
Shadowheart winces, the smallest twitch in her expression. “Right,” she returns sarcastically. “You’re not exactly the paragon of charity to encourage me into a life of altruism.”
Lae’zel scoffs. “Charity will not get you far where I come from, nor in any world, I suspect.”
Shadowheart continues, “I could return to Selûne. Her faithful often provide healing and refuge to those in need. I know Dame Aylin and Isobel would be quite happy. And Shar… she’d probably hate it.”
Lae’zel studies her through still-narrowed eyes. “Would you be satisfied?”
“...Maybe,” Shadowheart murmurs. “It would be something familiar. But the other part of me is just… tired, hence”—she makes a wide, sweeping flourish of her hand—“why I fantasize about running off to some secluded countryside.”
Her voice has taken on that false levity again. Lae’zel hates how it downplays her meaning and twists her sincerity, yet understands how Shadowheart raises it as a shield. Shadowheart’s peaceful countryside fantasy is a life Lae’zel would never choose for herself—one she might have once called weak—but she knows that it is more than a simple escape.
Lae’zel starts, “Giving your life into the hands of another god out of spite and penance does not sound to me like the freedom you seek.”
Shadowheart’s mouth presses in a sort of grimace. “Of course you say that. You distrust the gods.”
“A valid bias. But my opinion holds true regardless of their incompetence,” Lae’zel says. “You worry that it is cowardly and selfish to choose your peaceful, quiet life. I might agree, if you were running out of fear. But you are not, are you?”
“I don’t know,” Shadowheart replies. “Honestly? It’s sort of… terrifying, maybe even more so, to want something for myself so openly.”
“Then choose with conviction,” Lae’zel tells her. “That is not weakness. It takes great strength to run toward your fears.”
Shadowheart draws herself up. The curve of her mouth is still uncertain, but the resolve in her eyes is unmistakable. She exhales slowly. “We’ll see. We may be close to the end but we’re not there yet.” Her tone is light again, as she quirks a pointed brow, looking at Lae’zel. “I’m surprised. You commiserate well after all.”
“Tch. And I am unsurprised that you would underestimate me.”
Shadowheart rolls her eyes. “It’s late. We should probably get some rest before the sun comes up. The city will be… hectic, I expect.”
“You go first. I have a bowl of stew to finish,” Lae’zel says. Tiredness is setting in, but her mind buzzes stubbornly. She needs some time alone.
Shadowheart tilts her head, a hint of a smug smile on her lips. “I thought it was bland.”
“I do not waste food. And I would have finished it already, had you not kept me constantly occupied with your chatter.”
“Fine,” Shadowheart says with a final huff. And after a pause, “Good night then, Lae’zel.”
“Good night.”
Shadowheart rises to leave. Lae’zel watches her retreating back for a step, then two, then three. The camp and surrounding woods have now darkened completely, but Shadowheart’s steps are sure. Her white hair catches what little moon and starlight there is, and seems to reflect it threefold. Lae’zel is suddenly struck with the realization that Shadowheart is not stumbling aimlessly around in the ruins of her shaken world at all. She is picking her way surely, slowly forward. Not behind Lae’zel, not struggling to keep up beside her, but in a different trajectory. For now, Lae’zel could look slightly off to one side and see Shadowheart, but eventually, they will diverge. Shadowheart will go where Lae’zel cannot see, as she takes her sword to the skies.
Lae’zel calls out for her. Shadowheart turns, still close, and meets her gaze.
Lae’zel gives her a single nod. “Even if it is only for now,” she says, “it is good to know I am not walking alone.”