Chapter Text
“And how does this night find you, my owl?"
"You call me owl, Haer'Dalis? It does not fit. I rather think I am a crow, or a vulture."
"My owl sees all—all but himself."
"I see myself all too well."
"You see only your darkness, which is understandable enough. But do not forget, there is light within you."
"If there is, I see it not."
"It is there. Open your eyes and it will blind you."
- Rasaad and Haer'Dalis, Baldur's Gate 2
It is for a joyful occasion, but nevertheless Jaheira cannot enter Faenya-Dail without a certain instinctive feeling of caution.
It's not for any obvious reason. Really, her druid's heart should leap (and does) at being away from the cities again, here in the deep woods where the Avariel, the winged elves, make their home. There is much of nature's beauty and balance to admire in this place - the textured depth of foliage in all directions, the settlement constructed in harmony with its surroundings, the noise of beast and thinking creatures intermixed into a comfortable tapestry that is life in its purest form.
And yet…
It has been almost five years now, but she will never forget watching Suldanessellar burn. That was another elven city nestled in a forest canopy, built into enormous tree trunks and with their limbs as its causeways. And being there was a precursor to hell - both figuratively and literally.
Perhaps there is a part of her now that will never look upon such a place without a hint of trepidation.
Ah, Khalid, she thinks with a melancholy smile. Would that you were here to distract me from such worries. The loss of her husband is, thankfully, another grief that has grown muted with time, but it is never absent, and she feels it most keenly when her brain feels crammed, as it does now, with too many thoughts, obscuring the clear path forward which she prefers to walk.
“Hold! Declare yourself!”
The voice booms from one of the high branches above her as she passes under it. All is still for a moment, and then the lithe form of a male elf swoops in a wide arc from out of the treetops, gliding on broad, silver-gray wings. He comes to a deft landing in front of her and looks her over, his manner easy but the tautness of his shoulders betraying a readiness for action.
“You stand on the border of Faenya-Dail,” he says crisply, looking her over as his wings slowly furl themselves at his back. “You are a stranger here; what business have you in the land of the Avariel?”
Jaheira leans casually on her quarterstaff and inclines her head in a respectful nod. “I would not trespass on the sanctity of this place without an invitation,” she says mildly. “I am here at the behest of Aerie and her husband. My name is Jaheira.”
“Ah.” The guard's expression relaxes. “Yes, you are expected. They await you at their home - I will bring you.”
“Jaheira!” Caden leaps out of his seat and darts across the room as he sees her appear in the doorway. “Gods, my friend, I am so glad to see you!”
“And I you, Caden,” Jaheira responds warmly. She knows he would embrace her if he felt he could get away with it, but it has never been her manner particularly; she does, however, catch his outstretched hand and hold it tightly in both of hers for a moment. “It has been too long.”
A settled life has been good for the boy , she thinks, looking him over with affection. She first met Caden in the weeks directly after Gorion’s death, when he was barely more than a teenager, lanky and frightened and earnest, and their travels in the years after were hard on him. He grew into a strong leader, always honest, trusting almost to a fault, but brutally exhausted by the never-ending trials Irenicus and Melissan and a thousand other enemies placed in their path.
But now…
With several years now between him and the last adventure, the haunted look has fallen from Caden’s eyes. He’s filled out in the shoulders and chest, taking on an almost stocky attitude, and he’s traded the leather armor and battered road clothes for a set of Avariel robes in deep azure. And the steady smile is the same as it ever was, looking for friendship and humor in every moment.
“Aerie!” He turns his head to call up the stairs of the small house. “Jaheira’s here!”
“A moment!” There’s a scrambling sound from upstairs, and then Aerie emerges, struggling to hold onto the squirming young child in her arms. She too looks extremely well, fairly glowing in the muted late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. “Hello, Jaheira!” she says with a bright, flustered smile. “Sorry, I’ve been trying to get him ready, and-- oop! Quayle, careful!”
The child - a bright-faced, sharp-eared toddler with Aerie’s golden hair and Caden’s warm brown eyes - leaps from her arms and floats to the ground, his stubby pale wings flapping desperately to keep him aloft. He hits the ground and stumbles, but barely seems to notice as he excitedly crosses the room to look up at their visitor with unmasked curiosity. “Are you Jaheira?” he asks eagerly.
“I am, little one,” Jaheira says with a slight smile. “And you, I should think, are Master Quayle.”
The boy puffs up proudly. “Yeah. I’m Quayle.” he agrees. “I'm four tomorrow ‘n we're having a party.” He bounces on the balls of his feet with undirected energy. “You n’ mama n’ papa fought bad guys together?”
“We did indeed.”
He seems suitably impressed by this. “Papa talks about missing you alllll the time,” he says, grinning with the dramatic relish of a natural storyteller.
Caden laughs, stepping forward and scooping the boy up onto his shoulders. “Only because it’s true,” he says lightly. “Come, friend, set down your pack and make yourself at home. The others are out back, but let me get you something to drink first.”
“How have you been, Jaheira?” Aerie asks curiously as Caden (with Quayle “assisting” from his shoulders) begins drawing her a draught of ale from a keg in the corner. “Your last letter said you were going back to the city?”
“Aye. I thought to try to retake my place in the Harpers for a time.” Absently, Jaheira brushes her fingertips against the pin at the clasp of her cloak. “But… Elminster's assurances aside, they are not all ready to offer their apologies and reconcile yet.”
Caden glances at her commiseratingly. “They still think our fight with Galvarey was murder rather than self-defense, I take it?”
Jaheira smiles faintly. “I think, rather, they now understand perfectly well that it was not, and are ashamed of their behavior. As they should be, but it does not serve the balance that I should try to remain where I am not yet welcome. So I have moved on again, though in what direction I do not yet know. I am an arrow unfired from the bow at present; there are those who would call it a delicious moment of infinite opportunity.”
“And what do you call it?” Aerie asks gently.
“Aimlessness,” Jaheira says ruefully. “A state I abhor. But I have yet to find a new purpose so compelling as those we pursued together.” A pause, and then her tone lightens. “Your invitation was a welcome reprieve. I am very glad to have come.”
Caden hands her the mug of ale with one hand and slaps her shoulder gently with the other. “And we’re glad to have you. Perhaps we can provide distraction from both purpose and preoccupation for a time,” he says mildly. “For my own part I’m coming to believe we’ve earned the right to simply live, after so many trials, but I think perhaps you would reject that notion and tell me Gorion taught me better.” He grins.
She chuckles softly. “Indeed, there are days when I think you may be the wiser of the two of us,” she says. “But I am…not well practiced at the idea of contentment.”
He smiles and lets the subject pass. “You’re the last of the party to arrive; the whole team is back together,” he says cheerfully. “You don’t know how glad I am to see all of you.”
“It is no small feat bringing us all together these days.” Jaheira takes a sip of her ale and carefully slings her pack off of her shoulder into the corner.
“You’re not kidding!” Caden answers dryly. “For a while it looked as if Minsc wouldn’t be back from Rashamen in time, but it all fell together in the end.” His smile flickers very briefly. “Even Rasaad.”
Jaheira shoots him a sideways look, her expression suddenly keen. “He is well?”
“We think so,” Aerie says, a little doubtfully. “Sometimes he seems quite happy to talk, but at others…” She trails off, shrugs. “There is some great weight still on him, I’m certain of that.”
Jaheira grunts noncommittally. She sees Rasaad often in Athkatla when they are both passing through at the same time, and his presence is always a welcome, calming respite from being alone with her thoughts. He can always be counted on to provide counsel, or simply a listening ear, or the comfort of shared memories of struggle and losses and victories.
But she has thought much the same, that some shadow is still following his heart. What it is…well, she can guess all too clearly, but she will not speculate on it as gossip, not even with others who care about him.
“They are out back, you said?” she asks, changing the subject abruptly. “I should go and say hello.”
“Yeah!” Quayle pipes up eagerly. “They're sparring!”
“And that is no fit entertainment for a young boy,” Aerie says with a soft laugh, reaching out to lift him off of Caden’s shoulders and back into her arms. “Come upstairs and we’ll finish getting you dressed.” She smiles at Jaheira as she turns to go back up the stairs. “Make yourself at home, Jaheira. We’re all so glad you’re here.”
Caden and Aerie's small house sits perhaps a hundred feet off the ground, nestled in the fork where a branch splits off one of the larger tree trunks in the area. The house’s rear door opens onto a wide expanse of branch which has been meticulously scraped and flattened into a sort of yard, the edges barred by thick stockade walls too high for a young boy to climb.
A group of Caden's other guests are assembled in one corner of the yard in a ragged circle, a hubbub of excited voices, and Jaheira finds herself smiling slightly as she recognizes familiar faces.
Imoen is the first to notice her approach; she waves a hand eagerly, gesturing the older woman over to where she is sitting on top of a loose crate by the fence. “Hey-a, Jaheira!” she says brightly. “‘Bout time you made it. You wanna place a bet?”
“A bet?” Jaheira asks with some amusement.
“Rasaad versus Minsc. Battle of the Baldies. The grudge match of the century,” Imoen intones dramatically like a carnival barker, then grins. “Well, not really, but ‘the sparring match of the right-this-moment’ doesn't have the same ring to it.”
“I see.” Jaheira raises an eyebrow, glances across the assembled group. Most of them are lithe, winged figures she does not recognize, but the two at the center she would know anywhere. Rasaad, unsurprisingly, is the quieter of the two; he stands at the edge of the makeshift ring with a meditative expression, methodically stripping his shirt off and flexing his fingers in and out of fists. Minsc, meanwhile, towers over the whole party, his muscular bulk imposing even out of armor; he is bantering cheerfully with some of the nearby elves and showing off his hamster, Boo, currently sitting on his fist.
Jaheira chuckles as she takes in the scene. “And who is the current favorite?”
“Most of the Avariel‘re betting on Minsc,” Imoen says cheerfully, “on account of he's taller than everyone and as wide as two of them together. I tried telling ‘em size doesn't matter and that Rasaad once punched a giant's head off, practically, but I don't think they believed it.” She rolls her eyes. “Also tried to get ‘Denny to put a bet in but he's a big responsible dad now, no more degenerate gambling for him.”
“And yet you ask me?” Jaheira grins crookedly. “Very well - I will show my support for the underdog. Five gold for Rasaad.”
Imoen grins. “Hey, Rasaad! Finally got a bet on you!”
Rasaad looks up at the sound of his name. Jaheira notes that it seems to take him a moment to return to himself, as if he has been lost in thought. Seeing Jaheira standing at Imoen’s side, however, his expression clears a little, and then he smiles.
“Am I to be your champion, Jaheira?” he calls lightly.
“So it would seem.”
“A great honor indeed.” He chuckles. She can hear the effort in it, even at a distance and among these others all talking at once. He is preoccupied, as he always is, but trying to hide it for the sake of the festivity around him.
She takes a step towards him, to speak more privately, but the movement is interrupted by a shout. “Jaheira! My friend!”
There is no mistaking Minsc's jovial boom as he crashes out of the circle of observers to come greet her. Like Caden, the huge Rashemen berserker knows better than to go for an embrace, but he catches her hand and shakes it vigorously, enough to rock her back and forth on her feet. Boo settles into his usual place on Minsc's shoulder and squeaks enthusiastically.
“Boo was wondering when you would arrive,” Minsc tells her, with that curious exuberant sincerity that is unique to him. “Minsc told him that you would not miss the little one’s celebration.”
“I most certainly would not,” Jaheira responds gravely, amusement flashing in her eyes. “And shame on Boo for suggesting it.”
“Oh, Boo meant no offense,” Minsc says with a wide smile. “But Boo and Minsc have both missed you greatly.” He squeezes her hand and then draws back. “We shall speak more later - for now we must provide a show!”
“I would expect nothing less for my five gold.” Jaheira chuckles.
As he returns to the ring, she glances at Rasaad; he has been watching them with a pensive expression, which lightens again as he finds her eyes on him. He doesn't speak again - perhaps feeling that any attempt to match Minsc's exuberant greeting would be wasted - but just inclines his head with a slight smile.
“Awright, everyone - back up ‘n give’ em some room!” Imoen calls, grinning. “You know the rules, boys - the first one to call a yield loses. And… fight!”
Jaheira watches with interest as the crowd settles and the match begins. She has seen both men fight in earnest; they are brutal killers when the need arises - Rasaad precise and methodical, Minsc like a battering ram. She is not sure who would win in a flat-out fight, but it is a certain thing that the battle would be over within a minute.
But a spar is different. With the aim being only to bruise and batter, not maim or kill, more care must be taken. And, despite his smaller size, Rasaad takes the initial advantage. He's lithe and quick, more experienced at formal martial arts. Almost immediately he explodes into a flurry of movement that seems to take Minsc somewhat by surprise - a burst of darting dodges followed by a leg sweep that sends Minsc crashing onto his knees.
The berserker is not so easily thrown, however; he lands in a forward roll and is up on his feet again instantly, a wide grin on his face. “A fine strike!” he calls cheerfully, spreading his arms.
Rasaad does not respond, but darts forward at once, lashing out a roundhouse kick towards the larger man's side. Minsc is ready for the quicker movement this time and dodges aside with surprising grace given his bulk. Intercepting Rasaad’s momentum, he lands a punch into the monk’s stomach. Rasaad wheezes and staggers backwards, his eyes popping, and spins out of the way of a second strike towards his ribs.
The watching crowd is growing interested, the energy around the combatants rising. Some of the Avariel have started to cheer and shout encouragement to both sides, and Imoen has climbed up on her crate to get a better view.
“Not so easy to surprise Minsc a second time!” Minsc cries with a grin. It is clear he feels the enthusiasm of the crowd and is trying to rouse his friend into banter - but it has no effect; Rasaad is silent, his whole attitude consumed with concentration. There is no humor in him to be found despite the energy all around him.
Blow by blow, the two men strike at each other, the rhythm of the fight rapidly increasing in pace. At first, it is an even give-and-take, but Jaheira’s keen eyes start to pick up on hints of an unbalancing. The Avariel wagers were right; Minsc, slowly but surely, by pure virtue of greater size and weight and muscle, is starting to take the upper hand.
Rasaad sees it too. A muscle is working in his jaw with every punch, every roll and dodge. A blow from Minsc clips the side of his head and for a moment he’s stunned, his whole body locked in place, only managing at the last second to regain control of himself and avoid the next attack.
Minsc is not immune to the strain of the fight either; his breath is coming heavier, the cheerful light in his eyes taking on a more intense aspect. Friendly spar or not, a berserker stretched to the breaking point can become a dangerous thing, Jaheira thinks with a flash of worry.
Yield, Rasaad. Do you fear shame here, among your friends? Let it be done with.
Finally, Rasaad slips - just slightly, just enough. He feints with a right hook, pivots to try to catch Minsc’s momentum with a kick towards his belly, but misjudges the distance. Minsc darts backwards out of reach, then forwards again, landing a sharp upwards chop on Rasaad's outstretched leg. Rasaad goes over backwards, hitting the wood floor with a heavy, bone-crunching thud.
“Hah! Yield, my friend!” Minsc shouts, and hurls himself in a wrestling stance onto Rasaad's fallen body.
But Rasaad does not yield.
As Minsc lands on him and holds him to the floor, he arches his back upwards, twists one arm free to push his forearm against Minsc's throat. Minsc yelps, and Rasaad slithers like a snake out of his grip, helped along by a sharp blow of his foot against Minsc's shoulder.
The two men scramble back to their feet and circle each other, and the humor has left Minsc’s eyes completely now; with this last blow, the fight has taken him over and his restraint is slipping.
Jaheira frowns. Yield, Rasaad. What are you doing? The focus in the monk’s expression is unusual even for him, almost manic in its intensity. And all of a sudden she realizes what is going on in his mind.
“Rasaad,” she says sharply, breaking through the hubbub of the gathered crowd around her. “He is not Gamaz.”
For just a moment, Rasaad flinches; he turns his head slightly towards her, and she can see for a moment, undisguised, pain and bewilderment in his expression. And then Minsc’s fist crashes into his face; there’s a sickening crunch of Rasaad’s nose breaking and he collapses, unconscious, to the ground.
For a few moments, pandemonium reigns. All the Avariel are shouting at once; some clearly think this was a tremendously interesting show, and others seem more than a little concerned at the outcome. Imoen immediately busies herself with trying to calm everyone down and sort out the betting, but Jaheira ignores them completely and moves immediately to the two combatants.
Minsc is coming down from the high of the fight, his eyes clearing, and he looks down at Rasaad’s unconscious form with abject dismay.
“Minsc did not mean for such a thing to happen,” he says pleadingly as Jaheira draws near him. “Boo told Minsc the rage might overtake him, but Minsc did not believe it. We are friends, and Rasaad would yield before it came to such a place. But Rasaad did not yield!”
“I know,” Jaheira murmurs, putting a hand on his arm. “It is all right, Minsc. I will tend to him; he will be fine.” A slight pause. “It was not your fault. He pushed himself too hard. You cannot be blamed for that.”
Minsc seems to relax a little at the reassurance. “I did not wish to hurt him. You will tell him so - that Minsc did not do so willingly.”
“I will tell him,” she agrees. “Go. Ask Caden to get you an ale.”
She waits until Minsc has walked away, then crouches at Rasaad’s side and looks down at him with a rueful smile. “Foolish man,” she mutters, and snaps her fingers, sending the light blue glow of a healing spell through his body.
He stirs with a soft groan, his eyes flickering open. “Jaheira…?” he mumbles uncertainly. “Is the-- is the fight over?”
“No,” she deadpans, raising an eyebrow at him. “We are all merely waiting for you to stand up again and take another swing.”
He blinks, then smiles faintly. “Ah. You are joking with me. I shall take that to mean I have not disappointed you too deeply.” He pushes himself up on his elbows and winces with pain.
“Sit still,” she says sharply. “Your nose is broken, among other things. It will take some time to tend to.”
He goes still at once, obediently. She considers his battered face for a moment, then draws her fingertips delicately alongside the bridge of what used to be his nose. Where she touches, it leaves a trail of magic on his skin, sealing the worst of the bleeding, numbing the pain.
He draws a sharp breath in. “That’s…better,” he whispers. “Thank you.”
She continues the slow application of the healing magics, trying not to jostle the damaged flesh as she begins to treat the bruises mottling his jaw and cheek.. “You know, of course, what I am going to say.”
“I can guess. But I will not stand in the way of you saying it anyway.”
She snorts softly. With her free hand, she delivers a light blow across his shoulder, hard enough only to sting. “What were you thinking?” she demands. “This is no battle against evil; it is a party, Rasaad. There was no need for you to let it go so far.”
“I know.” He doesn’t quite meet her eyes.
“You owe Minsc an apology. Caden too, for making such a spectacle.”
“I know. And they shall both have them.”
A long silence. She watches his expression thoughtfully, under the guise of concentrating on the healing process. With the fight over, the tension in his face has eased, though he seems no less troubled than he did before.
“He is not Gamaz,” she repeats softly, after a while.
“I heard you the first time.” He smiles crookedly. “Were I a less patient man, I might chastise you in return for distracting me.”
“But you will not. Because you know I was right then, and I am right now.”
He sighs. “You were, and you are.” He shifts uncomfortably, drawing his head back away from her touch for a moment. “I should never have agreed to the fight in the first place. I suppose I thought Minsc would beat me more easily.”
Jaheira’s lips twitch. “I could have told you that would not be the case.”
“A pity you were not here to advise me.” He frowns. “I have not sparred with anyone in many years. I did not expect… how strongly the memory would come back to me. Of my matches with Gamaz in the monastery. And of our fight with him in the Cloudpeaks.”
Jaheira remembers that day all too well - the day they learned that Rasaad’s brother was not dead after all, as Rasaad had believed for so many years. What should have been a joyful reunion instead brought him nothing but pain, as Gamaz had been turned from the Sun Soul order to a monk of Shar. That path had made a hateful man of him, full of rage and resentment for the brother he once loved.
In the end they had to kill Gamaz, or he would have killed them without hesitation. She knows that his death, like so many others, still weighs heavy on Rasaad’s conscience. And so do some of the things he said before he died.
She can still hear the corrupted monk’s sneering voice on the ice-cold wind of the Cloudpeak Mountains. “‘ Beloved’ brother! When we were boys, you only pretended to look up to me. Since that day the sun monk caught me stealing, you have only looked down on me.”
And Rasaad’s desperate pleading, trying to reach his brother somewhere within the brainwashing the Dark Moon inflicted on him. “No! I know you did it as much for me as for yourself! I understood that you--”
“You understood nothing! I was the elder! After father’s death, it fell to me to be the strong one! But even in that, you mocked me, holding back whenever we competed at the temple.”
She shakes her head at the memory. “Gamaz believed you mocked him by allowing him to win as boys. That does not make it true.”
“That he believed it is bad enough,” Rasaad answers bitterly. “He cared about winning, so I allowed him to win - and from that grew the seed of his hatred for me, his conversion into the darkness of Shar.” He swallows, and there’s a strange tremble of anxiety through him that she has never seen before. “I could not allow it to happen again - to seem as if I was giving less than my best. I could not have Minsc believe I thought so little of him, or drive him to such darkness…”
“Minsc would not turn upon you like that.”
“Once I would have said so of my brother as well.”
She has no answer for that, and falls silent for a little while, returning her attention to the healing spells. Most of the superficial damage is healed, and she focuses now on the shattered bones of the nose, mumbling each spell under her breath, beginning to reknit the splintered bone back into a single whole. Her fingers press along his face, delivering each touch, each burst of magic gently in contrast to the crisp snap of her voice.
“Is that what has troubled you, these past months? These memories of Gamaz?” she asks after a while. “Irenicus is dead, Melissan destroyed. Yet you still carry as much weight upon you as ever.” She knows the answer before she asks, but whether he wishes to speak of it is another matter.
He hesitates, then raises one shoulder in a slight shrug, keeping his head still as her fingers brush along his skin. “I believe I have lost too much to ever walk without weight upon me again,” he says slowly. “We may be safe, there may be no more battles, but I have no home to return to. You know this. Not while the Sun Soul monks of Calimshan believe me a murderer.”
She catches his gaze for a moment, reading the lost, weary grief that sits there. “You torment yourself for things that have passed beyond your control,” she points out softly.
“I find no ease,” he mutters, “in forgetting the things I have lost.”
The motion of her touch across his damaged skin stills abruptly. “I did not say it was easy.”
He lets out a heavy breath and looks away. “No. Of course you would not. And I know this. Forgive me. You give me good counsel, out of your strength and your wisdom, and I ought to heed it.”
She is quiet for a moment, then reaches out and touches her fingertips gently to his jaw, turning his face back towards her. Pale blue magic rolls across his face, sealing the last of the fractures in his nose. “Would that it were half so easy to do as it is to say,” she says with a slight, sad smile.
His eyes fix on hers for a long, oddly charged moment, registering the understanding and compassion in her voice. “We both know that all too well,” he agrees, his voice low.
The moment breaks abruptly. He draws his head back, curls his legs under him and starts to his feet in a single lithe motion, his gaze breaking away from her with a sharp snap. “I must go speak to Minsc,” he mutters hoarsely. “And Caden.”
She remains sitting where he left her, letting her hand fall back to her side. “Yes,” she agrees.
He pauses, looks back over his shoulder. “Thank you, Jaheira,” he says quietly. And then he's gone, striding past the crowd of clamoring Avariel towards the house.