Chapter Text
1) Journey:
The ranger had travelled the width of several continents over and over across the last decade, and still Cyrene stood unbowed and unbroken, lips pulled back in a smile full of wanderlust and defiance as she squared her shoulders and continued on; there was no adventure ahead of her that she had yet found herself truly unwilling to challenge.
2) Red:
Shadowheart mused that it was unquestioningly Cyrene's colour; whether or not it was the warm, autumnal shades of her hair, the darker and more raw pinks and rouges of her poorly-healed scars, or even the bright ruby-red droplets of blood that she did not hesitate to shed if it came in defence of those she called her comrades and companions.
3) Silence:
They could be found quite often together on the edges of a bustling campgrounds, having retreated from the noise and the group to find something warm and companionable in a silence that still somehow felt full-to-bursting with unspoken words they did not need to share when a sideways glance, or an easy little smile said everything they still yet did not trust themselves to put to speech.
4) Mask:
There were too many layers to the woman that Shadowheart instinctively wished to tear clean from her scarred face, and the longer she watched her, the longer she listened to her careful, purposeful speech, the more the cleric refused to believe that she was yet seeing who Cyrene truly was beneath the picture-perfect mask of a pragmatic hunter she showed to the world instead.
5) Cover:
The sharp whistle of an arrow hurtling through the air was punctuated by a deep, guttural sound of agony somewhere behind her and to her right, and Shadowheart felt herself smiling briefly as she tightened her hold on her spear and paid no mind to the unfortunate fool who had thought her back unprotected; her ranger didn't need to be at her side to keep her safe.
6) Forgotten:
Agony, fear and some strange sick sense of irony would claw wildly at the tattered remnants of her soul whenever Shadowheart dreamt of familiar faces staring at her with distant lack of recognition, and the mirror would stretch out endlessly in her nightmares as she knew the worst sort of torture she could face now wasn't so much about what it was that she could forget, but how she understood that she didn't have the strength to survive being forgotten.
7) Fall:
There was nothing quite like that swooping feeling deep in the gullet, or the rush of air that whipped her hair back and stung at her face as gravity took a firm, unrelenting hold of her limbs, but Cyrene relished the leap and the fall almost more than the cold, welcoming embrace of the water that was always waiting below from her dives from the cliffs.
8) Overwhelmed:
In the midst of the rush of adrenaline, pain, and flashes of memory she more felt than she could say she was recalling, Shadowheart stumbled blindly, gripping her scarred hand tight to her chest as she tried and failed to suppress a gasp of pain while she wondered at how cruelly, how brilliantly her mistress could blitz her senses to pieces and leave her hallow and aching in the aftermath.
9) Hope:
It was a bitter and fragile thing that more felt like a fey's cruel lure than an actual promise, and Cyrene turned her head pointedly away from the faint and frail whispers of optimism that she did not trust to any longer; there was no dawn that would be meeting her at the end of a road she was sharing with this Sharran cleric no matter how much she would have liked to wish for otherwise.
10) Ring:
Shadowheart's lips curled into a scowl that she could not quite control as her hand closed with surprising force over the pair of bands that had led to the early death of a poor, unassuming man bearing the agony of his Sharran wife's injuries and sickness, and she shook her head fiercely in rejection of the unspoken offer she knew had been on the ranger's mind when she had been caught contemplating the advantages of the magic that still hummed within the rings, "Having you suffer in my stead would be a thousand times worse any torture that Shar could ever even begin to think of wreaking on me."
11) Sacred:
To be a cleric was to wield divine magics that were bestowed only by the grace of the gods who moved through their faithful, but time after time Shadowheart wondered if it was blasphemy to think that she felt that it was only in the arms of a Faithless woman who offered her a gift that no immortal goddess could hope to match in unsteady, scarred and beautifully mortal hands, that she understood what it was to know something truly sacred.
12) Hero:
It was a beautiful lie to put foolish and childish trust in, a wonderful and brilliant fairytale that promised monsters always were served their proper justice on the sharp blades of a stalwart, shining paladin, or a suave, swashbuckling rogue, but in the end Cyrene remained grimly aware that all she had was her own strength to rely on in this cold, cruel world that did not care for the endless screaming of a desperate and terrified child.
13) Run:
Shadowheart realized with a bit of a start that she had never quite seen Cyrene actually truly run before, as the ranger was uncannily always already there in the midst of a violent explosion of combat, or instead disappearing soundlessly into a haze of silver-white mist that carried her to where her presence was just beginning to be missed before they themselves realized she was so sorely needed.
14) Talk:
There was something strangely magnetic in the cadence of the ranger's voice, in the way that her speech seemed more like the rhythm of a song spoken rather than sung, and Shadowheart knew only the tiniest pulses of shame for how much breathless sincerity had caught in her own when she had confessed openly that she could listen to Cyrene speak all night without a care in the world for the topic, because her voice was more alluring than that of any harpy or siren she had ever had the fortune to hear.
15) Unchanging:
There was unfathomable weight in such words, in such a promise, but the flow of time was immutable, and the whims of mortals painfully fickle, but Cyrene still knew a breathless, crushing sort of desperation to want to believe that when Shadowheart uttered the words "now, and always," that perhaps she meant it, and she could trust that the half-elf's feelings would be the first constant she had ever known in her lifetime.
16) Inhibition:
Cyrene was maddeningly calm, effortlessly restrained and always in perfect command of her every last breath, word and gesture, and Shadowheart wondered when it had become less of a game, and more a self-imposed mission to see to it that she ripped every last ironclad weight of self-possession from the redheaded woman no matter what sort of lengths she needed to resort to if only for the pride of knowing it was her and her alone who could truly knock her entirely off of her game.
17) Dance:
It seemed as if Cyrene's eyes were alight with faerie fire, illuminating the brilliant green colour of her irises until they burst with the warmth of summer sunshine, and her laughter was just as warm, dripping with a dazzling mixture of confidence and mischief as she pulled Shadowheart effortlessly into position with only the softest tug of her hands, "There isn't a single creature alive with a drop of fey-blood running in their veins that doesn't know how to dance."
18) Wait:
Cyrene chuckled softly as she rested a calm, restraining hand on the shoulder of the bristling former Sharran that was all but vibrating with her impatience even as she tried to hold her form with the longbow that she was currently trying to familiarize herself with, "I think the problem with your aim might very well be the fact that you really don't seem to have a single ounce of a hunter's capacity to wait in your body."
19) Hurricane:
The ranger's summoning whistle was a clear, two-note call that cut through the din of the battlefield with an alarming sort of volume that Shadowheart could safely say she had never heard before, but when the gigantic, hulking shape of a cave bear simply seemed to materialize within an explosion of autumn leaves before charging across the battlefield at his mistress' call, the cleric decided then and there she sorely needed to reshape each and every belief she had ever held of the capabilities of a seasoned beastmaster.
20) Wrong:
Shadowheart supposed that in his own terribly condescending fashion that Astarion's caustic remark was meant to be his own belittling way of giving a compliment to Cyrene's casual ease in poisoning a retinue of goblins as if she had used such dirty tactics a thousand times beforehand in her travels, but for reasons the cleric could not wholly understand, she still bristled from the depths of herself at the thought of the ranger donning Sharran garb, and bowing at the foot of the Lady of Loss' altar just as she did.
21) Silk:
There was a clear edge of disquiet and discomfort in Cyrene's face as she dropped her hand away from the slick material, rubbing her fingers together as if she was trying and failing to wipe away an unseen residue from her skin, and Shadowheart wasn't entirely sure if she was surprised or pained to realize that the relatively mundane luxury of silken sheets was something the ranger had absolutely no experience with.
22) Search:
Shadowheart rose thoughtlessly to her feet as she heard the sounds of her comrades trudging their way back in a loose, weary formation into the camp, and her eyes flicked impatiently from face to face, discarding Karlach's easy smile, Lae'zel's irritated scowl, and Gale's exhausted frowning with rising worry and irritation because she needed to see her ranger coming back to her in one piece before anyone and everyone else if she was to ever be able to relax again.
23) Promise:
Cyrene's word was her bond, binding about her body like iron chains, pressed upon her very soul like the weight of a paladin's sworn oath, but Shadowheart did not care that it was truly the fey-blood in her veins that enforced that code of honesty, as she knew it was also just simply in the ranger's nature to be unflinchingly sincere and earnest, and she trusted to that spirit of hers far more than she ever would the Feywild's magic.
24) Highway:
The tradeway to Baldur's Gate was a beaten-in path, stamped down flat into the soil by the millions of footsteps that had marched over and over towards the city, and Cyrene bristled unconsciously as her eyes scanned the horizon for the edge of the cityscape; there truly was no way but forward now, back into memory, back into the nightmare that she had spent ten years trying desperately to put as far behind her as was physically possible.
25) Wash:
Shadowheart had never quite considered herself the type that took real pleasure from being a voyeur, but something hungry, something sinful stopped her in her tracks as her gaze wandered with unashamed want over the picture Cyrene made as she stood thigh-deep in the riverbed, still frustratingly fully clothed but soaked wholly through, and each inch of her overlarge tunic now clung to a lush, svelte body that she jealously wished she could map out with far more than just her eyes.
26) Formal:
There was an undeniable sense of professionalism that Cyrene carried herself with, as if everything she came across was merely yet another bounty that she was collecting upon, and Shadowheart watched her with a growing sense of curiosity and wonder as she mused that the ranger was both well-trained and incredibly seasoned in the art of adventure; nothing seemed capable of slowing her down for longer than a heartbeat.
27) Body:
Shadowheart groaned softly as she tunnelled her hands deep into the redheaded woman's hair, clutching her closer, refusing to give her a chance to even begin to think of pulling away as Cyrene trailed her mouth lovingly, worshipfully, down and across her heaving chest as if she wanted to make sure she didn't leave even so much as a single inch of her skin untouched.
28) World:
Cyrene allowed herself to smile as she watched the way Shadowheart listened so intently to each and every story their comrades gave of places that the cleric had never seen, or perhaps simply could not remember, and she recognized the flash of wanting, of eager, honest thirst for adventure that brightened her eyes at the thought of a wide, open world that lay open and ready at her feet for her wanderlust.
29) Ice:
The knife of ice in her hand was merely an extension of her arm, as easily wielded as a blade of metal as the simple spell tapped into the pure, untamed magic of the Feywild and the taint of Winter that hummed through her blood, and Cyrene knew a bitter sort of pleasure for this innate ability; at the very least she would never truly be unarmed if she had the capacity to summon it whenever and however she pleased.
30) Dream:
Ambition unchecked and unchained was deadly, and the promise of power was a poisonous lure, and Cyrene watched with no small sense of concern and ill-humour as she looked from face to face of her new comrades and found almost all of them far too easily swayed by promises of strength, divinity and revenge that drove them forward and tightened the nooses slowly but inexorably about their necks.
31) Drink:
Shadowheart couldn't stop herself from laughing breathlessly as she watched Cyrene's tongue flick out across her lips, savouring that last little taste of the sweet, dark dessert wine that had been ever-so-carefully poured across her body, and she pulled her ranger up greedily, capturing her lips with her own to take a taste for herself as she purred approvingly, "I knew I could turn you onto the idea of drinking if I gave you the proper incentive."
32) Candle:
The quiet, terse mutter of a curse that followed the rather inelegant slap of armour on stone made Shadowheart take pause, and then she felt a sudden bloom of rather guilty realization as she snapped her fingers, setting the nearest unlit set of sconces aflame as she wondered how she had forgotten so quickly that Cyrene was merely human, and she could not see naturally in the dark as the rest of her comrades could.
33) Strength:
There was something disarmingly effortless in the way that Cyrene carried herself that attracted others to her, and Shadowheart was becoming increasingly aware that she, too, was not immune to the way she felt coasting along in the wake of someone who was so self-assured, so confident and composed that made her believe nothing was truly insurmountable, because the ranger wouldn't put herself to a task if she didn't think she could achieve the results she wanted.
34) Memory:
It was a tempting bargain to strike, and in many ways, Cyrene truly couldn't find fault in those who would surrender the good along with the bad in their memories if that was the only way they could be promised an end to the suffering that they could no longer abide by, but the ranger had bared her teeth in instinctive defiance when the offer had been laid before her feet; when she had so little to claim for herself as it was, she decided quickly that she would never again unmake herself for a mortal or for the divine.
35) Lies:
It was a horrific feeling that came from deep within the ranger's body, as if a piece of her skeleton was jerking free of the frame, trying to burst its way out from the muscles and tendons and flesh that encased it, and the disorienting rush of nausea and pain always threatened to take her down at the knees when a lie fled her lips and the magic of the Feywild tried to tear her far-too-human body to utter ribbons for daring to speak a falsehood.
36) Cold:
Cyrene ground her teeth down together in a futile bid to stop them from chattering uselessly as she held her frostbitten hands as close to the flames as she dared; the Winter magic that flowed so freely in her veins was incredibly potent, and she doubted she would ever get used to the fact that her lack of resistance would always mean she was just as much at risk of hurting herself as she was of crippling her enemies when she used it so recklessly in close quarters.
37) Box:
Shadowheart was not so much the locked treasure chest that she seemed to want to present herself as, and Cyrene had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling as her words came easily, and her want for company all but radiated off of the cleric time after time when they sat together at the fire and let the conversation flow naturally and easily when she realized that she both had a captive audience, and that her interest in what she had to say was nothing but genuine.
38) Laugh:
The sound was undeniably girlish, sweet and wild and carefree in ways Shadowheart doubted Cyrene had ever truly allowed herself to be in earnest or excess for a vast majority of her life, and it rang out like crystalline churchbells across their lake, capturing the beating of her heart and fixing it to her rhythm, and always, ever always, bringing similar music from her own lips in her need to join her chorus.
39) Unknown:
Cyrene seemed to be an eternal student, always watching, listening, and learning at every opportunity with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge that she made no efforts to contain regardless of the subject matter, and Shadowheart had to admit she rather liked seeing the way the ranger's summer-green eyes seemed to practically glitter when she was faced with something that she obviously had never seen before even in her many years of travel.
40) Lock:
Quick, practised hands shifted the pieces of iron just-so within the mechanism, earning that soft, near-silent click that they had all been waiting earnestly for, and Shadowheart bit back the want to laugh as Astarion glowered unhappily at the ranger withdrawing from the now-open lock that he had inexplicably managed to break his precious tools upon several minutes earlier.
41) Fire:
Shadowheart watched with some amusement as Gale let out a rather impressive string of curses while he fumbled yet again with the piece of flint that he didn't seem to even know how to hold properly, and the cleric couldn't quite help but laugh as she mused that the wizard had taken Cyrene's rather flippant remark of his relying overly much on magic for even the most basic of tasks incredibly personally.
42) Fever:
The redheaded woman's pallor was stained with a hot, dark flush of rouge that gave more than enough evidence that a single night of rest was not anywhere near enough to cure her of the strain of so much stress and battle over the last few tendays, but Shadowheart still pressed her lips softly to her forehead anyway, rather enjoying the way that Cyrene stiffened and reddened even further at her rather unorthodox method of taking her temperature.
43) View:
It was a strange, impromptu assembly, and later on, not a single one of them would be able to explain how the gathering had come to be at the ramparts to look out over at the sight of the Baldur's Gate stretching out on the horizon, but Shadowheart remembered the moment rather vividly when she had looked from face to face of her comrades and realized with a deep, profound ache that the woman solely responsible for bringing them this far together was nowhere to be seen amongst them.
44) Farewells:
Shadowheart wondered what it would be like, when their parallel paths would lead them in differing directions if they somehow managed to find a cure and reach their destinations intact, and she was oddly discomforted by the certainty of her belief that Cyrene would very likely just disappear like smoke on the wind; infuriatingly intangible, and entirely impossible to catch.
45) Music:
Slow, husky notes of a familiar lullaby that Shadowheart only distantly could remember drifted through the campgrounds in the early dawn, and the cleric stopped dead in her tracks as she stumbled rather accidentally the source; Cyrene was sitting beneath an ancient, twisted oak, and up above her perched on a branch and swaying to the rhythm of his own singing, her largest raven was crooning out the words in perfect pitch, and in perfectly understandable Common.
46) Eclipse:
It would be a total and utter darkening across her known world, within her very soul, where every last instance of warmth and light would be completely and forever quenched once she ascended and achieved her dream as a Dark Justiciar, and Shadowheart was more aware than ever of how heavy that burden seemed to weigh on her shoulders even as words she wasn't entirely sure she knew she was speaking anymore fell out of practised lips, "My whole life has been leading to this moment."
47) Whisper:
Shadowheart could admit quite freely that she had never actually truly heard the voice of Selûne after the Lady of Silver had granted her strength when Shar had revoked it from her after the Shadowfell, but she imagined if the goddess was as careful and kind as she had felt her to be when she responded to her disjointed, desperate and clumsy attempts at prayer, that her voice then would no doubt be as gentle and soothing a whisper as the healing spells she allowed her to cast.
48) Breathe:
With one deep and practised inhale, Shadowheart watched with no small amount of respect and intrigue as Cyrene summoned an immediate sense of detached serenity, withdrawing expertly within herself and cutting away any and all external stimuli so that she became one with the bow she was holding, and there was nothing to stop her, nothing to stymie her from landing the shot she aimed for.
49) Midnight:
The thickness of night was a dark, comfortable weight, wrapping about the half-elf's shoulders like an old, familiar cloak, but Shadowheart found her chin lifting more and more often now, her eyes flicking upwards and to the inky blackness of the night sky overhead so she could map out now-familiar constellations that a certain redheaded ranger had spent far too much time teaching her the stories of.
50) Wings:
Cyrene was not a woman who envied easily, she accepted her lot in life with a stoic sense of realism that could make the staunchest of poverty-sworn faithful blush, but each and every time she lifted her head to watch her precious raven companions dance gleefully against a gorgeous backdrop of cerulean sky, she felt a twinge of jealousy for the great, feathered wings that cut away the tethers of gravity as easily as she took her breaths.