Work Text:
Letha hadn’t meant to wander into the Lower City graveyard, but something had guided her there, like a string within her pulled taut. She went from marching her merry band of misfits through the streets of Baldur’s Gate with the conviction of a general, intent on finding and warning every target in danger of the loose killer, to veering off the beaten path and into the lush greenery of the cemetery.
Wide-trunked cherry trees bloomed their pink blossoms, red leaves twisting in the breeze. The sun dappled the ground all over with flecks of light, filtered through the shelter of the trees. All was quiet, save for the gentle voice of a young woman selling fresh flowers from a basket on her hip. It was so… peaceful. She couldn’t remember ever seeing death seem so calm.
“Forgive me, darling, but a traipse through the graveyard isn’t going to help us save any murder victims-to-be,” Astarion complained beside her, examining his nails. “Besides, if you wanted a little picnic, the Upper City parks are much less gloomy.”
“I’m not sightseeing,” Letha said, despite the fact she was positively feasting her eyes on the scenery. “Something is off here. I can feel it.” Astarion scoffed, but Shadowheart hummed thoughtfully.
“Your little sorcerer senses haven’t steered us wrong yet,” she said. “You’re like a hound dog after a fox when you catch the scent of magic. A quick detour won’t hurt.”
“Perhaps our elusive little murderer is a fan of the necromantic,” Gale suggested. “We could learn something here, if we look closely enough.”
“Fine. I suppose I’ll take a little nap in the sun while you, erm. Follow your nose.” With little more than a glance to Letha, he stalked off, but she knew him well enough by now to know something was making him uneasy. So be it. They hadn’t built trust by her battering her way through his defenses, after all. If it was important, he would tell her when he was ready.
As they split up to explore, Letha scanned the expansive cemetery for anything that caught her eye, still unable to shake the feeling of déjà vu settling over her. So few memories had returned to her throughout their adventure–a snippet of rage here, a sense of pride there–and returning to the city had unmoored her. It was supposed to be her home–so why did everything feel so alien?
Nothing seemed out of order, though. In fact, it was all rather idyllic. The trees swayed gently with the wind, casting shapeshifting shadows across the grass. The smell of flowers wafted on the breeze. Even the headstones were well-maintained, clearly scrubbed clean and looked after with care. With a swivel, she quickly found the Mortarch in her religious garb, strolling through the graveyard with the help of a tall staff which she used as a walking stick. She had a regal air to her, her chin held high, her gray hair pinned back in an elegant updo. Perhaps she should speak with her–-ask what might make the graveyard so compelling.
Then, Letha’s eyes focused on a little girl with a curly halo of blonde hair, tears streaking down her cheeks as she bent over a grave. “Please,” she pleaded quietly. “Please come back.”
Curious, Letha drew close, careful not to startle the child. A quick glance at the headstone revealed the name Garret Dortmell. The death date chiseled into the stone was less than a tenday ago.
“Hi there,” she ventured, voice soft so as not to startle her. The poor thing looked up at her with wide, green eyes, as panicked as a deer. “I’m Letha.”
“I’m Nina,” she said, voice watery with tears.
“What seems to be the matter?” Letha asked gently, her heart surging with a confusing mix of concern and glee at the crying girl. Despite all her efforts to fight the Urges, she still loathed the feelings it inspired in her, the sick satisfaction she felt in the face of pain. Her mind could conjure all manner of depraved images, but she knew by now how to listen to her heart, instead. She forced herself to focus.
“I keep trying this spell to help my brother, but it just won’t work,” she said through gritted teeth. The girl hiccuped, swiping away her tears with her fists. Letha realized then what she had been drawn to: a potent, unfocused magical signature, lurking around the girl–or perhaps, around the grave.
“Show me. Maybe I can help.”
Nina paused, watching her warily. She nodded. “Okay. Here’s what I have so far.” She bent her knees, almost assuming a kind of fighting stance, and magic swirled around her, sickly sweet with the scent of decay. Necromancy, Letha recognized.
“That’s an awful lot of magic, little one,” she said. “That’s good. You’ve got potential. Now, you just need to shape it. Imagine your magic is the sharp edge of a knife, pointed and deadly.”
Nina’s little face scrunched up with focus, and Letha could feel the magic around her solidify, like fog condensing into water droplets against a window pane. Then, all at once, she felt Nina take aim with her spell, and it was only then that it occurred to Letha to be very, very afraid.
With a blast of green light, an enormous figure erupted from the ground, spraying soil in every direction. It was well over six feet tall, with a ghastly face of bone and sinew, its hair hanging in clumps from its mostly missing scalp. Since it could not grin, it clacked its teeth, rolling its shoulders and shaking out its arms in a grim cacophony of cracking cartilage. Then it raised a glove hand, and that same green light spread over the nearby graves, setting them ablaze with emerald flame, and a horde of undead rose to the surface, clawing at the grass and spitting up dirt.
“Shit.”
Nina was paralyzed with fear, too terrified to cry or yelp or do anything but shiver, watching as the monster before her directed its awful lackeys to attack.
Shadowheart was the first to respond, immediately covering Nina with the golden light of a Sanctuary spell. Whether the awful being before them contained any essence of the man he was before or not, they couldn’t take that chance.
“Run!” Shadowheart yelled, and Nina only hesitated a moment before darting away, cowering behind a gravestone. Letha shot a surge of gratefulness through their tadpoles, and Shadowheart nodded before whirling around and crashing her mace into a skeleton’s skull.
“A Death Shepherd!” Gale shouted, ducking under a ray of necromantic energy that rocketed from one of the undead goons. He retorted with a spray of flame that made it writhe in agony, squealing as it went still in the grass. “Down him, and the rest will fall.”
Right. Letha focused her energy on the enormous figure before her and summoned her magic, shivering as it skittered down her arms like static electricity. She let loose a lighting bolt straight into its chest, grinning as it shook. But it was only distracted for a moment, pivoting to raise even more dead from the ground. Bones connected where they shouldn’t, at all angles–tibias with phalanges and skulls atop rib cages, abominations crawling out of the earth like a swarm of locusts.
Letha sent a shock of fear and urgency through her shared connection with Astarion, who yelped, having apparently fully fallen asleep in his patch of sunlight. “Get up!” she growled.
“Of course you picked a fight,” he whined, flicking his daggers from their sheaths at his thighs. “These wretches don’t even bleed!”
She whipped her head around to snap at him, and in the split second she lost her focus, the monster was on her, crushing her throat in its grip and lifting her into her air, her legs kicking uselessly. She clutched at the gloved hand as her mind went completely blank, the only thought on her mind the animalistic urge to get away, the whole of her body a chant screaming air, air, air. Astarion snarled, hurling himself forward, but she knew he would be too slow. Her head felt heavy, and as she clawed fruitlessly at the fingers around her neck, she began to drift off, her mind going slowly, unnervingly quiet.
Then, with a gasp, her lungs filled with air and she was on her hands and knees in the dirt, heaving. The world came flooding back to her in a roar of light and sound. Over her stood the Mortarch, jaw set with determination as she faced down the Death Shepherd.
Letha desperately downed the few healing potions she could reach from her pack, using the Mortarch as cover while Shadowheart frantically spun about, casting Turn Undead in wide arcs of purple mist, the skeletons scattering in pieces like strange dice against the ground. Gale exhausted himself, sending glaring red missiles into the monster from afar, obviously spent. Astarion lingered on the outside, weaving between gravestones to knife the risen dead from behind, one by one. Letha heaved herself to her feet and flung a tempest of magic in all directions, too deprived of oxygen to think in clearer terms than kill, kill, kill.
And the Mortarch. The Mortarch raged. She stormed against the Death Shepherd with blow after blow of her staff, unceasing blasts that pushed it back with each impact until it stumbled up against its own headstone. With one final blow, it tumbled backward, over the headstone and over the decorative fence behind it, impaled on the wrought iron spikes. After a long moment, it went limp. Quiet yet again settled over the graveyard, and her companions, satisfied to see her on her feet, went about searching the bodies for valuables.
“Thank you,” Letha rasped, reaching for the Mortarch. Seemingly no worse for wear, she grasped Letha’s hand in hers and shook it.
“You have my deepest apologies,” she said with a solemn bow of her head. “This should be a place of peace and reflection. I never expected…” she glanced toward Nina, who had just emerged from behind the gravestone with wide, frightened eyes. She seemed to pay their conversation no mind, as if she weren’t really there in the graveyard with them, but far, far away.
“It’s not her fault,” Letha said. “Her magic was so powerful, it drew me here. It would be difficult to control even for an experienced spellcaster.”
The Mortarch hummed. “Grief is a powerful motivator. But I am sorry it came to this, regardless. I am the Mortarch Gracie Scyra. I wish we could have met under better circumstances.”
“Letha,” she said in response. “My companions and I are conducting a murder investigation.”
Mortarch Scyra’s face twisted up in disgust. “Horrid, to derail a soul’s rightful path. May Kelemvor guide them all.”
Something pricked at Letha then, even as absurd images of blood and bone and meat flashed in her mind’s eye, awoken by the mere mention of destruction. She knew she had barely scratched the surface of her violent escapades, and knew she very likely had killed many innocent people, perhaps many good people, besides. Beyond killing without discretion, Sceleritas Fel had seemed to guide her towards the heroic and kind, the pious and gentle. So many souls who could not rest easy, the threads of their lives split too soon. How had she never thought about them before?
Mortarch Scyra seemed to notice her spiraling, somehow, and put her hand on her shoulder. “Something troubles you,” she observed.
“I…” Letha struggled to find the words to explain without confessing the whole of her despicable story. Astarion was the only one who knew the whole of the truth, and she intended to keep it that way. He only knew because he was in the gravest danger, being the one she loved most. She settled on something sincere, but vague. “I’ve been forced to kill. Many times. I never… I never thought about what would happen to their souls.”
The Mortarch surprisingly smiled. “Adventurers are often burdened by the responsibility of taking some lives to save others.”
“You have no idea,” she breathed. Something in her felt lighter, even as the Urge recoiled in horror, confessing like this to a stranger, feeling guilt of all things.
Mortarch Scyra touched the amulet around her neck, a token of Kelemvor–a skeleton arm holding up scales. What might it be like, to weigh a soul? To see the whole of its deeds, and shelter it for all eternity, once the noise and light and chaos of life was over?
“You may find some comfort,” the Mortarch said, “by saying a prayer or two.”
She balked. “A prayer?”
“It needn’t be extravagant or overly formal. The gods give freely so that we may give in return. Perhaps you could say thanks, for this new revelation of yours, that the Lord of the Dead blessed you with insight.”
Letha glanced back at her companions, who gathered at the gates, chatting quietly among themselves. Astarion was the only one who watched her, his eyebrow quirked.
When she looked back, the Mortarch grinned.
“Thank you again,” Letha said. “For your help. I… I might try that.” She bobbed a little bow, and Mortarch Scyra returned the gesture before Letha ran off to join her group.
—
Letha closed her eyes before her incense offering and let her mind go blank. Relaxing only encouraged the urges, so they swelled up now, flooding her with image after image of depravity–a flash of her fist deep within a ribcage, squeezing in time with the dying beats of the heart inside, then one of her thumbs squelching into pale blue eyes, then one wrapping her long braid around someone’s neck, choking them even as the movement pulled them against her, close as a lover. She indulged for a moment in the way their pulse slowed and stopped against her own, but like the others, she let it go.
Is that all you’ve got? She thought bitterly. Go on. Do your worst.
More flashes, rapid-fire washed over her, quick and vague, as if losing potency. Blood spattered across her face, into her mouth. The glint of a blade. The sickly crunch of bone. As she embraced them and released them, new images came slower and slower, then faded away altogether, leaving her in the wide, inky dark of her mind.
The Mortarch’s words echoed back to her from that morning, and concentrated on them as clearly as she could. She refused to let her heart race, refused the fear that rose in her throat. She was going to invite the god of the dead into her mind, damn it, and she was going to do it without quivering like an autumn leaf. No matter what he might have to say to her.
She recited a short psalm she remembered of the Lord of the Dead, further calming and clearing her mind. Then gradually, a cool breeze seemed to move around her, smelling faintly of wet earth, the sweet scent of decay. It was distant, but not shy. It seemed to be waiting for something. Letha stayed completely still, concentrating on the peace she’d cultivated, the quietest her mind had been since the nautiloid crash.
The presence solidified behind her, but she dared not turn around. Cool breath tickled her neck, causing the smallest of hairs to raise there, and for gooseflesh to raise down her back. Then, Kelemvor spoke.
“You surprise me,” he croaked. His voice was like two boulders grating against each other. “I did not expect a child of Bhaal to make me an offering.”
“Lord Death,” she said, inclining her head. She forced her mind to remain blank. The Dread Judge remained behind her, though she heard him shift, as if stroking a beard.
“I’ve known of your… work for some time.” There was a huff, like a chuckle that died out the moment it left his lips. “I’ve escorted many of your victims to their final resting place.”
Letha winced, and flashes of dead assaulted her–nameless, faceless dead, dozens of them, reduced to blood and meat in her mangled memories. But like all the other memories, all the other images, she let them come and go without attempting to control them, and they, too, faded away.
“My Lord,” she said. “I met one of your faithful. The Mortarch. She inspired me to reach out to you.”
The silence that followed had a weight to it, one that slowed her heartbeat and made each moment seem like minutes. But she was determined to see this through. She breathed deeply and embraced the dark, choosing to believe that the Lord of the Dead was still there, however distant he may seem. After what seemed like an eternity, his voice came soft, measured, as if he were thinking aloud.
“As a rule, I do not meddle with the living. They are not mine to shepherd. And I cannot absolve you of your sins, little butcher.” Letha waited, holding her breath. This was always a possibility. She had done so much, harmed so many. She doomed the innocent and the wicked alike, indiscriminate in her violence. She knew she could be rejected–should be, in some ways. But she had dared to hope.
“But,” Kelemvor continued. “If you choose to leave your former ways behind you, and you want to comfort the dying and honor the dead… I would be glad.”
Peace filled her like cool water, as if she’d waded into a completely still lake. The quiet meeting place she’d crafted vanished, and she was back in her tent, kneeling before her offering. The incense had completely burned out, the ashes scattered in the bottom of the ceramic bowl.
Something prickled in her palm. Opening her hand revealed two tiny hoop earrings, each with a subtle skull shape molded in its curves. When she put them on, she felt that same cooling certainty settle over her, calming her instantly.
“Darling,” Astarion purred in the dark, startling her from her meditation. She’d completely forgotten about the habit they’d made of sleeping side by side to ward off her nightmares. His voice was hoarse from sleep, his eyes flashing as he watched her from their shared bed, their companions still fast asleep, if their snores were anything to go by. “I thought you’d had enough of dealing with gods after everything we’ve been through.”
He reached for her, and she took the invitation, curling into his embrace. He hummed sleepily, squeezing her closer to him, tucking her against his chest. How far they’d come, she marveled, unlearning their natures together and teaching each other tenderness. How alien it felt, even now, even as it felt so right.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Out with it. Before I fall back into trance again.”
“I’ve been thinking about the Mortarch. We… talked this morning, and she inspired me to make an offering. To pray.” Astarion tensed against her with a quiet exhale of breath.
“And you’re righting your wrongs with the powers that be, eh? Well. Other than your father, that is.” Letha snorted, nestling closer to his chest, but he was still stiff as a board. Something was off. She shifted back, searching his face for what he might be thinking, and he cleared his throat, uncharacteristically bashful under her scrutiny.
“You’re not going to smite me now, are you?” he asked, startling a laugh from her. He swatted at her, trying to get a hand over her mouth to shush her, but she dodged, swallowing the giggles that bubbled up. “Kelemvor, Judge of the Dead, isn’t exactly fond of vampires. He’s famously anti-undead, if I recall.”
She caught his hand as he swiped at her and kissed it, nipping at his fingertips. “I swear to you on my newfound faith that I will not smite you. For Kelemvor or otherwise.”
“Good,” he sniffed. “I’d hate to have to stop you.”
“Is that so?” she licked a quick stripe over his wrist, delighting in the way his eyes widened, the way his other hand twitched, as if to grab her, to pull her closer. “I recall being quite a challenge for you in the past.”
“What, after the nautiloid crash? I was weak! I was trying to interrogate you–” he surged forward, trying to push her off balance, but she used his momentum and rolled them both, landing squarely atop him, straddling his hips.
“Trying being the operative word.” She grinned, celebrating her victory, but he cupped his hand around the back of her neck and swung her down, reversing their positions. He held her down by her shoulders, smirking.
“Beginner’s luck, my dear. With your scrambled little brain, you’d have to strike me in my sleep for a fair fight.” His weight on her shoulders ached, but she found the pain helped center her, ground her. Instead of fighting it, she lifted her leg, angling her hips to eke out the faintest friction against Astarion’s quickly hardening member.
“That’s strange,” she said, her breath coming more quickly. “I remember attacking in someone’s sleep being your forte.”
He flushed slightly, and she was thrilled with the knowledge it was her blood coloring his cheeks, her blood that created the growing shape in his pants, her blood that he craved. Blood seemed so much more vital, so much more sacred this way, rather than spilled across the ground by her hand. She expected Astarion to escalate, to wrestle her down, to bind her or restrain her or scold her as he had plenty of nights before. But instead, he pulled her to him, resting his chin on the top of her head, and sighed deeply.
“I won’t pretend to understand you,” he said, “or pretend to be comfortable with having the divine in our business again so soon. But… if this is what you want, then how could I say no? We all deserve some peace for our hard work saving the world.”
Letha fought down the tears that choked her for a moment, the fondness in her warring with the fear and revulsion that still cropped up with every show of kindness, of mercy. She thought back to what Sceleritas Fel had said, that night after the attack on Last Light Inn. He said Astarion was afraid of everyone, everyone but her, despite all the danger she put him in. Maybe Astarion was a fool, after all, and maybe she was, too. But she made a promise a long time ago to protect him, and she intended to stay true to her word.
She melted in his arms with a sigh.
“Thank you, Astarion.” She kissed his chin, his neck, his collarbone–the only skin she could reach. “You are so good to me.”
“And beautiful,” he reminded her, voice unsteady.
“And beautiful,” she agreed with a smile.