Chapter Text
It’s a bitterly cold day, late autumn, one of those days when Baldur's Gate itself seems to be shivering. Astele turns up the collar of her threadbare cloak and nestles herself into the deep shadow of the statue of the Beloved Ranger in the Wide. Taking off her hat, she tosses it upturned next to her and settles in to watch the movement of people through the market.
Usually she prefers the harbor district for panhandling. There's lots of open crates to lift from down there, and the sailors often have fresh pay in their pockets and sympathy for a street kid. But here in the Upper City market, the brutal wind off the water is eased by the lines of houses and stalls, and coin jingles in the pockets of the rich folk who wander by.
Astele knows many things like this - the quirks of each corner of the city, its personality, its ebbs and flows. She’s been begging a long time, after all. Her parents died when she was seven, and she's almost ten now.
A set of passing footsteps slows; a pair of booted feet turns out of the market crowd. Astele looks up to see an older woman - a half-elf in battered leather armor - coming to a halt in front of the statue.
“Spare a copper, ma’am?” Astele, still half-shadowed, sits up and nudges her upturned hat forward.
The woman doesn’t seem to hear her at first. She looks tremendously preoccupied, her expression haggard and drawn, her movements restless. Her head tips far back to look up into the statue’s face (Minsc, the Beloved Ranger, was practically a giant if the sculptor is to be believed), but she seems almost to be looking past it, to some other view altogether.
“Would that you were here, old friend,” she murmurs. “I would welcome your blade in this matter...”
“Hallo, ma’am? Spare a copper?” Astele hops off the statue’s base to come into better view.
The woman’s head snaps around, tension rippling through her. For just a moment, her hand flicks towards the hilt of a scimitar strapped to her back. Then she relaxes, her gaze clearing as she identifies the source of the voice.
“You meld well with the shadows, little one,” she says, raising an eyebrow and examining Astele from head to foot. She’s clearly unimpressed with what she sees, and that’s no surprise. Astele’s always been small for her age, and skinny too, her dark green eyes large in her face. The missing finger on her left hand still has a raw appearance after all these years, and her thin cloak is ragged and patchy.
Stiff wind’d blow you over, the lady at the orphanage likes to say, when Astele bothers to show up there for a meager dinner, and she never means it kindly.
“What is your name, cub?” the woman asks. “Where do you live? Are you out here alone?”
Astele sticks her jaw out stubbornly. “What about it?”
The woman smiles. “Minsc was many things, but a good shelter he is not.”
Astele shrugs.
The woman mimics the gesture, just as stubborn, right down to the jutted-out jaw. “Speak up, now. You have not answered my question.”
Astele fidgets one hand absently against the statue’s rough stone. “Name’s Astele. I live at the Brownlow Orphanage,” she says. “Well, sleep there sometimes, anyway.”
The woman's face darkens briefly. It's just a flash, but Astele doesn't miss much. “I see.”
“Look, lady, you spare the copper or not?” Astele scowls impatiently, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
The woman crouches down, reaches into her pocket and pulls out several silver. She sets them in a neat little stack on the statue's base and watches Astele snatch them up, like a starving dog going for a piece of meat.
“Thanks,” Astele mutters.
“You are welcome.” The woman pushes herself back to a standing position rather more slowly than she crouched. Her hip flexes with the motion, and Astele catches a brief glimpse of some lingering pain in her eyes. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and then she's speaking again, brisk as the winter wind around them.
“There is a house in the Lower City,” she says. “The locals refer to it as Elerrathin’s Home. It is just south of the Lower’s north gate. You know the place, I think?”
“Yeah.” Astele puffs up with evident pride. “Know the whole city, practically.”
“I believe you,” the woman says gravely. “Should you find the need of it, you may knock at the door and tell them Jaheira welcomed you. There is a bed and a meal there for you, and for other children in similar need.”
“Wait. Jaheira?” Astele squints. She knows that name. Her eyes flick to the statue, to the worn plaque at its base. “ The Jaheira? That’s you?”
Jaheira smiles crookedly. “So it would seem.”
“And you got beds for us street-runners?” Astele asks. Her instinct is to doubt the whole thing. Plenty of toffs like to talk a big game about how generous they are, but in Astele's experience, it doesn't usually mean much.
On the other hand, Jaheira is clearly no toff. If anything, she's the opposite of ostentatious. Her skin is weathered and her armor worn, her dark brown hair graying at the temples and fixed in tight, practical braids. She holds herself ramrod stiff with a keen, direct gaze in her gray eyes. If the stories are true, she's a Harper, a soldier - a hero with principles. Maybe her money and her mouth are in the same place.
“Should you require them, yes,” Jaheira answers.
She speaks very seriously, as if to another adult, which is also something Astele isn't used to. It makes her feel oddly off-balance - but damned if she's gonna show it. “Yeah, well.” She affects a cool disinterest, pretending to count the coins Jaheira gave her. “Maybe I'll come by. If I want to.”
“Of course.” Jaheira nods soberly. “It is most certainly your choice. I would not take you from your existing lodgings without cause.”
“Pff.” Astele rolls her eyes. “The orphanage en’t worth much. Miss Brownlow en't even gonna notice I'm gone. If I come, I mean.”
“From what I have heard of Vera Brownlow,” Jaheira says grimly, “I suspect that is probably true. Consider the offer, little shadow. And stay warm.”
She turns without another word and stalks away into the market.
Astele’s lived on the street for long enough that she doesn’t take the Harper’s words at face value. She sizes things up, stakes the place out. For two days, she watches Elerrathin’s Home like a hawk, tracking all the people who enter and leave.
She sees Jaheira three times - entering twice but only leaving once, which is weird. There's plenty of other foot traffic, too: a young dark-haired half-elf woman with deep dark eyes, a half-orc boy about Astele’s age, two men with Harper pins on their cloaks, and several boisterous teenage halflings hauling a sack of market goods between them. At the window, she occasionally sees the flash of a tiefling's deep grey face - a little girl of nine or so - but she never comes out.
Well. Seems safe enough. No howls from a kid getting switched like you hear at the orphanage, at least.
Towards the end of the second day, the sky starts looking heavy with rain; she can feel the thickness in the air, the weighty buzz of a coming storm. Between that and the muted growl of her stomach, it’s as good a time as any to get under a roof, so she walks up to the front of the Home and knocks. The door is solid oak, and it makes a deep thumping sound when her fist strikes it.
Silence answers her at first. Then the door opens a crack. The dark-eyed half-elf woman peers down at her curiously. “Who's this?”
Astele squares her shoulders and lifts her chin defiantly to hide her nerves. “My name's Astele,” she says. “Jaheira told me to come. Said you had food.”
The woman smiles faintly. “No doubt she did,” she says. She steps back, pulling the door open all the way, and jerks her head to invite Astele inside. “C'mon in then,” she says. “You're just about in time for dinner.”
She waits for Astele to step into the house, then shuts the door behind her. “Astele, hm? I'm Rion,” she adds. Her words are curt, the sentences short and clipped off, but her tone isn't unfriendly. Astele starts to relax, the tension in her shoulders loosening and her fists unclenching at her sides.
“Is Jaheira here?” she asks, padding alongside Rion into the house's dining room.
Rion’s smile flickers slightly. “Not yet,” she says with a shrug. “Go ahead and sit down.” She tilts her head and then laughs suddenly, registering the expression on Astele’s face. “It will taste just as good, trust me.”
The room smells delicious. There's a large pot of stew steaming on the table, a bubbling broth full of carrots and potatoes and hunks of beef. No way, Astele thinks, a little dizzy at the sight of such a feast. Her stomach gives a low gurgling rumble and her mouth starts to water instantly.
Four other kids, all familiar from Astele's stakeout observations, sit at the table. The two halfling teens are already halfway through bowls of the stew themselves, wolfing it down. Neither of them acknowledges Astele’s arrival. The half-orc boy, though, gives her a cautious grin, and the tiefling girl squirms in her seat and giggles shyly.
“Hiya,” she says brightly. “I’m Laris. This is Jord.”
“Yeah, well. I’m hungry,” Astele says dismissively, dropping into one of the chairs with a grunt. She’s not here to make friends.
But that just makes Laris laugh again. “Hi, Hungry,” she says cheerfully.
“This is Astele,” Rion says. She goes to the head of the table and ladles out a bowl of stew for her new guest. “Her first time here. So all of you, be nice.” This last bit is directed very clearly at one of the halflings, an older boy with a rather nasty grin on his face, who is clearly preparing for a taunting comment.
Astele doesn’t really care. She knows plenty of bullies, and she’s used to comments about her height or her missing finger or how many of her ribs show when she lifts her shirt up. Despite her size, she's perfectly ready to kick this boy's arse - or anyone else's who gives her lip. But to her surprise, he hunches his shoulders up and looks away from her when Rion chastises him.
Clearly Rion’s word is law around here. That’s good to know. And she won't stand for bullying, either - which is new. Miss Brownlow tends to look the other way at the orphanage when the littler kids get mocked or tripped or pushed around by the big ones. Maybe this place really is worth hanging around.
She accepts the bowl of stew with a mumbled thanks and plows into it eagerly. She's never tasted anything so good, and for a moment her interest in her surroundings fades out completely. The meat is steaming hot, rich, and filling. She slurps a mouthful so fast that a bit of gravy spills onto her shirt.
Laris is still watching her curiously. “You don't get so much to eat, huh?” she asks sympathetically.
Astele shrugs. “I do okay,” she says around a mouthful of stew.
“What d’you have normally?” Jord asks.
“Orphanage food. Or stuff I beg. Or steal.” Astele watches the other kids sidelong to see how this is received.
Jord frowns, but Laris brightens up eagerly. “You steal stuff?”
“Sometimes. If no one’s watching it.” Astele grins suddenly and puts a hand near the fork next to Laris’s plate. Clicking her tongue, she flicks her wrist in the way she learned from a traveling bard last year, and the fork vanishes up her sleeve in the space of a blink.
Laris’s mouth falls open. “Wow,” she says, and laughs brightly. “That’s so cool.” She squirms in her seat and then leans towards Astele conspiratorially. “Can you teach me to do that?”
Astele blinks. This isn’t the reaction she’s used to. “Maybe.” She takes another mouthful of stew. “You don’t need to steal, though, if you eat like this every day.”
“Yeah, we always eat good.” Laris scrunches her face up thoughtfully. “It’s nice here mostly. Sometimes it gets boring though. And Mum’s gone most of the time.”
“Mum?”
Laris grins. “Jaheira, silly. Not my real mum, but she lets us call her Mum. It feels nice.”
“Think that’s her now,” Jord puts in, popping a carrot in his mouth and jerking his head towards the entryway.
They all hear the thumping of booted footsteps outside, and then the door blows open. A gust of icy wind carries Jaheira in with a wave of rain for an escort. The storm has arrived in earnest - there's a sharp crack of thunder and the roar-rattle of raindrops on the cobblestones, quickly muffled as Jaheira shuts the door behind her.
“Nature’s own fury shakes the place,” she says wryly to Rion. Her cloak is dripping a puddle onto the wood floor. She removes it with a brisk jerk and hangs it, still wet, on a nearby hook on the wall. “I thought I might be back before the storm hit, but no such luck.”
“I figured you wouldn’t be, Mother,” Rion says evenly. She jerks her head to indicate the children at the table. “We’ve got a new arrival.”
Jaheira follows Rion’s gaze and smiles as she registers Astele’s face among the group at the table. “Ah, you came, did you? That is good to see; I did wonder if you were caught in this storm. Astele, yes?”
The Harper remembered her name. Another surprise. “Yes’m,” Astele says.
“Good, good. Laris, you are keeping them all in line, I hope?” Jaheira grins at the little tiefling girl.
Laris perks up in her chair and squares her shoulders proudly. “Yes, Mum. Even Marver.” She giggles again.
Marver, it seems, is the halfling boy with the taunting smirk. He rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out at Laris. She snickers and returns the expression, unintimidated.
Jaheira chuckles. “Well done. I knew I could count on you. And you will see to it that Astele gets comfortable here, yes?”
“Yeah!” Laris elbows Astele in the ribs. “I know which bed you should take. There’s one right by the window since Eliri left.”
Astele grins in spite of herself. The girl’s energy is infectious - definitely nothing like she sees at the orphanage, and way happier than anyone out on the street. Astele wasn’t even planning to stay a night here, just to get some grub and scope the place out… “Yeah, all right. Sounds good,” she says.
Rion leans against the wall with a frown. “Those Harper fellows, Stoker and the other one-- they were here again this morning,” she comments to Jaheira. “Said they were looking for you. Urgent business.”
Jaheira’s smile fades at once, like a torch snuffed out. She jerks her head sharply, gesturing for Rion to follow her, and the two women disappear into the next room, shutting the door behind them. Clearly meant to be a private conversation - but the walls aren’t thick, Astele’s ears are sharp, and she has a great deal of practice at eavesdropping. She waits for Laris to get distracted by a new conversation with Jord, then tilts her chair back on its rear legs so it’s balanced against the wall behind her. Dimly, she can hear Jaheira and Rion talking, muffled by the wood.
“--back in about two weeks,” Jaheira is saying.
“Damn it, Mother,” Rion snaps back. Her tone is tight and frustrated, nothing like the clipped but friendly voice she used with the children. “They’re a bunch of bandits; how can it be that important that you’re there specifically?”
“They are not, to judge by the messages, ordinary bandits,” Jaheira says, placid in the face of Rion’s frustration. “Several bands have massed together and are holding the crossroads leading towards Waterdeep. Trade is being affected, and the Harpers must take a hand.”
“Right, right, but why you ? You’ve barely been here all month.” Astele can hear Rion’s scowl. “And you brought in another one, just as you’re ready to wander off. So what, I just sit here holding the sack again and wait to hear from you?”
“I always trust you with the children, Rion.”
“I’d have had a place in the Flaming Fist by now, if I weren’t always dropping everything to carry your load.” There’s the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. “Damn it. Fine. Two weeks, you said?”
“At most, I should think. I will send word when we are returning.”
“Thanks ever so.” There’s a long pause. “It’s really that important?” Rion adds more quietly, almost too low for Astele to hear.
A pause. For a moment Astele thinks they’ve dropped out of earshot entirely, but then Jaheira answers heavily, “The city must be protected, Rion. You say you wish to be a Fist - you know this as well as I.”
“You saved the bloody city before I was even born,” Rion protests. “Maybe you don't owe it any more sentimentality by now.”
“It is not sentimentality. Were I to choose only my own course, I would not spend sentiment on this cauldron of iniquity,” Jaheira says acerbically. “But my children live here.”
Rion sighs loudly. “Yeah. And sometimes they even see you.” Another soft thump, the sound of something being dropped on a desk. “Good luck. Don’t get yourself killed, Mother.”
“If I have not managed it by now,” Jaheira says dryly, “these bandits will not be the ones to seal my fate.”
Heavy footsteps again, and Astele lets her chair jolt back to the floor just as the door opens and Rion walks back out into the dining room. She looks troubled, but catches Astele watching her and smiles faintly. “Another bowl, lass?”
In the end Astele has three bowls of stew and feels - for the first time that she can remember - deeply content. It’s something about the combination of the hot stew in her belly and the rumble of rain outside. Something about the way Laris and Jord chatter away like they’re not worried about tomorrow. And something about what Jaheira said, too… something she can’t quite put her finger on.
Later that evening, she curls up on the bed Laris picked out for her. This, at least, is not so different from the orphanage - a long row of beds, the autumn chill muted by a patchy blanket, the indistinct breathing of sleeping children. Outside the small window, the rain has stopped. Astele lies on her stomach, her chin resting on her fists, and watches the way the lingering puddles ripple indistinctly in the moonlight, disturbed by a breeze or a step or the scurrying of a rat into the nearby alley.
The city must be protected. That was what Jaheira said. Astele rolls the words around in her head and likes how they sound. She doesn’t have much to call her own - or anything, really - but Jaheira judged her correctly from the beginning. Astele knows the city, its ins and outs, its breath and pulse. She knows the people that live in it, and she’s learned to survive in its cracks and dark corners.
Maybe that’s why Jaheira wanted to help her. Because she knew Astele understands about the city.
The next morning, she wakes long before the others and pads quietly down the stairs, ready to slip back out onto the street. The food was good, but Astele’s not going to tie herself here, any more than she does to the orphanage. No smart street kid puts their eggs all in one basket.
Surprisingly, she’s not the first one up. Jaheira is in the room where she talked to Rion; the door is open this time, revealing a heavy, battered wooden desk where she is scratching away with a quill on a sheet of parchment.
Astele steps softly, but Jaheira looks up as she passes the office doorway. “Our little shadow rises early,” she says with the ghost of a smile.
Out of habit, Astele rocks forward onto the balls of her feet, fully ready to bolt for the door if Jaheira tries to force her to stay. But Jaheira just watches her thoughtfully. When the expected demand doesn’t come, Astele hesitates, then moves to stand in the doorway of the office and raises her chin defiantly.
“Can I come with you?” she asks.
One of Jaheira’s eyebrows quirks up. “Come with me?”
“To see the bandits,” Astele says. “To protect the city.”
Jaheira cocks her head. Then she smiles ruefully. “You have good ears, cub. And bravery to boot, it seems. But no, you may not. That is Harper business, and I would not wish being a Harper on you. Some days I think I would not wish it on anyone.”
“I wanna help,” Astele insists, crossing her arms stubbornly. “It’s my city too.”
Jaheira studies her expression for a moment. “It certainly is,” she agrees gravely. “More yours than mine, I might say, were I free to do so. You cannot follow me, Astele. But with such courage, I am sure you will do much for the city on your own, if that is your wish.”
Astele thinks about that for a moment. It’s the first time anyone’s really said that to her, or expressed confidence that she will make something of herself. “You think so?” she asks doubtfully.
“I am sure of it, cub.”