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What good, this heart of stone, for it to be shattered?
These words spilt from your mouth in a fury once. You bellowed into the silent absence of where Vlaakith’s image had appeared.
It was at the loathsome crèche of your kin—Crèche Y’llek. You had fought tooth and nail to steel yourself for Vlaakith’s trials, for Vlaakith’s approval, for the promise of ascension. Alas, you were a fool for the unreachable presence of a lich queen who abandoned you.
Not once was your significance guaranteed, and when she finally appeared before you, you were reduced to mere nothingness. Your face probably blended in with the countless other githyanki who crumbled with obedience, just as you did. To be so god-fearing meant to give all of yourself, even if your queen never did the same. It makes the prospect of overthrowing Vlaakith’s tyranny with Orpheus even more attractive.
Your betrayal of Vlaakith, or rather, Vlaakith’s betrayal of you was sealed from the moment the cursed ghaik shoved the tadpole into your eye. You were supposed to walk the path alone, and yet, you didn't.
You ignored the istik when you were making your way to the helm of the nautiloid. She was trapped in the pod, just like you, but you were strong enough to escape. She was weak. Helping an istik was pointless to your mission and certainly the last thing you wanted to do when you were pressed for time.
The escape didn’t go quite as you planned, and you ended up crashing into the Prime Material Plane. It did not give you a kind welcome. You hated the warmth. You despised the strange, alien looks you got. It was better to fight back with the same animosity, the same malicious intent. The teethlings—tieflings, the elves, the humans—they would most certainly do the same. Why change?
As far as you were concerned, you needed to find a zaith’isk. You did not consider being sidetracked for a druid grove or even traveling with foreign istik adventurers, whose only common trait was that they too were infected and were desperate for a cure. Most of all, you were not expecting the wretched half-elf to be in your company. You thought you hated her the most.
Shadowheart was her name. Inelegant. Frustrating. Kainyank.
You did not think she matched your prowess, but she was the only one who met your unkindness with crude, spiteful remarks. There was no end to the bickering. It was madness. Madness that you grew fond of.
As if the foreignness of Fay-run—Faerûn couldn’t get worse, you found yourself stepping into a goddess’ domain for the sake of that damned half-elf. You cursed each step into the unknown territory. Unfamiliarity wounded every muscle of your body tight with anticipation. You didn’t think anything surprised you then, but you watched as Shadowheart turned her back on her loss-obsessed goddess for the fragile promise of information.
Fear shook her fingers as she hurled the Spear of Night into the never-ending abyss. Desperation glossed over her eyes, and you recognized yourself in them.
She turned her terrified gaze to you first. It reminded you of how you looked back at the companions who watched as Vlaakith abandoned you, and your eyes fell upon Shadowheart first.
You dismissed it then, but you and Shadowheart were more alike than you thought. Parallels of two completely different worlds. You were first bound by hatred, by ignorance of each other, and by the tadpole. Now, in the heat of battle, what wove you together was trust. To trust in an istik was something you never thought to entertain. To have a flesh-bond with an istik was even more irredeemable—and with the half-elf no less? You were already doomed from the start.
With how both of you stood together now, you wholeheartedly believed Shar made a grave error in abandoning Shadowheart, just as Vlaakith had sinned against you.
You recalled the previous conversation. The lighthearted bickering, the preparation before battle—it was all routine by this point. You were still drenched from the underwater escapade when you fished for an invisibility potion in your sack and shoved it into Shadowheart’s hand.
You add no value dead. Keep this. Take it the next time a fight goes poorly and retreat. Do not look back until the threat is gone.
Have you so little confidence in me, Lae’zel?
Chk. My confidence is irrelevant. If you survive, we all do.
How touching. What am I to you, a walking healer’s kit?
No. You are zhak vo’n’fynh duj, source of my joy. Why would I reduce you to a single purpose?
When you pictured Shadowheart now, your thoughts brightened. For someone who had lived and embraced the darkness, she felt so brilliant in your mind. She shined like the radiant magic she cast. It reminded you of the sparkling beauty of the stars in the Astral Plane. It was familiar. You often entertained the thought of bringing Shadowheart there–to travel together in between the endless cosmos atop a valiant red dragon and witness her splendor glow brighter than all the comets and nebulas combined. Perhaps after the Prince of the Comet liberates the githyanki people, you could make that adventure come true.
CRACK!
An explosion blasts against the wall where Wyll is. You see him fall and go limp. He drops his rapier, clanging against the stone. And right now, you are in a pinch. The thought of Shadowheart makes your heart pump with adrenaline. You trust in your abilities to keep fighting, to protect Shadowheart at all costs. You trust in her to protect you in turn.
You hold fast to the handle of your magnificent silver greatsword and assess the situation. The battle is not going well.
The luster of your blade is damp with blood. You realize that there are five enemies surrounding you. Three are swordsmen. The other two are archers. Their faces are possessed with bloodlust. Perhaps they have never seen a githyanki before. They have heard the legends and scary stories that your kind are associated with. These istiks are just like the tieflings, the humans, and the elves you encountered when you first emerged from the ghaik ship. All of them are ignorant and fearful of what they do not know.
You believe they are thinking about taking your head as a trophy and ridiculing every aspect of your alien face. They will boast of how you fell so pathetically. They will take great joy in killing you, and they will call it an achievement. You are cornered. You cannot allow this to continue.
In your peripheral vision, you see Astarion hovering over Wyll’s body. He is shaking Wyll’s shoulders furiously in an attempt to wake him up. He fumbles into his satchel to search for a healing potion, but he looks up and makes eye contact with you. You see an unnatural fear in his eyes. His fingers are slippery and frantic. His legs are tense. You can tell that he is itching to bolt and flee from the battle. Retreat is the smartest option if you all want to live another day.
If only that were possible. The men are closing in.
“Hta’zith! I will cleave your heads from your necks before you swing your swords!” You shout defiantly. They appear unfazed by your words. You growl through your sharp teeth and prepare to strike.
Then, the scurry of footsteps in your direction. A flash of radiant, burning light.
You are able to parry the other attackers as they are blinded by Shadowheart’s sacred flames. You told the half-elf to retreat if the fight was going poorly. Seeing as you could not perceive Shadowheart’s physical form, she was about to take that advice.
You are angry for a moment because she threw herself back into the fray. She has given you the advantage, but the fighters are now in a frenzy, searching for her. You can discern where Shadowheart is now because her form is flickering in the flames. The invisibility potion has almost run its course.
You watch as she begins to draw magic from Selûne’s spear, acting as a conduit while she gathers radiant power. You try to make your way towards her, only to be overwhelmed with a volley of arrows by one of the archers.
The archer cannot register your silver sword sinking into his neck. At the same time the body falls, a shockwave of radiant energy bursts from Shadowheart’s position. Screams echo throughout the dungeon—music to your ears. It burns two of the swordsmen to a crisp. Their charred corpses fall to the ground.
There is now one swordsman and one archer left—however they survived Shadowheart’s spell is beyond you. You feel that that victory may be within reach. There is now a slim chance that you all will survive. This is why Shadowheart earned your respect. Her strategic prowess to turn the tide in a dire situation is something you truly admire.
However, she is now completely exposed. The invisibility has worn off.
She is panting. Her face is bloodied. Her brilliant white hair has become a red eclipse. Her eyes are burning with determination, but exhaustion clouds the emerald green in her irises.
There is a pang of worry. You can surely handle whoever else is standing, now that Shadowheart has given you the upper hand. You hope to the gods, to the hells, to yourself that she will now heed your advice.
“No! Get out of here!” You yell. Shadowheart does not listen. The hallway is right behind her. She can make a run for it.
And yet, here she is, beginning to cast what appears to be a guiding bolt aimed at the last archer. You reason with yourself that the spell is relatively quick to summon. If she is going to stay, then so be it. You have full confidence that you and Shadowheart can finish this.
The tip of your sword scrapes on the stone. You decide to target the remaining swordsman, and you charge towards the poor fool.
You realize a moment too late that you should have gone for the archer.
With your sensitive ears, you can pick up the weak cry that Shadowheart lets out. There is a loud clang of her spear dropping abruptly to the ground. The archer was faster than her.
“Tsk’va, tsk’va, tsk’va!” You curse furiously.
As soon as the blood gushes from your fallen enemy, you wield your sword over your shoulder like a spear. With all the strength you can muster, you hurl your sword towards the archer who dared to extinguish zhak vo’n’fynh duj. Direct hit.
The sword protrudes through the archer’s chest, and the frail body collapses. Silence falls around you, save for the crackle of torches on the walls. All the attackers are dead. You cannot begin to bask in your hard-earned victory as you pull your sword from the archer and run towards Shadowheart. You can see her stumbling, a hand pressed to her chest as she tries muttering a healing spell. With the necrotic aura circling close to the wound, you deduce that an Ilmater arrow is stuck in her chest. The cerulean magic weaves around it, but you can tell it punctured too deep. It must have struck a vital artery. You don’t need to be a wizard or a cleric to know that the magic is not entering and healing the wound like it should. You cannot take the arrow out because she will surely bleed to death.
She tries tugging on the arrow to let the spell in, but she loses balance. Her eyes roll back and close. You get there just in time, catching her before her head hits the ground. Your arm gingerly wraps around her shoulders. With your other arm, you jab your sword into a crack in the ground. You lower her into a sitting position. She feels heavier than normal. You know it is not because of her armor.
“Damn it, Shadowheart!” You exclaim. She responds to your voice, and she blinks hard. You feel an uncomfortable heat surge to your face as you glance at the arrow, then back to Shadowheart.
“I don’t know…” Shadowheart wheezes. With the way her voice sounds right now, your softened heart cracks in agony. She sounds so defeated. Her breathing is uneven and shallow. If you never got to know her, you would say that she was weak.
You are the weak one, brought to your knees by zhak vo’n’fynh duj fading before your very eyes. For once in your life, you are not ashamed of being weak.
“K’chakhi! I told you to run!” You begin. You cannot say that it will be okay.
Shadowheart reaches for a healing vial, and you lift it to her lips. She forces herself to swallow the contents. Her face is wrought with pain. She is silent for a few seconds.
In this moment, you would do anything to hear her witty comments. Anything to hear her coy, silky voice, back to normal. You hope that the potion eases her pain and gets her back on her feet.
Her expression remains the same.
You watch her face intently with bated breath, as a futile act of rejecting the truth that you do not want to realize. It dawns on you anyway.
Shadowheart is dying.
She knows that you know it too. Every fiber of your being feels brittle. Your eyes are darting back and forth at Shadowheart’s eyes, as if they cannot believe the reality that is unfolding in front of you.
You sense hurried footsteps coming from the other side of the room. You gauge that Astarion must have gotten Wyll back on his feet when the attackers were distracted with you and Shadowheart. You do not care how the rogue managed to do it. If he was able to do something, then you must act as well.
You feel frozen, your head fastened in one direction, and that is towards Shadowheart. You dare not take your eyes off her. You search for your voice.
“Astarion, go to the Stormshore Tabernacle. Find a cleric. Bring them here. Now,” You demand. Your voice is fragmented. It is wrought with uneasiness, mixed with another unfamiliar emotion. Sorrow.
He goes without question. Wyll follows right behind him, albeit he has a slight limp.
“Must be dire if he didn’t argue with you. Or you’re just that assertive. No wonder I couldn’t resist,” Shadowheart mutters. She cracks a weak smile, but you do not have the strength to smile back. Your jaw is stiff.
“You will not die today. I will not allow it,” You firmly exclaim. You can tell her body is betraying your words. Her eyes slip closed for a moment. An unknowable terror grips you. You can barely register what comes out of our mouth.
“No! Look at me!” You yell. Your shouting is enough to bring Shadowheart back from her stupor. She opens her eyes once more to your relief. You notice it takes longer for her to look at you.
You pull Shadowheart closer to you, supporting her body with your arm. The other is holding fast onto the hilt of the sword. It is the only thing keeping your balance, especially with how hard you are trembling. You grip onto it desperately because you feel that if you let go, you will crumble into pieces. You wonder if Shadowheart notices your shakiness. You cannot steel yourself for this.
“You are strong. You must not give in to death, not now. Not when we are so close to victory. Please,” You mutter, as your voice breaks at the hopeless plea. You have never felt so desperate, not even when you were vying for Vlaakith’s attention. However, even as Vlaakith abandoned you, you still found reason for it. Perhaps Vlaakith was testing you with another trial—to gauge your true faith.
This desperation felt hopeless. You could not reason yourself out of the inevitable.
In your mind, you beg to the void with all the affection you have in your softened heart for Shadowheart. She made you learn how to revel in warmth. You learned how tenderness did not make you weak. It empowered you, seeing how you cleaved down the attackers with the thought of her fresh in your mind.
You want her to stay. You want her to get up. You want her to live. You want her to be the only one.
Your pleas go unanswered.
You are shocked to feel Shadowheart’s hand struggling to lay against your cheek. You close your eyes at the touch. All you can do is take it in until she cannot hold it there anymore.
Your eyes can no longer fight back the wetness pooling at the edge. Tears begin to trail past your war paint, gathering where her fingers are. She brushes them away with her thumb.
“Thank you, Lae’zel. You…you made it all worth it,” Shadowheart mumbles. Her voice croaks, ragged and tired. You hear the life within her dimming. You absorb each and every syllable. You do not know if she can gather the strength to speak again.
“No,” is all you can say. You cannot even recognize your own voice. You have never felt so small in your life. The fearless githyanki warrior, reduced to melted silver and broken glass. The stone, steeled heart, now reduced to pebbles and dust. Words cannot express your sorrow. You do the only thing you can think of.
You lean forward, warily brushing your lips against hers. Her mouth tastes of last night’s wine, when you were both sitting by the campfire, sharing a glass. You try to commit every crack of her lips into memory. The saltiness of your tears intersects with your mouths. Shadowheart cannot wipe them away anymore. You can feel Shadowheart’s face trembling ever so slightly. She is crying too.
The moment is gone too soon as you feel Shadowheart’s hand fall away from your face. Then, there is a familiar buzzing in your head.
Visions rush past in your mind as Shadowheart’s lips slowly part from yours. She is looking directly at you. You recognize the visions as her memories. You realize that she is using the rest of her cognition to recall all your moments together. The last thing she wants to remember is you.
You connect and intertwine your mind with Shadowheart’s. You witness everything in her perspective.
The caustic remarks that become playful bullying somehow. Shadowheart becoming so distracted at the sight of you fighting the goblins valiantly that she almost lets herself get caught off guard. How her feelings betrayed her at the sight of your smug, proud face. Her holding you close, similar to now, after she healed you in Grymforge. You see your own face, riddled with surprise at her concern. You remember that moment, and you realized then that she did not truly hate you. You did not hate her either. You never did.
Shadowheart recalls the memory of when you both became intimate. Her watching Vlaakith forsake you and her gaze falling on you. Then, Shadowheart is facing her own goddess, Shar, and you see through her eyes as she seeks you for guidance, for reassurance. Her sitting next to you on the rooftop, watching the sunrise. She is witnessing how the golden light shines on your olive skin. You can feel her become breathless at the sight of you.
You realize in this moment just how much Shadowheart admired you. This is how she perceived you. It moves you immensely as you feel a surge of emotions. Shadowheart’s emotions.
You almost pull back in surprise.
She is trying to stay tethered to you until she cannot maintain the connection. You feel warmth as she conveys just how happy you made her. How you made everything worth it to her, up until this moment. A fading light washes through your mind. It almost feels like healing magic.
Then, an echo of her voice reverberates in your head.
I’m with you.
You hear the final thud of Shadowheart’s hand hitting the ground. You search for life in her eyes, but they are slowly coming to a close. You try to commit the green in her irises to memory.
They finally shut, and Shadowheart does not open them again.
You still maintain the tadpole connection, even if Shadowheart cannot verbally speak anymore.
You say, Shadowheart, zhak vo’n’fynh duj. Stay with me, please.
Shadowheart replies. I’m here.
Back then, you did not know what to call it; how to describe your care for Shadowheart. It seems that now, you know exactly what to say.
Shadowheart, I love you. I love you.
The remnants of Shadowheart begin to speak.
I…
Her voice fades away in a whisper. The connection is lost in an instant.
Your sword clangs as it plummets to the ground. There is a sharp ringing in your ears.
You embrace her lifeless body close to your chest. You caress her face, looking for something. Anything. You do not find what you are looking for. You take in all the air in your lungs.
You scream.