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Shadowheart gestures for everyone to enter the warehouse, her eyes searching the sky and roads for any signs of the rest of the party. Wyll places a comforting hand on her shoulder, the half elf giving him a quick, distracted smile, gaze focusing on the friends around her.
“Lae’zel hasn’t made it yet. I… I’m sure she’s fine.” The cleric mutters, mostly to herself as Karlach, Wyll, Gale, the unconscious Solace and Astarion enter the building, her focus landing on the paladin once more. Her expression is unsurprised and yet exasperated as she sees the insensate tiefling on the woman’s back. The cleric asks Karlach to set the tiefling down so she can see what can be done for them, tone fond but utterly unsurprised.
The warehouse is as vacant as it was the last time they came through to save the gondian hostages, save for the Githyanki Prince and the Mindflayer he spoke with. Orpheus is smiling slightly, looking more relaxed than ever. The prince’s nose no longer bleeds, his face cleaned of all blood and illithid gore. He glances over to the newcomers, his eyes searching for someone who wasn’t among them. Likely Lae’zel. His lips frown and he nods to them all as they join him and Omeluum in safety. The gith prince notices the paladin’s state, his eyes marginally wider in alarm.
Karlach sets Solace down on a bunch of sacks, careful to avoid any injuries that are hidden under their armor, and lets Shadowheart take a look at them, the cleric’s eyes glowing. She mutters a few words and the paladin’s breathing eases, as does the rhythm of their heart. The tiefling stirs, brow and lips furrowing, deep bruises blossoming over their face as their body begins to heal properly; as though their flesh had been too focused on remaining alive to even begin the healing process. A groan of pain escapes them, and the sound relieves the gnawing worry in his chest.
He hadn’t been entirely aware of the weight where his unbeating heart rests. The morass of untameable terror at just how utterly sundered they are. The fact that their wounds had resisted the healing potions and even Dame Aylin had needed to force their flesh to mend, and barely managing to do so… it did not bode well.
Solace has already lost so much. It isn’t fair to have them lose more pieces of themselves.
Astarion is at their side a moment after Shadowheart brings them to semi consciousness, cold hands to swelling wounds, trying to help however he can. Blearily, the godling’s eyes open, silver eye struggling to bring anything into focus for a moment. The prosthetic focuses on him immediately, a slow, happy smile on Solace’s face as they see him. Something warm and alive lurches in his chest at the sight, and for a single moment, nothing is wrong in the world.
“Hi.” Their voice croaks, a pained wheeze to the word. Their left hand rests on his wrist as he cradles their face, their eyes drifting closed when they press into his touch. A small smile on their lips as they can rest for the first time in what felt like days. A tired, relieved tear slides down their cheek, warm on his palm, and he refuses to stop touching them. They want him to be near them. He will not disappoint. He does not want to stop touching them.
“Hello, beautiful.” He coos, pressing cold lips to his partner’s forehead. He breathes in their scent, warm, alive, sweet and calming. He can feel the warm blood rushing in their veins. They are here. They are alive. It is over. They are all free.
“I can’t do anything about your arm today,” Shadowheart apologizes, heavy shadows under her eyes. She looks nearly spent. Her hands shake with fatigue.
“I’m sorry. I can theoretically help, but I have spent everything I have today. And I’ll need components.” The cleric rattles off the reason she can’t set things right, her eyes drifting to the warehouse door. She is still waiting for Lea’zel. Her expression deeply worried. She had taken Halsin before Lae’zel had secured her own escape. Astarion felt that telling the cleric that her girlfriend had flown off the brain with a magically enlarged owlbear cub would probably not help her worries abate.
“‘S fine, Shadowheart. ‘S cool. I get it.” Solace slurs, pressing a hand to their side and mending some of their own wounds with a burst of silver magic. Solace sighs, some of the violent burns around their lips and eyes softening to nothing. Astarion feels his chest ease, satisfied that at least some of Selune’s wounds were reversible.
A direwolf lopes up to the paladin, snuffling at their hair and grumbling at their state. Halsin’s muzzle gently prods at the paladin’s unmade shoulder; the angry, vaguely reddish blue scab of healing flesh horrid in its untended state; a startled, sharp cry of alarm at a cold nose touching sensitive skin. The druid jerks back, a soft, apologetic whine for causing discomfort. He sits on his haunches, wolf expression contemplative as his eyes study the wound, the druid clearly considering what may be possible.
Astarion’s brows furrow, looking at the direwolf attempting to play nursemaid. Why was Halsin still in his wildshape? Was he still concerned for enemies that may find them? Or was what Shadowheart alluded to so severe that the druid was unable to shift back? What had happened to the druid? What more had his partners suffered without justification? The wolf’s eyes move to him, head tilted and now studying him, a soft, placating whuff escaping him as he does. His tail thumps on the ground in an attempt to show he is in a good mood. Astarion continues to frown, keeping his hands on the sides of Solace’s face, the paladin’s weak grip keeping him close.
Solace is clearly trying to remain awake, fighting for consciousness with every breath. Their head bobs unsteadily, as though moments from crashing onto the pile of cloth they rested on, but they remain aware, smiling up at him and then turning to smile at Halsin.
“Hi. I love you.” The paladin slurs, exhausted but grinning at the wolf, his big canine head gently coming to rest on Solace’s stomach. The tiefling groans quietly, taking their hand from Astarion and scratching at Halsin’s ears.
“I love your big wolf ears.” They continue, pawing uncoordinatedly at the wolf’s head, gauntlet smacking into sensitive ears, pulling an apologetic sound from the paladin as they retract their touch. Halsin whines in response, trying to tell the tiefling that they did not harm him, big wolf tongue licking their cheek and making them laugh.
It is quiet for a few moments, the assembled friends and allies able to relax as the city is no longer under active siege. It is quiet. Calm. Solace drifts into a light sleep as Karlach and Shadowheart discuss something, and Wyll is busy with Gale.
A heavy thud is heard above them, the roof rattling and denting as something massive hits it. Everyone who can, readies weapons. Solace groans on the ground, struggling to their feet after being shocked to full consciousness. Karlach nearly steps on their gauntleted hand to keep them down, but the paladin is determined.
“Solace for fucks-” Shadowheart curses, glaring daggers at them before a familiar, commanding voice calls from outside.
“The elder brain is nearing the river. Let us watch our final victory together!” Lae’zel cries, voice now in front of the warehouse, the sound of the owlbear chittering happily above the building. A hearty cheer and a bird cry joins the cacophony as the allies venture outside, relieved to see all their friends in one place. Jaheira shifts from her massive eagle form, elderly face creased in relief and exhaustion. Minsc embraces his old friend in a hug that looks ready to break bones, but the harper just laughs and allows the man to hold her. Shadowheart races up to Lae’zel, arms wrapping around the woman’s shoulders, a kiss to the warrior’s lips that has her blushing furiously.
Lae’zel clears her throat and points to the sky; to the careening Elder Brain that has yet struggled to remain afloat. A terrible cry pierces through every tadpoled head. The fear and fury of a dying monster that will never control what it wished to. There is a burning sensation behind his eyes, in his sinuses, a horrid, violating, melting feeling like there is a piece of his brain trying to escape through his nose. He gags, and he is not alone in doing so. Gale, Wyll, Solace and Shadowheart retch as the mindflayer tadpole slips down their faces, liquid and vile.
The others, Astarion included, manage to contain their disgust, gasping and groaning as the parasites escape their heads. He spits, wiping his nose of the disgusting leavings, refusing to lick his lips even as he feels the bodily desire to do so. Muscle memory from when he could still get head colds. He smiles, breathing a full breath of clear-ish harbor air as he stands up fully.
He is free.
He is free of Cazador.
And he is free of the worm.
Solace stands up from their hunched over retching, wiping furiously at their face with their single gauntleted hand. He takes their hand in both of his and begins to unfasten the metal, getting a grumpy but appreciative grunt in response. Once their hand is free, and Astarion can see the burns of silver flames on their skin, they resume brushing the gunk from their face. He can see it in the direct sunlight now; their veins glow silver in their skin. Gods. He cannot imagine how much containing Selune’s fire had hurt.
“Gross. I need a bath.” They whine, resting their head against his, left arm wrapped around his waist. He chuckles, watching the Elder Brain continue its fall from the sky. Halsin, his big wolf body looming behind them, presses up against the back of them both, a satisfied and relieved wolfish sigh as he watches the aberrant brain crash into the river.
For a moment, it just lays there, floating as a corpse tends to do. As mundane as a giant brain could be, which isn't mundane in the slightest, but in comparison to everything that just happened, it’s mundane.
For a moment, Astarion wonders if the city will have to contend with a rotting elder brain in the river. He will have to convince Solace it’s not their problem. Maybe they’ll focus on the horde of spawn in the underdark if he reminds them that the spawn exist.
He is saved from that potential headache when the brain is destroyed in a shower of arcane sparks. No pieces of flesh flying through the air. No remnant of flesh to be found. It is dead. All that is left is the cascade of Netherese magic over the water, skipping like skimmed stones.
Silence follows the spectacle. Even the river seems to freeze. For a single moment before it continues its important business of being a river.
It is well and truly, finally, over.
A few seconds pass where there is no other voice in any of their heads. No deep pit of aching nausea as they consider what might happen if a captured prince’s powers fail or the capricious slaver in their heads decides to force them to turn into illithids.
There is nothing, and no one, inside his head except for him.
It is very quiet in his head. It is… very strange. For two hundred years, he has known his master’s touch in his mind. The looming disallowance of ill will. The ordered supplications if he ever even thought of harming his master. All of that is gone. As is the slimy, writhing little bastard of a tadpole and the whispers of power if he sacrificed pieces of himself.
The only person in his head… is him.
Astarion is all that remains.
A smile slides over his lips, a feeling of relief, of a weight he had not known he carried, sliding off his shoulders as a new, gentler reality asserts itself. He looks up at Solace, their tired, bruised, beautiful sunlit face softening as they realize that the plot their dead self started, is over. They did it. They close their eyes and breathe a slow, deep breath, their hand squeezing his and then running through Halsin’s fur. Tears slip down their ash and blood stained face, their shoulders relaxing, their breath easing.
Wyll and Gale are quietly talking among themselves, the wizard looking conflicted and yet understanding. Wyll places his hands on the man’s shoulders, a hand sliding down to rest over his heart; where the netherese orb nestled between his ribs, eating away at his insides and poisoning his blood. The wizard nods, somewhat defeated, Wyll’s hands coming to hold the man’s jaw, a bright, loving smile on his handsome face. Gale returns the smile, albeit a little saddened. He nods and moves to embrace the warlock, the horned man happy to do so. Astarion finds himself smiling, glad to see that the two men were capable of caring for each other. Maybe Wyll and the wizard will have time to properly court the other, now that the crisis is ended.
Lae’zel turns to her prince, pride and honor in her voice.
“Now that the brain is dead, my prince, I believe we should unbind you from Omeluum. It has earned its ability to return to its lodge.” The gith woman tells her prince she believes a mindflayer should be free. Should be allowed to live.
“We have already been unbound, Kith’rak Lae’zel. I have already given it my assurance it will not be harmed so long as it remains with the Society of Brilliance and disallows any experimentation's on gith as its fellow alluded to.”
“I was unaware of the duegar’s intentions for the egg. He will be dealt with by our superiors. Should you wish to discuss any further details, I will be at the Lodge.” The mindflayer informs those present of its aims, adopts the visage of an average looking human woman, and walks away. Orpheus’ expression is tight, but he turns to the wide eyed Lae’zel. She has not moved since her prince called her Kith’rak. Astarion smiles at her, a little mocking at what reads as sycophancy. She blinks, unable to take her eyes off her prince. Beside and behind her, Shadowheart is doing her best to look enthusiastic, but her eyes are saddened. She doesn’t want the woman to go.
“Are you prepared to take the fight to Vlaakith, Kith’rak? Are you ready to free our people from the chains of slavery?” Orpheus studies the gith woman, and his eyes drift to the tense faced Shadowheart.
“I… believe I am, my prince, but…” Lae’zel breathes, wincing slightly as she turns to the cleric, whose face does not manage to look entirely proud and enthusiastic. Shadowheart tries to look as though she is not heartbroken at Lae’zel going to the Astral Sea.
“I… would like to have time to say goodbye. I cannot leave behind those that I have come to love. Not without the time to say proper farewells.” The woman’s face hardens into resolve, meeting her prince’s gaze. The man smiles wryly, perhaps a little irritated, but he seems understanding.
“I will leave you to do so then. When you are ready to join the fight, call for Quulos, one of my dragons. He will bring you to me when you are ready.” The prince presses a talisman into the young woman’s hands and walks past her, calling for Quuthos, a massive red dragon that comes flying down from the sky, her great scaly head lowered for her rider to climb onto her back. Orpheus, from the dragon’s back, turns and regards Lae’zel and Solace in turn, a tense smile on his face.
“There are many ways to return to and from the Astral Sea, Lae’zel. You need not be gone forever.” His gaze turns to Solace, his eyes steely.
“You are unique, mla’ghir. You will not be forgotten. Your deeds will be inscribed in stone, so all Gith may remember the istik whose efforts saved their prince. Be well.” The red dragon lifts from the ground, taking the githyanki monarch with her.
Lae’zel stands perfectly still, hands clutching the talisman as though it will disappear if she even slightly lessens her grip. She looks to Shadowheart, the half elf blushing furiously at the heady gaze the gith woman levels at her. Proper farewell indeed.
“Well,” Solace croaks, nearly getting a jump from everyone around them, their voice utterly sundered by the ordeal of the past day or so.
“I think it’s time we either partied, or went to fucking sleep.” Astarion laughs.
“Yes, I agree. Let’s hope the Elfsong is still standing. I didn’t look for- ouch!” The heat on his face had been building, but he had thought it was just the evening sun.
“What? Oh. Oh no.” His voice trembles, fear and horror striking his words with the speed of an asp.
His skin hurts. His face, his nose, it burns. It is awful, it’s painful. He is on fire.
The sun is burning him again.
“Astarion!” Someone calls his name, but it hurts too much to try and see who it was. The burning pain blinds him, his hands trying to pat out flames on his arms.
“I- I’m sorry! I need to go!” He cries and begins to stumble towards where he thinks a shadow is. He remembered the shadow of a crane. He can hide in that and stop burning and get inside. He can.
A hand grips his arm and he panics. No. He won’t die like this. Not after everything.
“Let me go!” He cries, lurching from the weak grip and stumbling to the ground. He has to get to the shade. It hurts. Gods it hurts.
And then it doesn’t.
As soon as it started, it stops. The pain is gone. The flames no longer burn.
A warm hand on his shoulder again, gentle and calm, not restraining him.
“We have you, Astarion. It’s okay. Let’s get you into the warehouse.” Shadowheart’s voice tells him, her arm linking with his. He is in utter darkness, blind and frightened. He finds himself clinging to her, the lingering pain heavy in his body. His feet stumble and he trips, but the cleric never falters, her arm steady and sure.
Shadowheart assures him that he is inside, that the sun will not hurt him, and she asks Gale to drop the darkness, which the wizard does, and Astarion can see that his friends have followed him inside. Solace looks deeply worried, their expression close to shamed.
“Astarion,” Shadowheart asks, calm and kind, holding her hand out to him.
“Will you let me see your wounds?” He automatically holds out his cracked and burnt hands, the skin already starting to flake off like cracked paint. She nods, a hand glowing with blue magic against his skin.
Nothing happens. He does not feel the familiar relief his cleric friend’s magic usually provided. Shadowheart sighs, nodding grimly to herself. Her hand then presses to her chest.
“I had thought this might happen. It’ll be alright, Astarion. I prepared something that may still work.” The cleric’s hand pulls some glowing golden energy from herself, wincing as she does, and presses her hand once more over his broken flesh.
The relief is instant. The ache of disintegrating skin softens to something mild and tolerable. Like he had had a mild reaction to a lotion or oil.
But he knows what Shadowheart had done. She had hurt herself to help him. Because the tadpole no longer allowed him to be healed by magic anymore. Because it is gone. And with it, his ability to walk in the sun.
He can’t hold back the tears that fall from his eyes. He can’t hide the sudden reminder that he is condemned to the shadows. He feels so stupid. Of course it wouldn’t last. It was never going to. He knew it. They had all known it. And yet he had been in the sun and let it burn him.
A warm hand gently touches his shoulder, and he knows who it is without looking. He can smell their vanilla scent and he presses into their touch as they sit beside him, wrapping their body around him to keep him warm. Someone had helped them remove their chest plate. He is cradled against the warm chest of his partner, and he is not shamed for crying.