Chapter Text
You open your eyes to an endless expanse of cloudless blue sky.
For a fleeting moment, it feels like a peaceful morning, the kind you wake up to with nothing more pressing than the weight of the blanket draped over you.
Then the stench hits you—burning flesh—and reality slams into your chest like a hammer.
The nausea comes first, then the awareness of your surroundings: sand beneath your fingers, a sluggish river nearby, and the broken, burning wreck of a nautiloid to your left.
The memories flood back, sharp and relentless, your skull throbbing with the weight of them. The tadpole squirms, a vile presence writhing at the base of your brain.
That fucking thing.
You sit up abruptly, heart and head pounding, and your eyes land on her: Jenevelle.
No, not Jenevelle.
Shadowheart.
That’s who she is now—at this point in time.
She’s lying unconscious on the sand, her hair black as pitch, her face serene in a way that feels utterly wrong.
The woman you love like a sister.
You sigh heavily, running a hand over your sweat-dampened forehead as the sadness begins to settle in.
It’s a weight you’ve carried before, but it doesn’t grow any lighter with repetition.
The implications are clear, painfully so.
If you’re here, if you’ve woken up with an untouched tadpole burrowing into your brain and Shadowheart lying motionless nearby, it can only mean one thing: you failed.
Which means you have to start again.
At the beginning.
Hot tears sting your eyes, and your chest tightens as though it’s caught in a vice.
The ache isn’t from the failure itself, that you can stomach.
You’ve made peace with the idea of your own death many times over.
But theirs?
Their deaths are a pain that burns deeper than anything you’ve ever known.
The memory strikes you with brutal clarity, as though you’re reliving it all over again.
Astarion, his expression frozen in shock, falling to his knees.
The blade, slick with blood, protruding grotesquely from his chest.
His lips moved, as if to speak, but no sound escaped before he collapsed.
Wyll crumpled beside you, his cry of surprise cutting through the battles chaos.
The sound was raw, unguarded—a note of disbelief and despair that echoed in your ears even now.
He clutched at his neck, blood seeping between his fingers as he sank to the ground.
Everything happened too fast.
The cacophony of battle, the clash of steel and roar of spells, blurred into a background haze.
All you could focus on was the devastation unfolding around you.
You turned, desperate, only to find Jaheira kneeling in the dirt, her hands slick with blood as she tried to heal Jenevelle.
Her body lay limp beneath Jaheira’s trembling hands, and the druid’s face was a mask of determination and despair.
Blood smeared her cheeks where she had swiped her hair back, leaving streaks of crimson against her weathered skin. Her words were a frantic chant, calling on Silvanus with every ounce of strength she had left.
But there was so much blood.
Too much blood.
You remember the moment when the horror fully took root, when you realized you were losing them.
One by one, your companions, your friends, your family, were falling.
You were powerless to stop it, the inevitability of their deaths crashing down on you with suffocating weight.
Forcing yourself to your feet, you shake off the haze of despair.
You can’t give in to it.
Not now.
Not this time.
You stretch, testing your body for injuries and find, as expected, that you’re unscathed.
Of course you are.
The gods have a cruel sense of humour.
You exhale deeply, your resolve settling in your chest.
This time, you’ll get it right.
A dead body lies in the sand a few paces ahead, the smell of charred flesh clinging to the air. You approach it, rifling through the pockets almost on autopilot.
Gold coins clink softly in your palm.
“No sense in wasting it,” you mutter to yourself, trying to ignore the pang of guilt.
Practicality wins.
You flex your mind tentatively, testing for any gaps or hazy recollections.
No, you’re intact.
Your life, your memories.
They’re all there.
Your parents.
Your sister.
The hamster you had as a child.
The cherries you stole from your grandmothers garden.
Relief washes over you.
No bloodlines to Bhaal this time.
Small mercies.
Still, the weight of what lies ahead is suffocating.
You knock the sand from your clothes, taking the first steps into a journey you already know too well.
Your heart is heavy.
It will be a long, grueling road before you find Karlach again.
Weeks before Gale starts to trust you.
Months before Astarion lowers his walls and you can have a meaningful conversation instead of shallow flirtations.
You make a mental note to find the boar early, force him to admit what he is before the situation spirals.
And Halsin... months, if not years.
It will be an unbearable length of time before he calls you his confidant, before you can rest in his arms and let yourself break under the weight of it all without fear of judgment.
The thought alone makes your throat tighten.
But for now, he doesn’t exist.
Not for you, not yet.
Another sigh escapes you as you crouch beside Shadowheart.
You take a moment longer than you should, watching her face, mourning a friendship already lost.
Her hair is still black.
She doesn’t yet know the weight she will carry.
The incredible woman she will become.
For her, this is only the beginning.
For you, it’s a cycle you can’t seem to escape.
“Shadowheart,” you say softly, forcing yourself to use her name while you reach for her shoulder.
And with that, the first step is taken, though the journey feels unbearably familiar.