Chapter Text
Of all the things that Isobel expected to see when she descended the stairs with a bowl of milk for His Majesty, a naked drow was not one of them. But there one was, standing in the makeshift barracks, splattered with blood. On a second glance it became clear that much of the blood was likely hers – deep purple bruises mottled the lighter purple of her skin, bands of abrasions encircled her wrists, and her back was covered with weeping lacerations.
Last Light was filled with the joyous cries and excited chatter of the freed prisoners of the Absolute reuniting with their family and friends, so where this stranger was from and how she had come to be in this sorry state was self-evident. Given her injuries, it made sense that she was in the barracks – now also serving as a makeshift infirmary – where presumably she had removed her clothing in order to be treated (though really, they should have closed the door). What didn’t make sense was why such a wounded patient was upright and embroiled in some kind of argument rather than in bed and being attended to. Isobel would never have allowed it back when she worked at the House of Healing, and Fist J’ehlar had seemed an able enough healer from Isobel’s brief conversations with her.
Isobel tried to tell herself that it was none of her business. That she should just give His Majesty his milk and retreat back to her room and her lonely vigil. But as the drow shifted Isobel noticed that she was sporting a truly spectacular head wound and really, she should not be standing.
With a sigh, Isobel began picking her way through the crowd. Whatever was happening, maybe she could help. Perhaps she could do something other than hold up the Moonshield and wait and pray and hope that these ‘free True Souls’ could undo all her father Ketheric had wrought. It would be good, she thought, to heal someone again. To prove to herself that more than death flowed in her veins now.
As she drew closer, she was able to see that the drow was arguing with an elven druid she vaguely remembered from life, if only for his prodigious size. A white dragonborn who matched the description Jaheria had given of the leader of the band of free True Souls stood to the side, arms crossed. Isobel… hesitated. If the druid remembered her then the secrets she kept – her parentage, her undeath – would be exposed and the Harpers might well try and risk the shadows than stay with a Thorm. But something about this situation sat uneasily with her. Besides, she had only been a girl, still in her father’s shadow, when the Emerald Grove had last sent delegates to Reithwin. Hopefully he would not put her face to a name long buried.
“… the Absolute that directed my hand toward your grove - the same Absolute that I am sworn to destroy now that I am free of its influence,” the drow was saying as Isobel got close enough to hear over the celebrations in the main hall. “I have no quarrel with you.”
So this drow had been a cultist, then? That this mysterious artifact could rescue even people who had been previously enthralled was some of the best news that she had heard recently, second only to the existence of the artifact in the first place. How many others could they potentially save from her father’s Ketheric’s monstrous grasp?
“I am no stranger to the Underdark. Cruelty comes to Lolth's followers as naturally as breathing. I have seen it - experienced it,” said the druid with a frown. “The Absolute was just an excuse to indulge your base instincts. You shall find another.”
Isobel could understand his wariness. That the drow was Lolthsworn was a bit worrying. There were tunnels that connected to the Underdark in the nearby mountains, and drow had occasionally used them to raid Reithwin. Aylin (dead. dead! how could she be—) had fended off their last attempt, but Isobel remembered the devastation and grieving families left behind when they had attacked decades before that.
“Spare me your sanctimony, druid,” sneered the drow. “You kill to preserve your natural order, do you not? Or are the claws and fangs simply for show?” She curled her hands to mimic claws and waved them about to illustrate her point, and Isobel had to suppress a snort. All mockery dropped from her voice as she continued, almost painfully earnestly. “Lolth has discarded me, and the cult of the Absolute abused my mind, and stole my body. If you stand against them, you stand with me.”
That was enough for Isobel. Selune’s ethos was first and foremost one of acceptance and tolerance, even towards Lolthsworn (provided that they were not hostile, which this one did not appear to be). Besides, they needed all the help they could get. Surely they could reach an accord with this woman.
“I am not without sympathy…” the druid trailed off, but then his face grew firm with resolve, “but the risk is too great. We may share a foe, but we cannot be allies.” He turned to the True Souls’ leader, whose gaze lingered on the druid’s face for a long moment before he slowly nodded.
“I’m sorry, Minthara,” said the True Soul, “but I trust Halsin’s judgment. You need to leave.”
Isobel had not blessed this drow. She’d heard that the True Souls had gotten hold of some sort of lantern, but the dr—Minthara had no protection from the shadow curse. To cast her out would…
“If I leave, I die.” Though Isobel couldn’t see her face from her vantage point at the door she could hear the desperation in Minthara’s voice. “No... worse than death. If I leave, if I am not protected from the Absolute's voice as you are, then it will take me again. Body, mind and soul.”
Gods. What was her father Ketheric doing to these poor people? It was one thing to know, abstractly, that the True Souls were mind controlled – another thing entirely to see a victim before her. And how horrid would it be, to think oneself saved, freed, only to be forced back into whatever horrific psionic slavery was going on in the defiled shell of her home Moonrise Towers? The sheer cruelty of the suggestion staggered belief, regardless of how dangerous the woman might be.
The True Soul seemed to agree. His expression wavered and he glanced at Halsin, brow furrowed. “She’s right – if we force her to leave, we condemn her to a horrible fate.”
“Regrettable,” said the man apparently named Halsin. “But if I am forced to weigh her life and freedom against your own, then I see little choice. A viper cannot escape its true nature, no matter how calm it may seem.”
The True Soul’s face froze at that. For a split second, he appeared stricken, but then his expression shuttered. He sighed heavily. “Agreed. Goodb—”
“No,” said Isobel. Three sets of eyes snapped to where she stood in the doorway. The True Soul’s slit pupils dilated and his nostrils flared; he stared at Isobel with a manic intensity as his hands spasmed, one jerking back towards his belt. Then, so quickly that Isobel almost wondered if her mind had just been playing tricks on her, the dragonborn’s hands stilled and his face relaxed back into a neutral expression.
“This is a private conversation,” said the True Soul.
“Then you should not have had it in public,” replied Isobel.
“Listen, Lady—”
“Do I know you?” interrupted Halsin, squinting at her slightly. “Your face seems… familiar to me.”
Isobel smiled and hoped it didn’t look as fake as she felt. “I don’t see how you would. I’m Isobel, cleric of Selune. And you,” she turned and gestured at Minthara, “should be in bed, getting those injuries tended to.”
“I have greater concerns at the moment,” Minthara replied stiffly, her ears tense and flat against her skull.
“No, you do not.” Isobel spread her shoulders, trying to appear authoritative like her father had been, everyone had always listened to him. Mostly she just felt like a fraud, a corpse posing as a healer, a girl trying to give orders while still clutching a bowl of milk. Nevertheless, she continued, “Selune charges us to ‘Let all on whom my light falls be welcome if they desire to be so.’ You may stay as long as you wish, so long as you keep the peace. I will not stand by and let you be cast out into the shadows.”
“That’s not your call to make,” said the True Soul. “You don’t have any say over who remains in my party. This is none of your business.”
“You’re right, I have no authority over you,” said Isobel, and Minthara’s ears flicked downwards before stilling – a sign of distress, hastily controlled. “But likewise you don’t have any say over who stays or leaves Last Light. As soon as you brought Minthara here, she became my business.”
“You would endanger all who shelter here if you permit a predator to lurk in their midst,” insisted Halsin. The True Soul shifted on his feet.
“I will not condemn a woman to enslavement – or worse – because she might commit a crime!”
Halsin turned back to the True Soul. “Durge, I cannot remain if that killer is to stay also.”
The True Soul – Dirge? – scowled at Isobel. “We’re your only hope against Ketheric and the Absolute. You need us. You don’t need her, and we don’t need you. I suggest you reconsider.”
Isobel grit her teeth, much of her previous goodwill towards this band of True Souls fading. Minthara met her gaze, eyes wide and pleading, ears drooping. There was no hope in her expression, only a resigned misery – she was anticipating the end. Isobel wouldn’t let that happen. Whoever she was, whatever she had done, no one deserved whatever horrors her father Ketheric was wreaking upon the victims of his cult. Besides, she had a duty.
“She stays with me,” bargained Isobel. “In my room. She can’t hurt anyone there.”
“Except you,” pointed out Halsin.
“If she attacks me, she dies. I’m the one holding the Moonshield up,” said Isobel with a blitheness she didn’t feel. “I’ll be safe enough.”
Dirge looked contemplative, his scowl lessening. “Would that satisfy you, Halsin?” he asked.
The druid frowned and crossed his arms. “It is unwise...”
“That’s not a no. So glad we reached this compromise,” said Isobel grimly, barreling over whatever else he meant to say. “Minthara, my room’s upstairs. Let’s get you looked at.”
“Wait,” said the drow, uncertain. “The Absolute– the artifact. If I stay here, I will not be protected when they leave.”
Dirge shifted, his tail flicking in… irritation? Anger? Isobel didn’t have much experience with tails. “The Dream Guardian set up wards around this base. So long as she stays here, she’ll be safe.”
Minthara nodded once, though Isobel could tell from her expression that she had doubts. She turned and walked towards Isobel, which rather forcibly reminded her that this woman was very much naked.
“Before we head up, where are your clothes?” Isobel would spare Minthara the indignity of being paraded before all of Last Light like this.
“Those iblith took them when they defeated me,” said Minthara, scowling and shooting a glare at Dirge as he escorted Halsin out of the room.
“I thought you came from Moonrise?” asked Isobel. She suspected that she very much did not want to know what ‘iblith’ translated to.
“The Absolute compelled me to return after my failure. Surely you do not think prisoners are afforded such luxuries as clothing?”
“They marched you here naked!?” exclaimed Isobel, appalled. Surely the free True Souls could have spared a cloak or something so that Minthara could cover herself. She tried desperately not to think about the implications of her father Ketheric chaining naked women up in the halls of her home Moonrise Towers. She resolutely did not look down to see if the bruises mottling Minthara’s body extended to the inside of her thighs. He would never do that (but then again, she had once thought that he could never do all the rest of this, either, and look how that had gone), surely that was a line he would never cross even in his fallen state (she hated that she was no longer completely sure). “Urgh, nevermind. Here’s, uh,” Isobel frantically glanced around the room before finally spotting something suitable, “a bed linen, yes. Use that until we get to my room. I have spare clothes there.”
Minthara blinked at her, though she took the linen. “What for?” she asked, holding it up by one corner and letting it unfold itself under its own weight.
“To cover yourself with,” said Isobel, as she knelt down to place the bowl of milk on the floor for His Majesty.
“There is no need for that,” said Minthara. “I am not cold, and do not share the shame the surface walkers have for their bodies.”
“There are children in the hall!”
“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Minthara, before realization dawned upon her face. “While children would be easy enough to overpower, their clothing would not fit me.”
It occurred to Isobel that perhaps she may have underestimated the magnitude of the culture clash she would be dealing with. Hm. How to explain this to a person with no concept of decency whatsoever?
“On the surface, to be naked before anyone who is not your lover or your doctor is considered humiliating. It’s a symbol of, uh, depersonalization? People get clothes, objects do not. To be naked in public is to be considered a thing.” There – that was something a drow would care about, right?
It seemed to work – Minthara’s face grew thunderous and she gingerly wrapped the sheet around her waist, ears trembling as it made contact with the lacerations on her back. Isobel was tempted to ask her to raise it to cover her breasts, but given the ruined state of her back even the pressure on her waist must be awful – this would do for the short jaunt upstairs. They’d just have to hurry, to minimize any potential gawking.
“All right, follow me,” said Isobel as she opened the door of the barracks. Minthara followed at first but stopped at the doorway, her eyes scanning the raucous crowd within the main hall. “My room’s just up the stairs. It’s not far,” reassured Isobel. She slowly began walking in that direction, careful to clear a path for the drow to follow.
She only managed a couple of steps. “You must truly trust me, to turn your back to me so readily,” whispered Minthara from far too close. When had she gotten directly behind Isobel!? She moved remarkably silently for someone as injured as she was. As Isobel whirled around, Minthara poked a finger at the small of her back. “Would this fabric offer any protection at all against a dagger?”
“It offers plenty,” said Isobel, lifting her chin. Moonmaiden’s milk, the woman was injured and needed to get to a bed – why was she picking a fight in the middle of the hall while surrounded by Harpers and refugees? Nevertheless, Isobel clasped her palms together and summoned her Lady’s light, which settled around her as a faintly glowing lunar bulwark.
“Hmph. It is something, but it would not stop anyone sufficiently determined.” Minthara frowned.
“Well,” said Isobel, slightly unnerved. Why was Minthara pursuing this train of thought? “It’s a good thing that no one here would try anything, then. On account of how everyone would die if they did.”
Minthara glanced towards the Inn’s front door, then continued in a voice pitched so low that Isobel struggled to hear it. “That would explain what True Soul Marcus’s mission here is.”
“What?!” exclaimed Isobel. Marcus couldn’t be a True Soul! He’d been with them since the beginning… though that did mean that he’d been here since before Jaheira had caught the tadpole she’d been using to screen people. But no, it couldn’t be, there had been no opportunity for him to become infected. Except – how had Minthara known his name?
Isobel jerked her head over towards the front entrance – “Don’t look,” hissed Minthara – and met Marcus’s eyes. He blinked at her, startled, before his gaze slid towards Minthara and something ugly settled across his expression. Beside her, Minthara stiffened and narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she sneered at Marcus, whose countenance flooded with rage. “It seems the Gen— Ketheric wants you alive,” she said. “Whatever his plans for you, I doubt they are pleasant.”
Ice flooded Isobel’s spine. How did she— no one here— “How do you know that!? Are you—”
“Stop babbling and prepare for combat,” interrupted Minthara. She grabbed Isobel’s upper arm and dragged her – gods she was strong! – towards a corner, past a surprised tiefling boy, who stopped hawking his wares to squawk at the intrusion. “How skilled are you with that spear?”
“I can handle myself,” said Isobel just as Jaheira exclaimed, “What are you doing!? Release her!”
Minthara ignored Jaheira, shoving Isobel into the corner. She grabbed what appeared to be a potion of invisibility from the top of the nearby table (over the tiefling’s complaints) and then flipped that table onto its side and shoved it against the wall, forming a makeshift barrier in front of Isobel. Jaheira drew her scimitars and rounded the corner of the table she’d been standing behind, glare fixed on Minthara. Marcus had drawn his greatclub and was striding towards them, a grimly determined look on his face.
“Jaheria!” cried Isobel. “Marcus is a True Soul!”
Jaheira’s eyes widened but she didn’t hesitate, whirling to face the Fist. “Harpers! To arms!”
Marcus howled. His voice was joined by a cacophony of chitters and shrieks as a swarm of winged horrors descended from the shadows through the hole in the inn’s roof and then by screams as the refugees within Last Light tried to run for their lives. Not all of them made it – Isobel could only watch, her heart in her throat, as one of those awful creatures grabbed a tiefling child and flew away with her. As the ghouls landed, spikes of necromantic energy burst out around them, impaling refugees, Harpers, and Fists alike. Those unfortunate enough to be hit collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. Isobel grabbed the terrified boy who’d been manning the shop Minthara had so rudely overturned and hauled him over the barrier – hopefully it would shield him from the worst of the fighting to come.
Now sporting a pair of rotting black wings, Marcus advanced with deadly intent. He glared at Minthara. “The Absolute sees all – your treachery will be punished!”
“All she will see is your death,” said Minthara. She’d shifted into a combat stance but made no move to get out of his way, despite being injured, unarmed, and wearing nothing but a bedsheet. Was she insane?
Marcus shouted, a horrid thing that Isobel felt leeching at what little warmth and life she still had – the death inside of her rose in greeting, roiling through her veins. Beside her, the tiefling child doubled over, gasping in pain. Before she could raise a hand to heal him, a meaty thud rang out, accompanied by the subtle crackle of bone snapping. Isobel looked over the makeshift barricade just in time to see Marcus raise his greatclub and slam it back into Minthara’s unprotected side.
The drow grunted in pain and glared at Marcus. “Drop,” she commanded, the weight of the magic in her voice making Isobel shiver and Marcus obey. No sooner had the greatclub hit the ground than Minthara grabbed it and quaffed the potion of invisibility, disappearing from view.
Meanwhile, the Harpers, Fists, and even some of the refugees had leapt into action. Arrows rained down on the ghouls, but the wounds barely slowed the creatures, all of whom, Isobel realized, were converging on her location. She ducked back down behind the barricade but not before two of them had gotten close enough to strike. One missed, claws scrabbling against her lunar bulwark. The other managed to get through, wicked claws shredding through cloth and the flesh of her upper arm alike. A tingling sensation spread from the wound – as Isobel shook it off her Lady’s light swirled around her and the ghoul flinched back with a hiss.
“Protect Isobel! She cannot fall!” shouted Jaheira, and Isobel felt the flesh of her arm knit itself back together. There was a sudden clatter as thousands of spikes of ice fell onto the massed ghouls – Isobel could hear them screeching and Marcus’s bellow of pain. Arrows thudded into the tabletop she was taking cover behind; Bor roared a challenge that was followed by the crunch of what Isobel assumed was a skull; in the distance Essius shouted something.
“Watch out!” shouted the tiefling as a ghoul lurched over the barricade. Isobel was too slow to dodge it completely – claws raked along her cheek and the side of her neck, rupturing the artery there in a spray of blood. As her Lady’s protection once more rose around her she clapped a hand to her neck and desperately healed the gash there – a rush job but it served to stop the bleeding.
Enough was enough. Isobel spun away from the barricade, raised her holy symbol, and called upon Selune to Turn the damn things. Two of them combusted on the spot, which brought her a vicious satisfaction. A third managed one step before a spell slammed into its back and it likewise dropped. The tiefling boy vaulted over the barricade and ran for his life, sprinting past the two remaining ghouls and the traitor – who looked very angry.
Marcus roared once more and as Isobel stumbled from that awful drain he surged forward, wrapped his hands around her throat, dragged her over the top of the barricade, and slammed her against the wall. Pain shot through her skull; she had a split second of realization and horror as he pulled her forward and then he slammed her back once more. Agony rocketed through her head and her vision swam; his hands were locked around her throat and she couldn’t breathe. She reached for her spear but he shoved her against the wall and pressed against her, too close for her to maneuver it – she fumbled, it fell. Arrows clattered against his back; he grunted but did not let go. Panic rose in her chest, she beat her fists futilely against his armored wrists. She couldn’t breathe, her vision was beginning to go gray, her lungs were burning oh Selune help her she didn't want to die again please no she couldn’t breathe—
Light exploded before her eyes and suddenly Isobel was free. As she stumbled backwards, desperately sucking in blessed air, Minthara flickered back into view, greatclub in hand and splattered with fresh blood. The force of her blow had driven Marcus to his knees; blood poured from a massive gash on the back of his head. As he stumbled to his feet Minthara hauled the greatclub back up above her head – flames raced along the shaft as she brought it down on his shoulder with yet another explosion of light.
Isobel clutched at her throat, dragging in great heaving breaths. She was only faintly aware of Jaheira saying something but very much felt when the crumbled cartilage of her windpipe snapped back into its proper shape. A moment later a lightning bolt streaked down from the ceiling, striking Marcus and incinerating the remaining ghouls. He screamed but still did not fall – what enhancements did the Absolute give these people!?
As Bor, Branthos, and Ulthred ran in to attack him, Isobel hauled herself upright. The traitorous Fist had turned away from her as he attempted to fend off his newest assailants. Isobel staggered up to him and slammed her hand down on his unguarded back, channeling all the power at her disposal into inflicting the worst wound she could. Death reached out hungrily from within her, pouring into his body, devouring it from the inside out. Marcus finally collapsed with a clatter of armor and for the first time since her resurrection Isobel felt sated.
It didn’t last. After just a few breaths she was overcome by a coughing fit and by the time it had receded she could feel the pool of necrotic power settling back into the cavity in her chest where her heart beat too evenly, too slowly, even after all this exertion. it was wrong her heart was wrong her lungs were wrong this power that writhed within her and had devoured Marcus was wrong wrong wrong—
“Isobel! Are you all right?”
She looked up to see Jaheira standing worriedly before her. “I’m fine,” she lied.
Jaheira pinched the bridge of her nose. “Traitors among us, a child taken… and still I can only feel relief. If they had taken you too…” Jaheira shook her head. “Marcus has been with us from the start – they’ve been tracking us this whole time. Still, better that the confrontation happen in the main hall. If he’d gotten to you while you were alone, then all would have been lost.” She paused. “How did you learn he was a True Soul?”
“Minthara warned me.” Isobel nodded towards the woman, who was standing somewhat stiffly by Marcus’s corpse, both hands resting on the greatclub in front of her. On closer inspection, she was using the weapon to prop herself up and her skin was clammy and pale. She wheezed on every exhale – how many of her ribs were broken?
“Anders mentioned that one of the rescued prisoners was infected,” said Jaheira, nodding towards the drow. “It is good that your tadpole detected what mine did not.”
“My… tadpole?” asked Minthara. Isobel winced. Of course the True Souls didn’t know the nature of their affliction – they thought the Absolute a god and its commands divine.
“All True Souls are infected with mind flayer tadpoles,” explained Jaheira. “That is the nature of this Absolute.”
“Nonsense,” said Minthara, her voice clipped. “I know haszakkin, they do not—”
“See for yourself,” said Jaheira with a shrug, and pulled out her specimen. The vile thing writhed within its jar until suddenly it lurched towards Minthara, who stiffened and raised her hand to her temple.
“It cannot be,” said Minthara, somewhat desperately. “Surely, I would remember—” She stopped suddenly, staring at nothing. Slowly her eyes grew wide, her ears pressed themselves flat against her skull, and her mouth pulled itself into a grimmer and grimmer line.
Isobel met Jaheria’s eyes and saw her own sympathy mirrored in them. She laid a gentle hand on Minthara’s arm. “Minthara, you need to get to a bed.”
“That is the thing inside me? I need— a needle, a stiletto, a dagger would do.” Minthara’s voice was staccato, speaking more to herself than anything. Suddenly she stopped and whirled around to stare at Isobel with wild eyes, wincing and clutching at the side of her chest as she did so. “You – you’re a cleric. Can you—?”
Jaheria sighed. “The only thing that will remove that tadpole is removing half your brain. Some vile magic holds it in place, beyond the capabilities of anyone I know. Do you think I have not tried?”
“I can’t do anything for your tadpole, but I can fix those ribs,” said Isobel. “The artifact will protect you from the tadpole for now. Let’s get you upstairs.”
“Go,” said Jaheira, “but we must speak later.”
“I— fine. Lead the way.” Minthara did not look pleased but she did look tired, the genuine exhaustion of someone who truly did not have any remaining stores of energy left to tap.
It took longer than it should for the two of them to transverse the short distance from the ground floor to Isobel’s room. Every part of Isobel’s body was sore, her head was pounding, her neck ached, and the cuts on her arm and face were still sluggishly bleeding. Minthara was in far worse shape, injuries from the fight compounding the ones she’d received at Moonrise.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” said Isobel somewhat sardonically when they finally arrived at the room she’d commandeered as her own.
Minthara looked around, eyes scanning the room with a military thoroughness. She nodded once. “It does not compare with the comforts of home, but it is almost palatial in comparison to my previous accommodation.” A pause. “Will we be sharing the bed?”
“Uh,” said Isobel, articulately.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” reassured Minthara. “I would gain nothing and lose everything by harming you.”
“That… wasn’t a concern,” said Isobel somewhat awkwardly. (She’d only ever shared a bed with Aylin before.) “Just… take off your covering and sit on the mattress. Let me see to your injuries.”
“I would prefer to stand,” said Minthara stiffly, though she did untie the bedsheet from around her waist. Isobel frowned, though as soon as she got her first proper look at the woman’s back the reason behind her insistence became clear. The lacerations there were clearly from a whip, layers upon layers of injuries – someone had clearly tried to take her back off with a scourge and had pretty much succeeded. The layers on the very bottom had been healed magically, mere hours ago by the look of things, the scars still fresh and red. The injuries on top, though, had not been healed. Most had just barely managed to scab over properly, and many of the scabs had obviously been cracked during the fight and were weeping fresh blood. Sitting down – any bending at all, really – would open the wounds anew.
A female drow with red eyes and a fairly imperious manner of speaking… she was probably a priestess of Lolth (a paladin of Lolth? Isobel didn’t know that Lolth had those, but she knew a smite when she saw one and Minthara had definitely smote Marcus). If so, she must know that to heal an injury without cleaning it out first was likely to cause scarring and infection. Infection might not be a concern for a paladin, but the scarring on Minthara’s back was already extensive enough that it would limit her flexibility going forward. In the case of such torture, however, Isobel doubted that Minthara had cared about scars or illness. The woman had probably healed herself over and over again until she had no remaining power with which to do so. If Dirge had not chosen that time to make his jailbreak, all it would have done was prolong her torture. She must have been aware of that, but the need to alleviate pain was a powerful one indeed.
Isobel suddenly realized that Minthara was extremely tense, ears flat against her skull and muscles (and she was incredibly well muscled) bulging under her skin from the effort of holding herself still. She clutched the greatclub like it was her lifeline. Right, a drow probably wouldn’t be the most comfortable with a stranger at her back, especially given that she’d had someone standing behind her with a scourge very recently.
“I’m just going to wash these out,” said Isobel, keeping her voice quiet and even. “It will hurt a bit.”
“There is no need to patronize me,” said Minthara stiffly.
“Just don’t want to get bludgeoned. Again,” replied Isobel, trying to keep her voice light, with a tinge of humor to keep the edge off the statement. It fell flat, though, and an awkward silence descended upon the room. Isobel filled it by grabbing a clean cloth and a carafe of water.
“If you wanted me dead, all you would have had to do was agree with the iblith darthiir lu’ tagnik’vlos,” said Minthara eventually, and her grip on the greatclub deliberately loosened. She did not so much as twitch when Isobel lifted the damp cloth to her back.
Slowly, gently as she could, Isobel washed dirt, dust, and blood both fresh and dried from Minthara’s back. Once it was as clean as she could reasonably get it, Isobel murmured a prayer to cure the remaining wounds. She wouldn't be able to do anything about the scarring that already existed, but as she was careful to ensure that the remaining lacerations healed with no trace, in hopes of preserving what range of motion the drow still had. In the past, she would have prescribed an ointment, to be applied twice daily for a month, in order to help restore the suppleness and flexibility of the skin, but, well. Who even knew what shape the House of Healing was in, anymore? There would be no such ointments available in the near future.
With that done, Isobel turned her attention to Minthara’s ribs. She was lucky there – Marcus had hit her twice but not in the same spot, which meant that he had not managed to drive any rib fragments into her lungs. The prayer that reset those bones to their proper place drew a rapid intake of breath from the drow, but this, at least, was a type of injury that Isobel was familiar with.
Once her torso was dealt with, Isobel shepherded Minthara over to the bed to assess the rest of her injuries. The head wound was an old one – Isobel confirmed that no serious cracks remained in the skull but could do little else there. The abrasions from her shackles required a thorough wash – the chains had been rusty (when had her father Ketheric installed chains in her home Moonrise!? Where did he even put them, the cellar!?) As she turned Minthara's right hand over to deal with the abrasions on the inside of her wrist a new scar was revealed on her palm – the Absolute's symbol, with puckered edges indicating that it had been inflicted by a brand. Minthara glared down at the mark as if the heat from her gaze alone would be able to scour it from her skin. Unfortunately, it was long healed – there was nothing Isobel could do about it now. She directed her attention to ensuring that the abrasions around Minthara's wrists didn't leave a single scar and left the drow to her rage.
After all of Minthara’s wounds were closed and the bruises had faded from a vivid purple to a mottled yellow, Isobel stepped away to attend to herself. It was almost funny, how Minthara’s ears relaxed when Isobel was no longer hovering around her, except that upon further thought there really wasn’t anything amusing about someone who was so accustomed to cruelty that she reacted to kindness as if it were a threat.
Isobel’s own injuries were simpler to deal with. Jaheira had healed the worst of it, though the battlefield spellcasting did mean that the gashes on her upper arm, neck, and cheek would scar. Another prayer finished healing what cuts remained open and alleviated most of the lingering echoes of Marcus’s hands crushing her throat. The soreness would hopefully fade with a good night’s rest. But nothing Jaheira did, nothing Isobel could do, not even Selune’s holy touch, could deal with the true problem – the death that slept curled up within her chest and lurked in her limbs.
When Isobel was done, she realized she was exhausted. She shuffled over to a wardrobe, pulled out two clean outfits – Selune bless whichever Harper had taken over laundry duty – and tossed one to Minthara. “Put this on, please.”
The drow looked mystified. “Clothes? In bed?”
“Humor me,” said Isobel, exasperated.
Minthara shimmied into the outfit – she was shorter than Isobel but much broader of shoulder, so the fabric strained in places and hung loose in others – and slid into the bed. Isobel stepped behind the partition to change out of her bloody robes and then gingerly eased herself into the opposite side. She was preternaturally aware of the other woman’s presence and though it confined her to the very edge of the mattress she took great care that they did not touch.
“Sleep well, she said. “We’ll both feel better after a proper rest.”
“I do not sleep unless I wish to. Until I feel safe in this place,” and Minthara’s tone implied that she was fairly certain that this would be never, “I shall remain alert and keep watch.”
“You do that,” said Isobel, and let her exhaustion carry her into slumber.