Work Text:
Wyll Ravengard was seventeen years old the first time she fell in love.
It happened on a night that was calling for romance. The weather outside had been steadily growing warmer as the winter was left behind. Hints of colour were already apparent in the parks and gardens of Baldur's Gate. Everyone, from the lowest fisherman to the nobles of the Upper City, seemed to smile more readily as the equinox approached.
She was absolutely certain that it was going to be a good year. She was more than ready to take on the world. The night marked her debut in high society, the moment she stepped out of her father's shadow to hopefully start making a name for herself. When she ascended the steps to the ballroom she did it walking by his side, like an equal.
After they were introduced and walked deeper into the ballroom, Ulder squeezed her elbow. When she looked up, there was a question in his eyes.
"I'll be fine, Father," she said, trying to imbue as much confidence as she could into her voice. This was a different challenge than the ones she found in the training grounds of the Flaming Fists, but one she had prepared for with the same zeal.
"I know you will be. You're stronger than any other young woman I know," He teased her, still gently holding her arm, "but I'm still your father. Let an old man worry, won't you?"
Despite his words and the hint of worry still shining in his eyes, he let her go and stepped away, disappearing into the crowd. Wyll was certain that he was still subtly keeping an eye on her, as their bodyguard would. But for the moment, she was set free and the stage was hers.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and dived in. It didn't take long for her to be swept in the mood of the night.
Her dress was a deep burgundy with golden accents highlighting the collar and sneaking down the sleeves. This, too, was a small victory. This was the armor she's chosen for herself. Wyll was finally moving away from the restrained, childish designs of her youth towards something that showed the woman she would become. While she'd always be more comfortable with pants and a rapier, she couldn't help but appreciate the way the skirts swished against her legs and the admiring glances the young noblemen and noblewomen sent her way before coming to ask for a dance.
It was well into the night when it happened.
Wyll was idling by the hors d'oeuvres, perusing the food on offer and trying not to make her interest too obvious. Her feet were starting to hurt, not enough to make her regret her decision to wear heels, but she knew that if she didn't find an empty chair that was liable to change.
And then, she saw the woman.
Even with the distance and the couples separating them, she took her breath away.
She was stunningly beautiful. Her hair was silvery white, reaching down past her shoulders, though a few short strands framed her delicate elven features. She looked as perfect as a doll, with miles of porcelain skin showing through her low-cut neckline and a risque slit in her blue evening dress.
She was laughing prettily at a baron's speech, flattering him with honeyed words. Under Wyll's scrutiny he bent to kiss her hand and walked away. And yet despite the vapid front she presented, when their eyes meet there was something shrewd in her expression, something that made Wyll feel like there was a joke she was sharing only with her.
For a moment, Wyll felt frozen in place. Her tongue was dry. When the woman turned around and accidentally met her eyes, there was no way to hide she had been staring. Her heartbeat pounded so loudly in her ears that it was a wonder the whole ballroom couldn't hear it.
"Um. Hello," she stammered, feeling her brain go blank. She wished the ground would open to swallow her whole. Thankfully, the woman only chuckled, gliding to her side.
"Why, hello darling," the woman teased. "I didn't know there would be such a delicious morsel at today's feast."
Her gaze travelled slowly from Wyll's braided hair, down to her modest cleavage and to her heeled shoes before snapping back to her face. When her eyes returned to Wyll's face, she couldn't help the rush of heat that shook her to the core. She had prepared for so many contingencies for tonight, but she'd never prepared for something like this.
As if she could read her mind, the woman's smile widened. "Is this your first ball, beautiful?"
"No. I mean, yes!" She squeaked, and coughed awkwardly into her fist, hoping to hide her awkwardness. Unfortunately, her mouth still hadn't caught up, so she blurted out, "I. My name is Wyll. Ravengard. Wyll Ravengard at, um. Nice to meet you."
The woman raised an eyebrow, giving her a far more assessing look. Wyll braced herself for anything: fawning over his father's accomplishments, probing questions about the city's stewardship, an offhand remark about how she resembled her late mother in some form. She'd heard so many versions of the same tune that nothing fazed her anymore.
None of that happened. Instead, the woman plucked two goblets from the table, offering her one of them. Rich, dark red wine sloshed inside, its heady aroma wafting up to her.
"I don't drink," she said automatically. It wasn't strictly true, she'd already indulged sometimes where her father couldn't catch her and disapprove. Still, tonight was a battlefield of a different kind, and she couldn't afford that weakness.
The second goblet made a soft chime when the woman put it back down on the table. She drunk deeply from the other, and Wyll couldn't tear her eyes away from the way her throat bobbed as she drained it. When she finally set it down, a single drop of red slid down from the corner of her mouth until she negligently cleaned it away with the back of her hand.
Several lords and ladies, including the woman's previous partner, seemed just as enthralled by the display as Wyll was, fluttering around them like moths drawn to a flame. Somehow, whether due to a spark of solidarity or the spirit of competition, that awareness gave her the strength to be brave.
"Would you dance with me?"
For a moment, a flicker of some strange emotion crossed the woman's expression. If she didn't know better, Wyll would be tempted to call it fear, except that she couldn't think of any reason for the woman to be afraid of her.
"I don't know, darling, I'm afraid you may step on my toes. Are you a good dancer?"
"I'm a great dancer," Wyll challenged, relishing the chance to be bold now they were back on familiar ground.
It was true, after all. Dancing, like fencing, was just a matter of knowing your own body, anticipating what your opponent wanted from you, learning how to flow around another person's cues. The longer she thought about it, the more she felt her confidence bloom.
The woman chuckled indulgently. Her gaze, however, was beginning to straying away from her, sweeping across the ballroom, and it made Wyll desperate to hold on for a little longer.
"Let me show you," she insisted, puffing with injured pride. She thrust her hand out, pulling her chin up. "Care for a dance?"
After another long moment of silence, the woman made her decision. Her shoulders squared up, and she lightly grasped her hand with pale, long fingers. "Well, since you ask so sweetly, darling: Lead or follow?"
The question made Wyll's heart stutter again, but once she decided on something, she wasn't one to back down. "I'll lead."
The song the bards were playing was winding down with perfect timing as they stepped into the open space together. Wyll could feel several pairs of eyes burning against her back. For the first time that night, the silent pressure made her shiver.
"Ignore them, sweetheart," the woman said. Her hand slid over Wyll's shoulder-blade, cold fingers grazing her neck, making goosebumps break over her exposed skin. "After all, who wouldn't be bewitched by our beauty?"
Wyll rested her hand on the woman's waist. The fabric was soft and cool under her touch. The music swelled again, soon taking away everything else.
Soon, there was nothing else that mattered but the two of them. Wyll's nervousness melted away as her body fell into the familiar rhythm of the waltz. The weight of the crowd's attention had nothing on the ruby eyes looking at her as if she was something unique. The ballroom glittered in a dizzying display of light; the woman's blue dress swished against hers, the fabrics mixing in a lovely contrast of colour.
Wyll was a rational woman. She had been raised with care, educated not only literature and arts, in swordsmanship and statecraft, but encouraged to make her own opinions about the world, to form her own moral code, to think logically and act accordingly. That part of her warned she was threading on dangerous ground.
But Wyll was newly seventeen, as well. She was a romantic, deep down, looking at the world with unbridled hope. The woman's unwavering attention rested solely on her, and it made her feel important in a way her title never had. That mischievous little smile still playing on the corner of her lips made Wyll want to do something crazy, like standing on her toes to kiss it.
It wasn't logical.
It might not even have remained true in the morning.
But in that moment, lost in the music and the feel of another person pressed close to her, Wyll Ravengard fell in love.
It was over far too soon; the song wound down, other people came clamoring for her attention, and Wyll made the mistake of looking away. She had her dance, but after it was done the woman slipped from her grasp, vanishing once again into the crowd, leaving her without even a name to follow her trail.
Perhaps that was where it would have ended. One dance, one encounter to remember fondly for a season or two before time and experience turned it into nothing more than a lovely little memory, only occasionally resurfacing when she was feeling nostalgic in the future.
But before the night came to an end, something else would shake Wyll's heart, cementing the meeting in her memory forever.
Hours after that song, she stepped off to the garden, desperately in need of fresh air and a break from a persistent viscount who seemed to be getting ready to ask her for a second dance. He was decently handsome but previous encounters have shown him to be incredibly dull, and Wyll used all of her well-honed reflexes to avoid his notice.
Once she managed to step outside, free from the crowd, she just stood and breathed, luxuriating in the feel of the soft breeze against her sweaty skin. There was a small rustle among the trees, an owl hooting somewhere in the distance, and the sudden relief brought a smile to her face.
After a while she heard the voices, just further along among the decorative fruit trees. At first, she only felt a pang of annoyance at her peace being disturbed, followed just as quickly by embarrassment: there were few reasons for a couple to be out here, and none she wanted to be an unwitting witness to.
However, just as she was turning to leave, she recognized one of them. How could she forget? It was the woman in the blue dress, but something in her wavering tone made Wyll's stomach clench with apprehension.
She bunched her skirts up, breathing as softly as she could as she walked closer to the bend in the path. Her survival training with Councilor Florrick came in handy, and neither of the two seemed to hear her approach.
"Go on, dear. Rule three."
The voice was nasal and horribly high-pitched, curling around the words with a distinctively cruel pleasure. Wyll covered her mouth to hide a gasp, risking a glance beyond the bushes.
There was something about the man that made a chill go down her spine. He was dressed to the nines, of course, but something about him had her instincts screaming. His fingers were long and thin, reminding her of spider legs where they curled around her dancing partner's wrist. His beady eyes were shining with such self-satisfaction that it made Wyll want to scream.
"Thou shalt not leave my side unless directed," the woman was saying dully, with the sort of cadence of an axiom memorized and repeated until it's known by heart. There wasn't even a whisper left of that playful lilt that had drawn Wyll like a sunflower turning towards the sun.
The man sighed in mock sadness. One hand reached up to push the white strands behind her ear; even from this distance, Wyll couldn't fail to notice her poorly supressed flinch.
"I so hate when I have to send you away, little one. You fulfilled your purpose well; and I suppose you didn't stray too often." The woman's shoulders got tauter with every word coming from his mouth. It felt like she was bracing for a blow, and so Wyll wasn't taken by surprise when his speech turned poisonous. "Except for that sweet girl I saw you dancing with. Whatever possessed you to follow after her like that, umm?"
"I… I'm sorry," the woman said, her tone heavy with resignation. "It was a mistake."
The man tsked. Wyll was vividly reminded of a cat about to pounce for the kill after hours of playing with his prey. "What is rule four?"
"Master, I—"
"Shall I repeat myself?"
"Four," she recited, her voice sounded deader still the longer the farce went on. Wyll leaned towards her helplessly, wishing she could do anything to console her. "Thou shalt know—"
A stick crunched loudly under Wyll's feet. In the span of a heartbeat, both of the speakers had turned towards her. The light from the mansion illuminated her silhouette, so that there was no way for Wyll to hide.
"Who's there?"
She could still run away, but Wyll had never been one to flee when other people need her. Instead she stepped into the path, fiercely missing her rapier. Now they were face to face, she saw the man was thin and pointy-faced, only as tall as she was. Her mind was telling her that she shouldn't fear him, that she'd regularly beaten stronger people in the training grounds.
Yet there was a deeper, primal part of her that wouldn't stop screaming at the sight of his sharp teeth and cruel eyes.
"Ah, the little mouse herself," he exclaimed with false delight. He gave her a once over, and Wyll would feel disgusted, except that there was no interest betrayed by it. In fact, she wasn't sure he was even registering her as a fellow human. "Didn't your parents tell you not to go snooping?"
The hair at the back of Wyll's neck rose up. She had the sudden, unshakable certainty that her life was in desperate, terrible danger. She looked around her wildly, searching for any kind of weapon she could use to defend herself. There had to be a fallen branch, a gardening tool, anything at all.
In the end, aid came from an unexpected quarter. "That wouldn't be a good idea."
The man whirled around, all of his pent-up violence turning to a new target. The grip he had on the woman's wrist was so tight that it was a wonder her bones weren't creaking from the force of it.
"Are you ordering me?"
"She's the Duke's daughter," the woman pointed out, even though each word seemed to cost her. Her hands were balled into fists; no matter how hard Wyll tried, she refused to meet her eyes.
"Ulder Ravengard," the man spit her father's name like a curse and Wyll had never been prouder of her lineage, or more terrified for her life.
However, the name had served its purpose. Like a cloud covering the scorching sun, the danger passed as swiftly as it came. The man sneered, but he took a step back, clearly unwilling to do anything that would mean challenging the commander of the Flaming Fists.
Wyll saw it, the moment when he gave up the thirst for retribution and decided she wasn't worth the trouble.
"Let's go," he barked, pulling the woman behind him.
If she didn't do something now…
"Stay with me!" she exclaimed towards the beautiful woman. Her head finally snapped up to look at Wyll over her shoulder, eyes open wide with surprise. "You… you don't have to go with him. I can protect you. My father can protect you."
The man cackled. Then, for the first time since Wyll stumbled upon them, he let her go completely, going as far as taking a step down the path towards the gates. "Well, my dear? What will you do?"
"Please," Wyll begged, tending her hand to her like she did just hours ago. She could save her. She knew she could. No one would be able to touch her behind the walls of their estate, no matter what Wyll had to do to ensure her protection. She could already see it...
The woman scoffed, crossing her arms and stepping away. "Don't overestimate your importance, Ravengard. I know where I belong."
Wyll felt like she'd been slapped. She searched desperately for the right words, for any way to fix this mess, but her mind refused to cooperate.
"Run along, little girl," the man cut in, sneaking an arm around the woman's waist. Wyll wanted to hack it off, drag her to safety, cause a ruckus if it was what it took to stop the travesty in front of her from continuing.
She wasn't strong enough to do anything. She was too shaken by the injustice, driven silent by the cruelty and the resignation in her dancing partner's eyes, and so she could only watch as they both vanished into the night.
And yet…
A new purpose ignited and spread like wildfire in her soul. Wyll wouldn't let it end like this. She may not know who the man was, or what was his position in the sea of nobles that populated Baldur's Gate, but she swore to herself that she would find her again. No matter how difficult the task ahead was, one day she'd set her free, even if she had to search every manor in the city herself.
.
Three months later, Mizora comes calling.
.
(Seven years later, with Cazador's blood dripping down her blade, she keeps her promise).