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Selma had never regretted killing someone, killing anyone. She didn’t especially seek out death- at least- not since after the nautiloid. Selma- enjoyed killing, she was good at killing- she’d been courted by Bhaal itself because she was good at killing- but it didn’t mean she liked death itself. That was Ketheric’s thing- not her own. She killed for fun and for sport, for work- for her blood father’s blessing- had least she had once. Selma was split- between who she had been- for so long, and who she was now.
She looked down at the cooling corpse, one surrounded by the still, cold bodies of githyanki soldiers and the crushed brains of fallen intellect devourers. The body was still warm, cooling- no blood Shadowheart had taken the final blow, a strike at her throat- and she’d crumbled.
But her eyes- Selma could swear- there was still life in her golden eyes- even if her body was still.
The Drow crouched- she remembered- the day, right before they’d headed up the Risen Road. Lae’zel had come to her, invited her into her tent- Selma wonders- what it would’ve been like if she’d said yes. At the time, she’d been a shell of herself- memories lost to those holes carved in her skull- and she’d said no and now-
Now.
“It had to be done,” Selma didn’t look at the Emperor, his voice echoed in her thoughts, “She gave us no choice, she could see no reason-“
“Stop,” Selma’s voice did not crack- she wish it did. “Just stop.”
“I know it was necessary,” Selma said, eyes never leaving Lae’zel’s face, “I’m the one who lifted Woe first.” Selma wishes she’d been the one to strike Lae’zel down, a throat blow was quick- quicker than Infestation- but- Selma wishes she’d been the one to take her life. She reached down, taking the halberd, and stripping off the gith’s armor- her necklace- the one Selma had given Lae’zel. The stone glints in the Astral plane’s light, and Selma passed every item slow into her bag of holding.
She knows Astarion’s eyes are on her- disgusted at her actions- she ignores him. She knows Shadowheart watching with pity, but her eyes do not leave Lae’zel’s.
Selma finally takes off her boots, and her hands- still.
“We must-“ Selma raises a hand, her mismatched eyes finally shifting away to meet the Emperor’s own and she puts the force of Bhaal into her gaze. The mind flayer does not wilt, as many did, but he does fall silent.
“I know we must go after the Netherbrain,” Selma’s voice does not waver, it does not fall apart, she wishes it would, “But there is no time in this place,” she looked past the Emperor at Orpheus, “Besides, you have a brain to devour, no?”
The Emperor fixes her with a look, and silently floats away, and Selma lets her stare fall. She looks back at Lae’zel, and closes her eyes. Selma does not cry- she did not cry when Orin tore her mind asunder, she did not cry when she lost her eye as a child, she did not cry when she lost the other to that damnable hag.
*”Who am I, your only chance of survival?”* a hand tugging her up after battle, strong even though Laezel was a foot shorter than her, *”Indolence breeds madness”* dueling in camp, staff on sword, two smiles both like a bulette on the hunt.
Selma’s eyes creased, she remembered the Temple, she remembered how Astarion had picked the locks on the manacles- as she healed the damage done by her sister of blood. She remembers the whispered words in her ear, *”I did not think you would come,”* Lae’zel had said, before brushing it off- and that night they’d drunk the camp’s wine supply as Laez’el taught her gith words and Selma taught her drow phrases.
“Ascend and conquer,” Selma says under her breath, eyes finally opened, and she reached low and closed Lae’zel’s eyes. She’d never done that before, never- not even for Orin. The Drow tipped her chin, low, and she saw her hand tremble before it was clenched into a fist. “Next time,” Selma lowered his voice, “Next time I will strike you from behind, and aim for something non-vital,” the drow took a deep breath, shuddering- and she tipped her chin and stood.
She had a brain to crush, and a world to bathe in blood.