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Sulfur-laden air breezes through Sorcha’s hair as she and the vampire step from the teleportation circle. The room around them both familiar and foreign– this chamber where they’d defeated Raphael and Korilla so long ago. Cleaner. The foul “Soul Pillars” that used to adorn the corners are long destroyed and discarded.
Yet Sorcha could swear she still heard Raphael’s smooth, tenor voice. Those clever lyrics about claws and mice and doom. And of course, there was the smell.
You can take the cambion out of the House, but not the House from the Hells, it seems.
A sweet, gentle voice pulls Sorcha from the memory as a familiar Gold Dwarf appears in a flash of honeyed light before her. “You’ve made it! You’re back, oh, I missed you so, so, so much! My friends! My saviors!”
Hope looks much cleaner than the last time the sorceress had laid eyes on her– with a touch more sanity, too. The dwarven cleric surges forward and eagerly throws her arms around Sorcha’s waist. Sorcha, still not fully comfortable with such affection, smiles. A not-quite grimace.
After Hope finishes squeezing Sorcha, she rushes over and does the same to Astarion. To his credit, he does a much better job of returning the beaming smile Hope aims at him.
Or maybe, somehow, he’s just adjusting better than I am.
“It’s good to see you still in one piece,” Sorcha says, a smile curving her lips.
“Yes, and looking much less tortured,” Astarion adds.
The dwarven woman scans Astarion up and down with warm, bright eyes. Then quips in a colorful, bouncy accent, “I could say the same of you, pale friend!”
Sorcha’s eyes rove over the vampire, making her own assessment.
It was true. Astarion looked much less burdened than when she’d first met him on that riverside beach. His complexion was still gentle and fair, but it had long since lost the gray, haunted edge. Her lips tugged upward into a smile– this time warmer.
“Well, c’mon, c’mon,” Hope beckons them from the parlor eagerly. “See wha’ we’ve done to the place. You canna ken the amount o’ work tha’ it’s been!”
“I’m amazed you didn’t just burn it down and begin again,” Astarion barks a laugh, “…better than what me and mine did to my old, personal hell-hole.”
“Wha’ is Hope if not a second chance, aye? Goes fer buildins’ too.” The cleric is silent for a moment before adding– “b’sides, my ma an’ pa would roll over in their graves should I participate in such a thing!”
“Ahh,” Astarion hums, “dwarves and their stonework.”
“Exactly,” the shorter woman beams up at him again.
Imperious-looking paintings that used to display Raphael and all his glory– cambion and humanoid– are no more. Instead, oil paintings of vibrant landscapes, milkmaids, and other mundanities hang in their place. Sorcha recognizes a handful of them from the ones Astarion and Karlach used to haul from camp to camp.
In truth, Karlach did most of the hauling. Astarion's role involved more insisting that ‘sleeping in the dirt doesn’t mean camp looks a wreck.’
A bittersweet tug pulls at Sorcha’s chest. Nostalgia for the early days blended with relief that it’s all been handled.
Hope reaches a gigantic double-doorway and runs a gentle hand across the seam; it opens effortlessly. Loud, thundering steps pound their way, and suddenly Karlach is swinging Sorcha around in a crushing embrace.
“Hi, Soldier,” The larger woman mumbles into the sorceress's ear, “it’s so good to see you and Fangs again. We missed you loads!” Karlach sets Sorcha down, and another, more measured set of footsteps echoes in the hall. A beat passes, and a familiar, handsome taupe tiefling appears beside Karlach. His electric-blue eyes crinkle at the edges as a smile lights up his face.
“Dammon,” Sorcha grins, “I should’ve known to expect you here. What’s it like being back?”
“To start, I’ve got a real, true forge this time,” the tiefling beams, “and all of the infernal iron I could hope to get my hands on.”
“That's wonderful,” the Sorceress beams.
“Does that mean you're offering master weaponry now?” Astarion purrs.
Dammon smiles at the proposition. “I’ve been honing my craft– sure. But I wouldn’t call myself a ‘master’. I’m happy to take a hammer to metal if you’d like something made, however.”
“Oh Dammon, why’re you being so humble?! This fucker here,” Karlach grins and hooks a thumb in his direction, “somehow managed to make a trade deal with Bel– the previous Archduke of Avernus. After Zariel– the bitch– took his place as head asshole, Bel’s focus turned to his forge.”
“You– convinced an Archdevil to trade with you?” Astarion guffaws. “Do you still own your soul?”
Dammon grins awkwardly and runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, but only barely. I suppose one silver lining came of Elturel’s fall– I made some unlikely connections here.”
“I’ll say,” Sorcha agrees. “Karlach, what about you? Making deals with or hunting devils these days?”
The large tiefling shares a mischievous grin with Hope, then glances back towards Sorcha. “Why don’t you follow us, Soldier? That way, we can just show you.”
Sorcha glances at Astarion, their moment of hesitation mutual.
“Awh, come on, you two. It’s nothing that terrible,” Karlach cajoles.
Astarion clears his throat, then nods at Sorcha before making to follow the two women.
As they lead, they take turns excitedly pointing out renovations and changes. In between animated explanations of infernal architecture, Hope and Karlach greet several demons and devils. Sorcha does a double-take as they pass the first group, gnolls and bearded devils. The fiends stroll down a hallway carrying— linens? As if nothing unusual is afoot.
What in the Nine Hells?
When Karlach and Hope lead them past another group, Astarion reaches out and clasps Sorcha’s thin hand.
Werewolves. But a handful of them look– frighteningly familiar.
Oh.
Oh shit.
“Hope,” Sorcha fights to keep her voice blasé and uninterested, “what can you tell us about the residents of your House of Hope?"
She nervously tucks a lock of hair behind her ear– willing the question to seem casual.
Or at the very least, like she isn’t asking why in the Nine Hells they’re hosting the Fallen Gur werewolves they sent to their graves?! The very same who they had to cut down in order to save Astarion back in the Tourmaline Depths.
“Many of them are just as they were before– tortured souls sent here after failing to live honorable lives above. Some looking for a second chance. But others, they needed rest an’ reprieve after months or decades fightin’ in tha Blood War.”
Of course. The Blood War– that epoch-old, never-ending conflict between the demons of the Abyss and the devils of the Hells. Certain Infernal Archdukes of the past had aimed to end it. To be the one to finally staunch the flow of demonic hordes barreling their way into the Hells, before moving further up the order of planes. Zariel is one such Archduke.
Others, Asmodeus among them, had accepted it as a more pragmatic inconvenience. If no damned souls were there to fight the Blood War, then those hordes would succeed in infecting the higher planes.
What little power the Archdukes held down here would be wrenched from their talons. And they could forget any hope of trapping more souls in bargains. The demons wouldn’t leave a scrap to be safeguarded if they made it that far.
Instability would overtake the cosmology of the planes, and life anywhere would cease to exist. Well, a life as anything other than playthings for Demon Princes and their underlings.
No, that would not do at all. So the Blood War continued, marching on into infinity.
“So you’re running some sort of fiendish Bed and Breakfast?” Astarion pulls a face.
“You coul’ say tha’,” Hope replies as she nods to another group of devils and debtors. Chain devils?
Uncertainty stabs at the sorceress’s mind– her fiendish ecology could stand a refresher.
“Isn’t that a little…erm…deadly? Dealing with such entities on the regular?” It’s Sorcha whose brow crinkles this time.
The dwarven woman chuckles loudly, melodic and resonating. Uncannily soothing amidst all of the sulfur and monsters milling about. “You canna be serious? I live in Avernus, Sorcha. ‘m I to spend eternity avoidin’ every other soul on this plane?”
“Well, no– I suppose not.”
“Relax, Soldier,” Karlach butts in. “Whaddya think she has me here for, eh? It’s not just my humor and good looks! I know my way around a horde o’ restless fiends damaged by the Blood War.” The larger woman cracks a toothy grin, and then her knuckles.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Dammon smiles as he shoves his shoulder into Karlach’s.
“Oh, you–” The barbarian’s eyes flare blue momentarily. “But seriously, Sorcha– we’ve gotta pretty good system down here. The few devils who really couldn’t behave themselves,” she mimes a blade sliding across her throat. “Done, and done.”
“Unfortunate, but true,” Hope chimes in.
“Yea,” Karlach chuckles, “and you know when a devil dies in the Hells…they’re dead, dead. Only took a couple of nasty tenants as examples.”
“Absolutely,” the dwarven cleric bobs her head in agreement. “A few nasty buggers later– easy peasy.”
“So, the souls who didn’t fight in the war— they just show up here?” Sorcha bites her lip, waiting for an answer.
Hope turns to pin the sorceress with an appraising look. The intensity in it is more than suspicious. After a moment, the dwarven woman’s eyes soften to understanding.
“No,” Hope says, voice low. “Trust me when I say tha’ they have to genuinely regret the actions tha’ go’ them banished to the Hells in the first place.”
Sorcha is quiet for a few moments. Plodding along silently behind Karlach and Hope while she runs an anxious thumb along the back of Astarion’s cool, pale hand.
How do they know the souls regret their choices? How do the souls even know they regret those actions?
Sorcha thinks back upon her own life. The choices and mistakes she most regrets, and still, somewhere in her slowly healing heart, she understands what it’s like to hurt those around you without intending to.
Before she can spiral any further, a cool shoulder presses into hers. Steady, crimson eyes catch her own as Astarion lifts their clasped hands and places a kiss on her knuckles.
You’re not alone in this, he mouths at her.
Astarion watches intently as Sorcha’s kohl-lined eyes soften. His words seem to have had the necessary effect. She releases a long-held breath and smiles weakly at him. He knows what monsters she saw a few hallways back.
After all, he saw them first— before reaching for her. He knows exactly why she asks the thinly veiled questions about the origin of these so-called tenants. He’s never been so foolish as to call himself merciful. To pretend he has a gentle, magnanimous nature.
In his mind, he knows that is what Hope herself embodies.
Yet in his darkened, damaged heart– that organ that’s only so recently learned to expand and contract again– it’s a concept as foreign as land to a fish.
“These souls then, they appear to your front doors and plead mercy? Confess guilt, and are just— let inside?” Hope pauses mid-step and turns to blink at Astarion. Clearly perplexed.
“Well, yea, o’ course. Is that really so strange?”
Astarion takes a wholly unnecessary breath, biting his tongue in favor of this fragile blossom called friendship. That is, of course, what these people are to him.
Friends.
“I– I suppose it speaks more to the caliber of bastards I spent my life around that it is. But yes, that is a little,” he scoffs gently, “odd. Unbelievable, really.”
“O’ course there are the ones I can hear pleadin’ for help from the Styx or other places. From time t’time we go out an’ collect ‘em. Bring ‘em back here.” The dwarven woman looks at Astarion with hard eyes.
Not aggressive, just– sure.
Certain.
“Then these souls– these regrettable bastards– come here. Stay here. Help with chores, and then– what exactly,” Astarion’s brows crease in thought, “leave after they’ve done their hours of service?”
“Well,” Hope worries a lip between her teeth, “I believe it’s possible. Stranger things ‘ave happened, right?”
It’s Sorcha, who’d remained noticeably quiet, who speaks next. “So you’ve never seen it happen? You’re just clinging to the idea of its possibility?”
“‘Course. And just because I’ve never seen i’ happen, doesn’t mean there aren’t stories sayin’ it has.” Hope’s smile is bright again.
Sorcha hums in response— not fully convinced.
“The important part, Fangs,” Karlach says, “is that Hope is giving them a safe place to try and prove themselves.” Her voice drops to a whisper, and she leans in close, holding a hand up beside her mouth to direct the words at only Astarion.
She’s still anything but subtle, but the attempt is twee.
“Don’t you worry, if we see any soul that even remotely resembles you-know-who— I’ll smite ‘em then and there. Myforgiveness does have limits.”
“You’d better,” Astarion tries and fails to keep his words from coming out as a growl. Karlach merely pulls back and grins broadly at him.
Though far from the first time he’d experienced it, Astarion was still unnerved by the consideration his friends showed him. They understood the things that set him off– often anticipated them before he did. And when mention of one of his triggers pushed his voice into something nasty, they forgave him.
The lack of backlash was thoroughly jarring. Sometimes, a small, wounded part of his heart wished they would lash out– it was almost easier preparing for the sting than for the kindness.
He always kept that bit to himself, though. Supposing it would sound entirely too foolish once past his lips.
But it was true.
Many seasons after freeing himself from Cazador, he was still adjusting to what he supposed were ‘normal social conventions’.
Dammon clears his throat and gently taps Karlach on the shoulder. “Do you think our friends would like to see the Archive? I’m sure the Archivist would enjoy catching up with them as well.”
Sorcha meets Dammon’s crystal gaze and nods, a small smile on her beautiful lips. “Yes, I’d love to see what they hold now.”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” the tiefling grins before turning on his heels and beckoning them all to follow.
The sound of footsteps is the only thing to echo in the hallway as Sorcha and Astarion quietly follow the trio before them. Both of them lost in thought, neither of them having expected that this would be what awaited them in Hope’s version of this place.
Of course, they’d read the letter Withers had received from Hope. The one that arrived mere days before their initial reunion party. Sorcha remembered the words, the changes it alluded to– the mixed feelings that had followed.
But experiencing them first-hand was an entirely different thing.
A collection of souls, once tortured or owned by other Archdukes or Raphael, now free. Belonging only to themselves.Not only that, but given the chance to recover from the horrors of the Blood War– to ascend beyond hellish damnation?
To earn their way into a more pleasant afterlife.
The person she’d been before her debacle with the tadpole and Elder Brain would never have even entertained the thought. But the experiences she’d had since then– opponents battled and pushed past. Perhaps stranger things really could happen. Maybe redemption really was possible.
And if these ill-fated souls could attempt that–
Sorcha tried and failed to push the thoughts far away. Despite herself, a kernel of something fragile and warm bloomed in her chest.
Dammon stops before a set of familiar doors; the rest of them pause too. Gilded and gorgeous, the entrance to the Archive still takes Sorcha’s breath away.
“Are you ready?” Dammon’s question is barely above a whisper; the blues of his eyes dance with excitement.
Sorcha’s pulse quickens as she nods subtly. The smith pushes the doors open, and the scents of old paper, fresh paint, and irises bloom outward.
Inside, dozens of souls mill about. Some cautiously adjust and hang new artwork while The Archivist looks on. Others sit at easels where they diligently paint and draw new compositions. To the left-hand side of the Archive, near the fireplace and seating area, a group of women works a loom. They weave a tapestry with such vibrant material– it’s damn near gleaming.
In the far opposite wing of the Archive, a group of familiar merregons sculpt soft, reddish clay into a shape that looks something like a Displacer Kitten. Each of the kitten’s odd, whip-like tails curls outward to grasp at the nearby hands of clay-made companions.
The small fiends take turns cutting and affixing new blocks of clay to the sculpture. Hands pass detailing implements back and forth. The devils are efficient, but there’s something infinitely more mortal about their interactions.
It’s entirely impractical and unrealistic.
Merregons don’t recognize individuality or joy. At their core, the species lacks nuance; they exist only to serve and carry out tasks without complaint or deviation. Yet, here they are, sculpting an excitable displacer kitten into existence, chittering amongst one another.
Clearly exhibiting more than mere obedience.
In the unoccupied corners of the room, other souls mingle, commenting on the artworks in progress or admiring the pieces already hanging and on display. Instead of wails of despair– moans of agony– Sorcha can hear laughter. Smiles shape the voices echoing through the Archive.
The sorceress chances a quick flick of her eyes in Astarion’s direction. He’s no less confused or thrown off by the merriment and creativity filling the hall.
“When you said the Archive was an art gallery–” Sorcha begins, “ – we…”
“We weren’t certain what to make of the claims,” Astarion finishes her statement.
“You read m’ letter, yea?” Hope asks with a quirk of her head.
“Of course we did,” Sorcha replies. “It’s just– the last time we were here, it was so drab and deadly. Nothing about this place made anything else seem possible.”
“That’s the thing about Hope,” the cleric smiles, “as long as you ‘ave it, anythin’ is possible.”
“How aptly put,” a smooth, charismatic tenor floats their way as the Archivist strides toward the group. “Hello, milady, everything alright? Anything amiss?”
“No, no, ev’rythin’ appears to be marvelous! Will ya jus’ look a’ those new canvases! An’ a fresh tapestry?!” Hope claps with delight, “You n’ the others never cease to amaze with yer creativity.”
“You’re entirely too kind, as ever,” the Archivist bows low before flashing a handsome smile at Sorcha and Astarion. “And you! Welcome back, welcome to the New and Improved Archive of the House of Hope.” The tiefling rushes forward to clasp Sorcha and then Astarion’s forearms in greeting.
The two of them return the gesture. “I’m impressed,” Astarion speaks first. “We’d heard about the changes here, but everywhere I look, things seem more and more implausible.”
“In a good way, I’d think?” The Archivist raises a manicured brow. His appraising gaze swims up and down Astarion’s form, then Sorcha’s.
“It appears that way, no demons have accosted us yet,” the vampire chuckles and smooths a stray curl.
Yes, he’s definitely adjusting better than I am.
The Archivist chuckles and nods, “I should hope not, that would be entirely too barbaric for my taste. What would that say about my work here?”
That you need a stricter screening process, Sorcha bites the comment back.
“Why don’t you tell them about the artwork, here?” Dammon suggests, gently nudging the conversation along.
“Ah yes, well, as I’m sure you remember, this hall used to serve as a sort of– trophy hall for the previous owner. A place for him to silently boast his own collection of artifacts and oddities,” the Archivist chuckles darkly. “A pale comparison to that of his Father’s collection, but no more. Now,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “this hall displays symbols of a more wholesome manner.”
The tiefling spins in a slow circle, arms outstretched and gesturing around the room. “Everything you see here was sourced from places that inspire our residents, or created by them personally.”
Sorcha’s gaze trails along the walls and pedestals, noting the variety in quality of work and subjects. Some pieces are more obvious in their meaning– landscapes of holy places or revered sites. The majority, however, depict natural wonders, abstract thought, or joyous portraits.
Unburdened expressions of creativity. Homages to things only a mortal would pine after.
“Each piece serves as a reminder tha’ there are things worth livin’ for. Things tha’ make the hard work worth i’,” Hope beams up at Astarion and Sorcha.
Sorcha’s initial instinct to reel back at the explanation, to brush all of this off as a load of poppycock, is far weaker than it once might’ve been. The notions Hope alludes to, redemption and the possibility of happiness for once-damned souls, isn’t that exactly what she experienced?
Abduction. Mindflayers. Ceremorphosis.
What was originally a death sentence, had given her the strength and opportunity to change her fate. She was able to escape her past, escape the certain doom of the tadpole, and learn new ways of loving herself and those near her. Find new meaning and value in herself and her magic.
Her breath hitches as she takes in the Archive, her friends, with new perspective. Astarion, standing so close to her, freer and more joyful than even he would care to admit.
Karlach and Dammon, the quick glances full of affection. The way their tails occasionally brush against one another’s. The fact that they may’ve found a way to repair her engine once and for all.
Her mind flashes back to that last line of Hope’s initial letter: Am I happy? I don’t know. But I am Hope, and I persist because of you.
She supposed that the sentiment was true for the five of them. They’d all been through their own personal hells and somehow come out alive– happier even. Not because of the trauma of course, she knew it was nothing to be romanticized.
But in spite of it.
In spite of it all, she wasn’t sure she was happy, but she was certain she was closer to that truth than she ever could’ve imagined.