Work Text:
“The Dark–oh for heavens’ sake. I can’t keep this up. That simply cannot be your name.”
You look up from your stew, mouth agape, fingers dripping with broth, about to tear your teeth into a hunk of stale bread you found on the side of the road. It’s better when dipped in the rich stew Gale has managed to put together with the supplies you’ve managed to pilfer, but still, stale. “I beg your pardon?”
Gale sets his bowl carefully in his lap. “Well first, now that I have your attention, would you be so kind as to pass the wine? No, the red, if you don’t mind–thank you very much.” He pours the ruby liquid into a chipped goblet and aerates it before taking a sip, as if it’s something from the top shelf of a fancy winery, not something pillaged from a half-broken crate. He grimaces only a little when he swallows it. “I know, of course, your name–along with the rest of your memories–is lost to you, but I would like to have something… well. Less morbid to call you.”
You consider this. Yes. It may be beneficial to call yourself by a proper name. Something that won’t unsettle the locals quite as severely. Zevlor had looked at you like you had three heads when you told him to call you The Dark Urge. But… that’s all you are, isn’t it? Just The Urge. The Darkness that boils and bubbles deep within you. Like that stewpot over the fire, why, it would be so easy to grab the wizard by the back of his robes and shove his face into it, listen to the flesh boil and bubble–
“I agree,” you say, a little jarringly, judging by the way Gale’s eyes widen when you speak. “Yes. I would like to have a name. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Hmm. Nothing comes to mind off the top, no. Perhaps we’ll come across something that titillates you during our adventures.”
Thus, you begin your journey to find your name.
The next morning, when Auntie Ethel calls you petal, you like the sound of it. Even though your past is shrouded in mystery, you’re quite confident no one has ever used a pet name for you. So you try this name out for a few hours. Shadowheart can’t quite contain her distaste, her lip curling around the word like it tastes of mold, and Lae’zel flat out refuses to use it. “Fine!” you finally snap, throwing up your hands in frustration. “Forget it. At least there’s something the two of you can finally agree on.” This sends the two of them into bickering, and you lag at the back of the pack while Wyll takes point.
Some time later, you’re digging through what remains of an apothecary when you stumble across a healer’s logbook. You flip through it quickly, testing each name on your lips. Sampson. Branley. Timmick. Dida. You hate them all and are briefly glad they are dead, then fleetingly irritated that they did not die by your glorious killing hands, then finally disgusted by your wicked thoughts.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of skewered spiders and gutted goblins. Something heavy and sour occupies your stomach until it comes time to make camp. You realize, as you’re laying out your bedroll, that the thing you’re feeling inside your body is remorse. Odd. New. Disquieting, as it is a completely novel concept to you. Comforting, as it is a sign that maybe, just maybe, you are capable of feelings beyond The Urges.
Come morning, you, Astarion, Karlach, and Wyll make quick work of a pack of gnolls. Gnormand. Gwenivere. Gwendolyn? Each more terrible than the last, so rancid that you don’t even bother running them by your companions.
The four of you argue over what to do with the locked chest you find in the cave. You want to take it to the Zhentarim and see how much gold you can squeeze out of delivering it intact. Astarion wants to open it. Wyll and Karlach want to leave it behind. You win the argument—you suspect because they’re all a little terrified of you—and resolve to visit the Zhent after a brief rest and meal. You’ll bring along those who remained at camp in the morning just in case things go awry.
“The Dark Urge isn’t such a bad start, you know,” muses Wyll. “Perhaps we could tweak it a little. It seems to be a bit of a misnomer, considering all I’ve seen you do thus far is fight against whatever darkness lurks within you. Hmm. How do you feel about The Vanquisher of Darkness?”
Shadowheart laughs so hard she starts choking on a chunk of apple. You smack her in the small of the back until she spits it up.
The Zhentarim are no help, none at all. Things do indeed go awry; Karlach sneezes a little too close to a barrel of smokepowder, and the entire place goes up in flames. You slice viciously through those who lurk deeper in the caverns, then question them with the amulet in the shape of a skull you had collected from Withers’ tomb. From each corpse, you pry its name. Brem. Karad. Vol. Jarg. You fling the amulet into the dirt and stomp away from the group, letting them do the dirty work of digging through crates and lockpicking chests while you sulk.
The wizard finds you seated on an outcropping of rock, absentmindedly tossing pebbles into the darkness below.
“Hello, my friend. May I sit?”
You hesitate, then nod, not looking at the sound of him settling against the rock.
“I have something of a gift for you. It’s not much, meager really, but. Well. Here.”
A bundle of vellum is thrust towards you. You eye it, then the wizard, with trepidation.
“It is a list of names,” says Gale. “Amidst my many considerable talents is near perfect recall. These are the names of heroes, both figures of historical fact and mythical tales. I have listed them in order of deeds that are most similar to your own. I thought, perhaps, something might stir within you upon reading them, be it memory or admiration.”
You trace your finger down the list. Doric, Adventurer of Ardeep Forest. Alicia Kendrick, High Queen of Moonshae Isles. Abdel Adrian, Scourge of Sarevok. Tav, protagonist of a series of novels I enjoyed in my youth.
Your finger settles on the last name. “Tav,” you say aloud, tasting the word. You lift your chin. “I like Tav.”
Gale nudges you lightly with his elbow. “I like Tav, too. Er–the name, that is.” His ears go pink.
Your lips quirk with the beginnings of a smile.