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She had a boring name.
Her mother named her after her favorite flower, but her mother was a boring woman, and her choice of a favorite flower was painfully boring too. Not a name fit for the great historian destined to go down in history.
And she was meant to be great, and no amount of failed expeditions, fruitless research, and amassing debts could sway her hope. She knew she was one big discovery away from getting the recognition she deserved — and she knew where to look for it.
There were stories of mysterious ruins in the mountains to the north of Athkatla. Unforgiving terrain, harsh weather, and monsters born of dark magic brimming in the air had protected this place’s secrets for centuries, both from marauders and her colleagues alike. Many speculated what this ruin could be, but she had gathered enough information to establish that it had to be one of the famous flying towers of Netheril. A fortress that had fallen from the skies when the great empire crumbled, preserved in its cocoon of magic shields like an insect in amber. It could have belonged to a mage or a noble and kept treasures and secrets never before seen, waiting to be discovered. Waiting for her.
There was only one problem — in the whole City of Coin, there wasn’t a coin for her to fund the expedition. Ignorant cowards from the Academy denounced the mission as insane and suicidal, and even her family, leaders of a wealthy gnomish clan, refused to help and had the audacity to claim that their betrayal was for her own good. She started a tedious and often humiliating search for a patron among Athkatlan nobles and rich men, but no one wanted to part with even a fraction of their fortunes to immortalize their name — until she met Raphael. Raphael was handsome for a human, well-educated, and almost as knowledgeable about ancient Netheril as her — he spoke of the dead empire as if he had seen it with his own eyes. But most importantly, he was ridiculously, obscenely rich. He never explained the origins of his astounding wealth, and she never asked: the only thing that mattered to her was that he was willing to fund her expedition. Enthusiastic about it, even — a reaction to her endeavors she hadn’t seen in a long time. And more than that, he told her she could keep any treasures she could carry, since all he needed from her was to disable arcane seals shielding the fortress from scrying spells.
A great deal, even if shady, and she planned to uphold her end of it, Waukeen knows she did. She would have, had everything not fallen apart.
It was not the first failure in her career, but the most tragic one. Out of thirty-five people, only four survived — the rest, along with all of their dogs and horses, had joined the undead army guarding the tower. But she had finally seen it with her own eyes, and it was indeed Netherese, a needle of pristine white stone among the snow, protected by a shimmering magical dome, with all of its treasures and secrets. Her only solace was Raphael’s encouragement. Despite his disappointment, he told her not to lose hope, to try again later with a bigger crew and better equipment. And while she was licking her wounds, she could stay in his manor, rest, and prepare for the next attempt.
She wasn’t even surprised when she looked out of a tall window in an ornate golden frame and saw red twilight of Avernus. Getting used to Raphael’s new look wasn’t much of a challenge either — the crimson skin and twisted horns didn’t make his company any less pleasant.
The way her magnanimous patron treated the rest of the residents of the House of Hope was appalling, but she couldn’t help but feel special, because to her he was nothing but kind. She was allowed to go almost wherever she wanted, take any books from his vast library, eat all the food she liked, and drown her sorrows in seemingly endless reserves of fine wine. Raphael assured her that she, despite considerable debt, was not a prisoner and could leave at any moment — but where would she go? Back to Athkatla, where everything reminded her of her shame and broken dreams? Or to wander Faerun with no money and prospects? No, she didn’t want to leave. Not yet.
Raphael was understanding of her situation and treated her with utmost respect. He always did, even when her curiosity got the best oh her and he caught her peeking into the only room where she was not allowed entry. He knelt before her — funny how even on his knees he was still so much taller — and asked:
“Do you want to enter my boudoir, my precious flower?”
She nodded sheepishly. Of course, she did — during her time in the House of Hope, her gratitude towards Raphael turned into adoration and then grew into love. And the feeling was mutual, it had to be — why else would he give her all the attention, and freedom, and privileges?
“And I thought you would never ask! But do you know what all visitors must have?” He waved his hand, and a sheet of paper appeared, with neat rows of Infernal text, a blank spot, and a big seal at the bottom. “An invitation! A formality, of course, but we are in Hell, and Hell has its laws. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Please, remind me of your name, so I could put it right there…”
He looked at her expectantly, and she felt a suffocating wave of panic rising inside. She had a boring name, a simple name, a common name, her mother had named her after her favorite flower — a boring flower, simple, common…
She couldn’t think of it now — for a long, long time Raphael had been the only person she talked to, and he called her his precious flower and nothing else. Her name bore a dead weight of naive ambitions and failed expectations, and she had always hated it — but she had never wanted to forget it! How could this happen?..
She was embarrassed, but Raphael didn’t laugh.
“Take your time, it will come to you eventually. In the meantime, why don’t you stay there? Enjoy the view — I can’t leave the door open, but you can peek through the keyhole. And when you finally remember your name, call for me, and I will gladly hand you your invitation.”
He even gave her a chair. It wasn’t much more comfortable than simply standing — just like the rest of the furniture in the devil’s house, it was too big for a gnome. She deeply appreciated the gesture still.
Raphael would stop by her spot in the hall when he was in a good mood: he loved to gossip about the guests and always enjoyed her sharp remarks. Lately her mind became a murky puddle and her thoughts — chaotic swarm of leeches, slipping out of her grasp. She hated how hard it was to concentrate and was happy so see in his laughter the confirmation that she still preserved some of her wit. Not all of it, though — all her knowledge and passion for history had long faded, and she felt nothing when Raphael asked her if she wanted to start a new expedition.
The only thing she truly wanted was to plunge into that pool in the center of the boudoir, scrub herself clean, and then let her wonderful, kind, charming, caring master do anything he wished to her. Once Raphael came to her, accompanied by a grim man who carried something big and square — a painting? “Any luck, my precious flower?” the devil asked, kneeling before her. “No… I’m sorry…” She shook her head, and big, hot tears rolled down her face.
Raphael wiped her cheeks, his claws leaving shallow scratches. It didn’t matter: healing waters of the pool would erase them, along with all her worries and shadows of the past, still tormenting her.
“It’s alright, my dear, please, don’t cry — you are breaking my heart! Look, I have a present for you. Something to make your little corner a bit livelier.”
The devil gestured to the grim man, and he turned the picture to her. It was a strange choice for Raphael, far from the art he usually preferred — an explosion of pink and green, a blossoming bush of flowers with many layers of delicate petals rolled into plump buds. She knew its smell was gentle and light. It smelled of home, of their garden and the syrup her mom used to make out of these flowers and pour over deserts. They had servants, and mom had never needed to cook, but she had always loved to.
She thought of her mom and her brother, who was going to get married — had he already? Did they remember her? Were they still waiting for her? Were they even alive? She tried hard to think how much time had passed, but couldn’t. Leeches seethed in dark water and slipped out of her fingers.
Raphael took her face into his hands and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. For the first time, she noticed that his skin was coarse and almost painfully hot, and that his cloyingly sweet perfume failed to hide the smell of brimstone.
“Do you like it? Are you happy, my precious flower?”
“Yes, Raphael. I’m very happy. Thank you.”
It was a beautiful painting, after all.