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“My power grows. My forces gather. The reckoning draws near…”
Shadowheart collapses onto the ground, panting. The artifact - the very one that she spent countless nights prodding, desperate to at least trigger something - stutters in the air, the glow fading as quickly as it came, clattering to the ground with a sharp clang.
Her mind swims; the pounding, layered voice of the Absolute still tearing in her skull, when she is suddenly hauled to her feet. Knuckled fists digging into her arms. “T’skva! Why do you possess a Githyanki relic?!”
Lae’zel is spitting in her face. Her words are the very image of fury, but her trembling hands and sweat-leaden brow betray her composure. Somehow, it feels relieving to know that even the insufferable githyanki is not invulnerable to fear.
“Answer me, half-elf!”
Lae’zel’s grip sharpens before Shadowheart is twisted away once again by a different set of hands. Still firm, but not bordering on painful. Her vision is suddenly filled by deep purple eyes.
“Shadowheart,” Felyne says. “Whatever relic you possess saved us. What happened?”
Felyne’s stoic visage snaps Shadowheart back into the present, the shock and adrenaline melting away into a bland annoyance that of course, the ever infallible drow is the only one out of the party that appears entirely unaffected.
It allows Shadowheart to slink back into her usual armour.
“I’ve no idea what just happened,” Shadowheart says carefully. “Not anymore than you do. But all I know is that artifact saved our lives, and I’ll be damned if I am interrogated like a common criminal over it.”
“Lies!” Lae’zel roars, reaching for her greatsword. “This is a gith relic! My people would have died before letting a filthy istik lay their hands upon it!”
Shadowheart’s halfway through weaving her first incantation before Felyne’s shadow drops in front of her.
“Hold your blade!”
She makes a striking figure. White hair billowing against her gleaming armour, hand resting on her bastard sword, already humming with divine magic.
“Whatever your grievances, Lae’zel - this is not the time. We are on the doorstep of a fully armed goblin camp. Draw their attention, and we lose any chance of getting what we need and slipping through unnoticed with this.”
Felyne motions to the garb of the Absolute tied around her waist, hastily stolen from a dead drow cultist back at Waukeen’s Rest. The plan was not terribly hard to formulate when it seemed to appear in everyone’s minds simultaneously. Especially when one grieving soldier had gone wild and swung her blade at the sight of Felyne’s obvious drow features.
Lae’zel seethes and spits at the ground, but she sheathes her sword.
“T’skva! I will not spill blood here, but I will not forget. I know those symbols. I know these runes,” Lae’zel growls. “You stole that from my people. I will have my answers, half-elf.”
Felyne eases from her stance. “Thank you, Lae’zel.”
To Shadowheart’s utter horror, somehow herself and the gith both roll their eyes at the same time at Felyne’s formality.
“Aw… you’re no fun, darling.” Astarion drawls, his fangs glinting through upturned lips. “Just when things were starting to get interesting.”
“There is nothing interesting about getting ambushed by a pack of goblins, nor infighting when it is imperative for us to work together,” Felyne replies.
“Ah, I do forget that you have the personality of a freshly painted white wall.”
Astarion guffaws as Felyne turns her attention back to Shadowheart. “However,” she begins, pointedly ignoring the snickering vampire, “it would be poor form to blatantly ignore your subterfuge, Shadowheart. You have a githyanki artefact, one that can shield us from the influence of mindflayers. Why?”
Shadowheart lets out a disbelieving huff. “You really have no tact, have you? You don’t just ask why and expect an honest answer.”
Felyne’s eye twitches, and mirth bubbles in Shadowheart’s chest despite the wariness enveloping her like a cloak.
“… Shadowheart,” Felyne repeats after a moment’s hesitation. “Be straight with me.”
“Like I said, I don’t know what that thing is. All I know is that I’ve to get it to Baldur’s Gate, at any cost.”
Felyne’s feet stay firmly planted, eyes levelled.
Shadowheart eyes the rest of her companions. Lae’zel, teeth gnashed in barely contained fury, hand edging towards her greatsword once again. Astarion, the humour in his red eyes simmering away into a calculating coldness. Gale, still winded from the psychic invasion, yet never taking his eyes off Shadowheart. Karlach, shifting her weight from one foot to another; at a loss of words to mitigate this situation. Wyll, surprisingly silent in the face of it all, his hand never moving from the hilt of his rapier.
“Very well,” Shadowheart says, eyes fully focused on Felyne’s. “It’s time you knew, I suppose, if we’re to continue together.”
She lifts her chin. No matter what she is proud to be a disciple of the Dark Lady.
“I serve Shar, the Mistress of the Night.”
Shadowheart never breaks her gaze away from Felyne. Awaits with a morbid fascination for the inevitable disdain to colour her usual blank canvas. Would it be a widening of the eyes, or perhaps a hitch in the breath? Eilistraee followers, let alone her renowned Sword Dancers, would usually not stand for a Sharran in their midst, being as aligned with the Moonwitch as they are.
Yet beyond the initial flash of shock, Felyne gives away nothing.
“It’s my mission to deliver this artefact to her secret cloister - my home - in Baldur’s Gate. A group of us were sent to retrieve the artefact,” she says. “Now I’m the only one left. I can’t afford to fail.”
Shadowheart waits and waits and waits. Hands digging into the sharp ridges of the relic.
“I see,” Felyne says as though she was commenting on the weather, and Shadowheart is suddenly seized with - with what? Some sort of lopsided fury? Disappointment?
“Thank you for being honest with me.” Felyne continues, the steady timbre in her voice unwavering. “Shar… that is certainly… unusual, but the least of our problems. In lieu of all that’s happened, and to recover from the mental assault, why don’t we make camp and reconvene?”
And then Felyne turns back and walks away. Methodically cutting branches of an old tree and splitting it into bits for firewood, like every evening before.
Shadowheart looks at her receding silhouette, stunned. All mirth and anticipation within her withers away, and instead, she is left with a gnawing madness that only grows with each step Felyne takes.
“You are lucky she was not combative,” Wyll says gravely. “By the gods, a Shar follower within our midst… not many people, let alone clerics of Eilistraee, would have accepted this with such grace.”
His hand finally lifts from his sheathed rapier. “But I trust my own judgement, and Felyne’s as well. No matter your faith… you are still one of us.”
Shadowheart wanted to scream.
“Gale,” Felyne calls out. “You’ve still got enough ingredients for that stew of yours?”
“Always!” Gale replies - a little too fast. Casting a wary glance at Shadowheart, then an awestruck one at Felyne, before making his way over.
“Sharran,” a familiar grating voice hisses in her ear. “The foolish drow may have overlooked this, but I will grant you no such mercy. Come daylight, you will answer to what you’ve done. The githyanki blood you spilled to steal an heirloom from my people.”
“Tch. Heirloom? Knock it into your thick skull, Lae’zel. This artefact is the only thing keeping us from becoming mindflayer slaves. It saved all our lives back then, even yours.” Shadowheart hisses back, throat loosening at the expected hostility. “But if you’re so desperate to be proven wrong, fine. I’ll gladly see you gone.”
Lae’zel sneers, then walks away.
Everyone settles back into the usual, albeit uneasy, rhythm as the sun starts settling beyond the horizon.
And something inside Shadowheart is still screaming.
Shadowheart soothes the gnawing fury in her chest using a surefire method; by aggressively giving Scratch belly rubs.
“C’mere boy,” she laughs. “You like that, don’t you?”
Scratch pants and barks in agreement, tail wagging furiously. Shadowheart is surprised at how natural petting him comes to her, even with little memory of her past. Did she have a dog back in the enclave? Did they even allow pets? Maybe she can keep one if she becomes a Dark Justiciar ?
The thought is so stupid that her cheeks burn with shame, and suddenly she remembers holding something much smaller, a warm ball of fur in her hands, before -
Shadowheart feels a spike of pain in her hand and she hisses, jerking her arm back. Scratch, now woefully absent of belly rubs, whines and trails over to Felyne, who is settled in a meditative pose on her knees. Only then does she notice that Felyne’s pensive gaze has been on her the whole time, and Shadowheart immediately turns her head, facing the open.
They are stationed close enough to the goblin camp that Shadowheart can examine the desecrated temple of Selune in satisfying enough detail.
“Pathetic.” Shadowheart laughs. The disgusting noises from the goblin camp can be heard even this far up the cliffs. “As the Moonwitch deserves. Her sanctum ruined, overrun by vermin. I bet there’s goblin piss all over the temple, wonder if She can feel that up there?”
She hears a sharp rustle from behind.
“Shadowheart,” she hears Felyne say. Her voice is still its usual deadpan, but her erratic movements prompt Shadowheart to glance over her shoulder. “That’s enough.”
“Why does it matter to you?” Shadowheart stands up, heart in her throat, something in her reveling in the tension. “You serve Eilistraee, not Selune.”
“Indeed,” Felyne agrees tersely. Her fists clench then unclench. “But it is unbecoming to purposefully desecrate another’s faith, even if they are… ideologically opposed. I do not shun you for your faith, why-”
“Oh, but you do, don’t you?” Shadowheart has finally found a gap in Felyne’s armour, and something in her refuses to ignore it. “Don’t lie. It’s unbecoming of you. I refuse to partake in this willful charade where you pretend to be unaffected. I know how aligned your goddess is with Selune. I suppose that makes us ideologically opposed, does it?”
Felyne walks closer to Shadowheart now, each step stiff and sudden. “Why do you insist on creating friction between us?” she asks, running her hands through her long white hair. It’s the first time Shadowheart’s seen her touch it. “I admit, I do not agree with Sharran doctrine, but-”
“So you do have your own opinion. Good.” Shadowheart says. “That’s better. I do like it when you’re honest, it adds some colour to… hm. How did Astarion put it? The freshly painted white wall.”
Felyne is speechless. The drow’s lips move incomprehensibly, eyes bulging, and Shadowheart relishes at the layers finally unravelling the enigma in front of her.
“Why are you trying to prove yourself?” Felyne says.
Shadowheart bristles. Tries to find any sign of mockery or cruelty. But Felyne’s eyes only look terribly lost.
“You must be daft. I am not—”
“You wish to hear my thoughts. Fine.” Felyne snaps. The wildfire in her chest is spreading out of control, catching onto leaves, grass, places unintended. Yet Shadowheart can’t back out, can’t stop herself from looking away.
“I abhor Shar.” Felyne states bluntly. The words sting like a whip. “Everything She touches is a violent and cruel stain on the world, and not just on what I worship. Or what Selune preaches.”
Felyne breathes heavily. Shadowheart leans into the pain of her honest revelation, entranced.
“But you, Shadowheart. I do not understand. I just cannot see it.”
All breath is knocked from her lungs. “Excuse me?”
Felyne’s voice is brittle. Small. “I cannot see it, Shadowheart.”
Shadowheart grasps at whatever she can. “Well, of course you couldn’t see it.” A forced laugh, even to her own ears. “What kind of covert Sharran would I be if my displayed my faith naked, out in the open?”
“That is not what I mean,” Felyne continues, and Shadowheart desperately wants her to stop. To shut up. To walk away before she hears any more of this heresy.
“You-” Felyne stutters, struggling to form words. “You are a kind person, Shadowheart. Compassionate. I know you try to hide it, but it is impossible to veil one’s true nature when one has been travelling together as closely as we have.”
“Don’t be naive.” Shadowheart hisses. Years of devout discipline tighten around her flailing composure like a girdle. “Compassion is weakness. Lady Shar’s disciples discard such useless sentimentality from our first night of worship. You know nothing about me, and what I’ve done.”
With a dawning horror, she realises she also knows nothing about herself. Only the mission, the githyanki raid, and looking into the inky depths of the Mirror as her memories were wiped clean.
“I see how gentle you are with the tiefling children,” Felyne says, her tense expression fading into something peculiarly soft. “I see how you spoil Scratch when no one is looking.”
Shadowheart would back away, but there’s only the stretch of open cliff. Felyne keeps pressing forward.
“If you have to be Sharran, Shadowheart…” Felyne whispers, “I would say you are doing a poor service to your faith. You do not embody any of that at all.”
“How dare you!” Shadowheart seethes, pushing Felyne back so roughly that she almost topples backwards. She is surprisingly wispy without all her armour. Shadowheart thinks she can easily climb on top of her and strangle her to death if she wished.
“You dare lecture me when you - you - hngh!”
Shadowheart chokes mid-sentence as her hand seizes with pain. Why, why now? What has she done?
“-heart. Shadowheart!”
Lithe, yet sturdy arms lower Shadowheart down to a crumpled position on the grass.
“That is not an old wound.” Felyne says, hand enclosed around the back of her wrist. Strangely, there’s a fury to her cadence that was absent before. “This is divine energy. I recognise the signature. Is this…”
“A blessing.” Shadowheart says sharply, yanking her hand away from Felyne’s. “A blessing, from my Lady. One that marks me as Hers.”
She sets her jaw and narrows her eyes in a challenge. Felyne inhales sharply. Her face twists, eyes screwing shut.
“A blessing.” Felyne repeats. It’s the first time Shadowheart hears Felyne laugh, but it’s completely devoid of any joy. “Is that what Shar told you? A shock collar disguised as a gift?”
Shadowheart clenches her marked fist so hard it draws blood.
“I think we are done here,” she says. Looks at Felyne with all the disdain she can muster.
“You think I would give your words any weight?” Shadowheart continues blandly, “a Sword Dancer of Eilistraee who uses bastardised versions of their martial forms?”
She focuses on the top of Felyne’s head, which has suddenly become very, very still.
“All Sharrans are well versed in the art of infiltration. As such, other forms of worship are included in that category. You weren’t trained were you? Not even properly inducted into the Church. Just someone trying to play pretend.”
Shadowheart lets her instinctive training do the work for her. Allows all her observations from the past weeks formulate into a single, crushing blow.
When she hears nothing for the next few seconds, Shadowheart finally looks at Felyne’s face. It’s pale, pallid and completely devoid of any emotion.
“We are done here. As you said.” Felyne says. Shadowheart may as well have been conversing with a blank wall.
Felyne gets up, and starts walking away. Takes one final look back at Shadowheart, a wildness simmering beneath her gaze.
“Don’t you dare criticise me on my faith, Sharran. When your own foundation is so mutable and weak.”
And then she disappears back into her tent.
Shadowheart sags down onto the grass, a victorious smirk etched on her face. Her stomach churns.
Shadowheart does not wait until daylight.
“You coward!” Lae'zel seethes as she struggles against Shadowheart's grip.
It takes all of Shadowheart's strength and body weight to keep the gith down, knees digging into the dirt. She tries to inch the dagger closer to Lae'zel's neck, but the iron grip against her knife hand barely budges. Her chest coils, and she grits her teeth.
"You chose this path," Shadowheart says, voice low. "You could have looked the other way. But here we are. I cannot let you have the artefact."
“Shka'keth!” Lae'zel thrashes once again, and Shadowheart wobbles from the sheer force of her resistance.
"If the others ask, I'll just say you were transforming. Don't expect to be mourned."
Lae'zel barks out a harsh laugh. "A true Sharran indeed, striking from the dark like vermin, alibi at the ready. But I see your struggle. You are distracted, unsettled. Were you more skilled, you would have ended me in my sleep."
"Shut up!" Shadowheart snarls. "Shut your fucking mouth!"
The madness in her veins suddenly wanes thin. The hand gripping the dagger is shaking now, pushing and pushing against Lae'zel's unyielding resistance.
"Do it," Lae'zel says. Her yellow eyes dig into Shadowheart's own. "End me. Show the world how frightened you are, unable to even engage in a proper duel. Or are you even too pathetic to accomplish that?"
Shadowheart remembers staring at a set of bright purple eyes, darkened with disgust. Disappointment.
Fuck this. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. She'll fucking show them, what a true disciple of Shar -
Shadowheart finds herself rushing towards the ground, and she hastily splays out her arms to break her fall forward.
For a moment, she's disoriented, confused. Then the world is flipped on its head as her right arm snaps back with a terrible crack, and suddenly the bloody gith is the one on top of her. Dagger already wrestled from her grasp.
"Pathetic." Lae'zel repeats. It sounds very far away, compared to the sharp, pulsing pain radiating up her right arm. The gith digs her left elbow into her neck, and Shadowheart tries to fight back, move, do anything, yet she's helplessly pinned.
Dark Lady preserve her. What in the nine hells was she doing?!
"That was a sorry attempt at an assassination, even for you." Lae'zel continues. "Now, you shall - "
Shadowheart rears back and crashes her head into Lae'zel's with all her might. Stars burst across her vision.
"T'skva!" Shadowheart hears distantly. The world is still spinning on an axis. Then pain explodes across her cheek, which she belatedly clocks as Lae'zel's closed fist.
"You dare - " Lae'zel seethes, something glinting in her right hand, something that Shadowheart recognises too late as her own dagger, and Shadowheart flinches, preparing for the final blow, anger, disappointment and shame mixing into one ugly -
"- STOP!"
The world stops spinning, and holds its breath.
Shadowheart's blurry vision slowly sharpens.
Strands of white hair billow across her face. It tickles her nose, and through the throbbing pain on her face and arm, Shadowheart looks up at Felyne's crouched figure.
Lae'zel is frozen shock still, eyes blown wide. Her arm is thrusted mid-motion as though rammed into a brick wall.
Then a gush of blood splatters onto the ground, staining Felyne's bare feet.
Bare feet, covered in dirt. Shadowheart stares at Felyne. She is clad only in her nightwear, a loose cotton shirt and baggy trousers.
Felyne jerks slightly. Then shudders. Shadowheart half reaches out, thinking she's about to collapse.
"Are you all FUCKING insane?!" Felyne roars.
Shadowheart snaps her hand back, mouth agape. The words that erupted from Felyne's throat were alien, almost unrecognisable. Even Lae'zel seems thrown, completely silent.
Felyne stumbles a few steps forward and whirls around, facing them both front on. Shadowheart chokes back a gasp.
Blood weeps down the centre of her forearm, the dagger buried to the hilt.
"We have a mindflayer tadpole in our heads, a hostile goblin camp to invade at dawn, a host of refugees depending on our success," Felyne kneads her fists into her eyes, "and you’d rather spend energy trying to kill each other?!"
Shadowheart attempts to speak, but her throat produces nothing.
Hurried footsteps thump onto the grass. "Oi," she hears Karlach say. "What the fuck is happening here?!"
"And why the fuck does Felyne have Shadowheart's dagger in her arm?" Astarion. His vampiric red eyes meet Shadowheart's own, genuinely startled. She flinches, something heavy creeping up her throat.
Felyne keeps her furious gaze on Shadowheart and Lae'zel. "Our lives are at stake. Other's lives are at stake. And you both can't settle your differences and work together. Like children.”
She huffs out another joyless laugh, the second one Shadowheart hears. “No, even children have sense. I'm dealing with mindless beasts!"
Lae'zel growls, her initial shock melting away. "Pah!" she spits. "Don't you dare take me for a feckless idiot, istik. When it was the Sharran who intended to silence me quietly in the night. Like a coward."
Felyne's attention snaps to Shadowheart, eyes wild, searching. Shadowheart looks back. Something in Felyne's face starts to crumple as she hastily turns back to Lae'zel.
"It looks like Shadowheart has reaped her consequences, Lae'zel." Felyne says. "Shadowheart. Tell me. Can I trust you to not act so foolishly in the future? Can I trust you to put this mindless feud to rest?"
Shadowheart feels every eye in camp boring into her. She stares at the ground, her bruising cheek and broken arm feeling like nothing compared to the savage shame tearing apart her chest.
"I..." Shadowheart swallows. "I acted... without reason. It was ... unbecoming of me. It won't happen again."
"Hmmph," she hears Lae'zel grunt, her lips twisted in challenge.
Another rush of blood splashes onto the ground. Shadowheart looks at the open wound in alarm, but Felyne still appears composed, staring at Lae'zel, waiting for her answer.
"I won't forget this transgression," Lae'zel says. "But I am not above putting this feud aside for our mutual interests."
Lae'zel marches back to her tent.
"You are lucky the foolish warrior stopped my blade."
And she disappears beneath the flaps.
The sound of more blood hitting the ground jolts Shadowheart back to her senses. She gets up on shaky feet, right arm hanging uselessly, but still draws healing magic to her left fingertips.
"Your arm." Felyne's arm trembles minutely, her jaw tensing in carefully hidden pain. "Let me - "
Felyne steps away. Shadowheart stutters mid-sentence, blinking rapidly. She has done this dozens of times, healed Felyne with a feather-like touch, yet she looks at the absent arm beneath her glowing fingers with a muddled kind of confusion.
"Tend to yourself," Felyne says. Her voice back to her usual, measured cadence. "I can take care of my own wounds."
No, no, wait. Desperate panic claws at her throat as she opens her mouth to protest, but she is instead assaulted by a stabbing pain in her forehead. She squeezes her eyes shut.
By the time she opens them again, Felyne is gone.
Shadowheart sways on her feet. Stares at the puddle of blood on the dirt. Then drags herself back to her tent, collapsing on her bedroll in a shuddering mess as the wound on her hand flares up again, blazing, punishing in its fury at Shadowheart's shameful display.
I know, Shadowheart thinks, holding back gasps of pain, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. I know.
The pain doesn't ebb until morning. When it finally eases, Shadowheart forces herself to sit, and violently resets her broken arm, melding the bones back together. Drinks a potion of healing so fast she chokes on the liquid, spluttering and coughing.
She lays back down, arm covered over her eyes, and only sees the image of Felyne's haunting visage as she turned away, rivulets of blood snaking around her arm, dripping onto the ground with each quiet step.