Chapter Text
Shadowheart flexes her shoulder, wincing, as she tries to nick a bottle of Baldurian red. The wounds on her back have sealed up nicely, though not even divine healing can take away the dull, pounding pain that comes from being peppered with arrows only two days prior. As much as it unsettles her, Shadowheart doesn't remember much; but the work of Felyne's skilful hand is hard to deny.
A howl of laughter from the dancing firelight gives Shadowheart the cover she needs to swipe the bottle balancing precariously on a wooden crate, and she slinks back into the shadows.
How utterly provincial, she thinks. Tieflings, half of them owning nothing but the clothes on their backs. A meagre supply of mostly sour wine, barring a few generous donations from the druids. A temporary, almost pitiful respite from the long road ahead of them. Yet Shadowheart had refused to stay in her tent, her legs stubbornly wandering out of their own accord.
Perhaps there won't be a chance to drink the highly coveted Baldurian red again when they're on the path to Moonrise. Perhaps the air in her tent was too stale and sick. Perhaps she felt too restless being practically comatose for two days straight, her muscles surely already atrophying from lack of use.
Shadowheart sees Rolan— the haughty, upstart wizard— launch fireworks into the air, lighting up the pitch-dark night in an array of colours. The other refugees cheer and clap, drunkenly bursting into song again. The campfire continues to dance, as though burning brighter and brighter, spurred on by the spirit of these people. Of eyes alight with careless joy. Of clumsy feet tapping the ground. The gaunt shroud of despair that draped over the whole refugee encampment like a second skin, one Shadowheart had thought permanent, seems to be entirely shed on this one night.
A bundle of feathers suddenly nestles against her knees, and once again, carried by some sort of strange instinct, Shadowheart immediately drops down and scratches the underside of the owlbear's beak.
"It's you!" Shadowheart breathes. The last memory she can recall is of the cub's terrified eyes as its talons dredged itself from her blood-soaked arms. "And... you're still here."
The cub croons, and pecks its beak against Shadowheart's arm. Nuzzles deep into her hand, as though to stick itself there permanently. Propelled by the same strange instinct, Shadowheart doesn't move.
Yet, on this equally strange night, she cannot bring herself to care.
"When did you stir? You should be resting."
Shadowheart looks up. Felyne (no wine-flush in sight, she clocks with an exasperated kind of despair) stands behind the cub, arms crossed, and—
—beyond the inferno blistering across her back, drops of cold snake down her skin. "I'm sorry." Sobs heave from above, choking and wet. The rawness breaking through almost enough to drown out the fire consuming her whole. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
More of the cold wetness splashes down on her nape, which she suddenly registers as tears, and she wants to turn her neck, wants the pain to stop, just so she can—
Shadowheart hitches mid-breath, a snarky quip crumbling to ash on her tongue. The faint whisper of a memory seizes her by the throat, shocked to life by the woman in front of her.
"... Are you alright?" Felyne asks, eyebrows tensing. She quickly steps towards her, naked panic overtaking what Shadowheart now recognises as a feeble imitation of calmness. "Did the wounds reopen? Are you hurting? Should I— no, let me take another look— "
"Felyne," Shadowheart interrupts gently, her free hand petting at the cub's soft feathers beneath. "I'm fine. I was just..."
She pauses, the aftershock of the memory still lingering, the shape of the solemn cleric being repainted before her eyes.
"... Don't worry," Shadowheart finally says, something in her frightened of being discovered, of being caught so off-guard. "Don't worry. I'm okay."
She steadies her breathing, taking two long inhales, and shoves the newborn memory into a dusty archive frantically labelled 'THINK LATER'. Small blessings for Sharran techniques of mental fortitude.
Shadowheart offers a weak smile. "You did a wonderful job, you realise." Then makes a show of obviously pulling at her shoulders, feeling only a faint pulse of discomfort. "If anyone else had tried to patch me up, I'd probably still be in my tent. Drooling with pain. Certainly not cognisant enough to borrow this."
She presents the plump bottle with a flourish.
"Baldurian red in the middle of nowhere. These druids have been holding out on all of us. Gods, would this have been nice in the early days..."
Shadowheart pauses. Rarely does her mouth start running off without her, talking about inane pleasantries to distract from the nerves building up in her stomach. Lady Shar preserve her, did those half-addled memories have to be brought forth in such a public display?
"Anyway," Shadowheart continues. "What I wanted to say was... you saved my life. Thrice now. Once, on the nautiloid. Twice, when Lae’zel and I were…”
The image of Felyne’s arm, streaked with blood, her own dagger buried to the hilt, chafes even now.
“And now, again. Back at the goblin camp. Even if there was little reason to after everything I’ve— ”
She shakes her head and steps forward, determined to at least reflect some of the earnestness Felyne gives out so freely. "Thank you," Shadowheart says, face solemn. "Truly."
Felyne blinks and tilts her head, reminding Shadowheart of Scratch when there's no ball for him to catch, in some kind of absurd manner. "You do not need to thank me," Felyne replies. "Anything less would have been a disservice."
Shadowheart opens her mouth, and once again finds herself at a loss of words, a strange heat rising in her cheeks.
"Hey, hey, HO—!"
A heavy weight slams into her back. Shadowheart stumbles, hissing at the sharp flare of pain radiating from her freshly healed wounds. The rare Baldurian red nearly flies from her grasp, but Shadowheart's fingers remain iron tight; powered by an embarrassing amount of tenacity.
"Bumbling buffoon," she wheezes, clutching the wine possessively to her chest. "Have you no sense of— "
The idiot who crashed into her - an obviously drunken tiefling, looks at Shadowheart with open horror. She almost preens at the visceral reaction, if it were not overshadowed by a wave of concern. Surely her usual countenance did not inspire such primal terror?
“I— I’m sorry!” He stammers, staring not at Shadowheart, but a little to her left. She looks back, and is met with Felyne’s ice-cold glare. “It was an accident— I didn’t mean— ”
“I know your intentions were not violent,” Felyne says, each syllable clipped and acidic. Like a dagger stabbing into bone. “But please, in future— ”
The tiefling flails his arms and dashes off.
“— be more careful… around… the injured...”
Felyne stares at the rapidly retreating silhouette, mouth hanging open in a daze. She turns back to Shadowheart, blinking rapidly. “Why did he run?” Felyne asks, her voice cracking high on the last word in honest, desperate confusion.
Shadowheart tips her head back and howls.
“Haha— HAHAHA! Gods!” Shadowheart laughs, tears springing from her eyes. “That was amazing. You’ve no idea the effect you have sometimes do you?”
Felyne’s face flushes fast, rivalling the deep magenta of a Portal Sherry. Her eyes look Shadowheart up and down, shining and frantic. “I… I— No? I don’t think so?”
If anything, Shadowheart laughs even harder, keeled over her knees. “You— you really don’t know. And I thought half of it was an austere facade.”
Some part of her should be mortified, but she can’t remember the last time she felt so light. Evidently, her bout of deranged laughter has attracted an audience, as the rest of her companions make their way over like moths to flame.
“SHADS!” Karlach’s booming voice strikes the air. “You’re okay!”
She almost sweeps the injured cleric up into a hug, but spins around at the last second, flames licking her skin. “Nope nope nope, bad idea Karlach. No setting people on fire!”
She whirls back to Shadowheart, a waterfall of relief on her face. “But I’m so, so, so glad you’re okay. And not, you know. Permanently not okay. Felyne was— “
“Am I witnessing a divine miracle?” Astarion drawls, a glass of wine at his fingertips. “Felyne, making Shadowheart laugh like she’s impersonating a clown? Can water actually set fire to a bundle of wet sticks?”
The vampire then guffaws himself. “HAH! What a fine night’s entertainment in this downright awful party.”
“Well, I am very glad to see you in such high spirits Shadowheart!” Gale proclaims. “We were all very worried about you. Luckily, not only having one cleric in our merry band has proven to be quite the boon! Of course, I always have a few scrolls of aid in my collection should the need arise…”
“You are recovered enough to laugh like a banshee,” Lae’zel says, head inclining in a minuscule nod. “Good. I expect you to maintain that same fervour when we are back on the road tomorrow, felling our enemies with swords and steel.”
Shadowheart feels a grin form on her face, eyes narrowing. “Is that actually concern I detect in your tone, Lae’zel? Why, I’m honoured.”
“Tch!” Lae’zel huffs, crossing her arms, but makes no move to rebuke her.
“Speaking of which,” Shadowheart ponders. “Where’s our famed Blade of Frontiers? Didn’t think it was in his nature to miss a scene where he can wax poetics about his heroic pursuits.”
“He’s busy sulking next to the river over there,” Karlach laments. “Tried to pull his sodden arse over with the rest of us. Well. As much as you can do it without actually making skin to skin contact. Told him his absence would be gaping, though, if even you said something about it, Fringe.”
Shadowheart shrugs.
“Wyll needs a quiet moment of contemplation, given all he’s been through,” Felyne says, the colour on her cheeks lightening. “It is not up to us to deny him that.”
“Felyne? Ohhhhhh Felyneeeeeee…”
Alfira, the tiefling bard, swings an arm over Felyne’s shoulder, shepherding her towards the main fire. She startles, the deep, awkward flush in her face darkening once again as she reluctantly gets pulled along.
“Well, someone’s popular.” Astarion says.
“Oooh.” Karlach winces. “I think she’s had one too many.”
“Hmm.” Amused, Shadowheart trails after the stumbling pair. Alfira wobbles, hand covering her face in a dramatic performance.
“I’m distraught.” The bard wails. “I’m devastated.”
“Ah…” Felyne slowly wriggles her way out of the tiefling’s loosening grip.
“I finally meet a Sword Dancer of Eilistraee, of the Lady of Dance herself. But we’re leaving tomorrow. And I’ve never even had a chance to hear you sing!”
Felyne stills. Eyes darting around in panic at the growing crowd. Shadowheart sits down on a nearby log. Oh, this is going to be fun.
“It’s not that special, I assure you.” Felyne says, her voice thin.
“Not that special?!” Alfira gasps, seemingly taking immense offense. “But - you’re a Sword Dancer! It’s your thing! Everyone knows they’re graceful, talented, trained in all manners of the arts, and most importantly, carry and nurture the most beautiful of beautiful voices that empower their sword and fight!”
She turns around. “You’ve all heard her sing, right?” Alfira pleads. “Isn’t her voice the most beautiful of beautiful? Surely, surely!”
Shadowheart clicks her tongue, considering. Even during battle, with her half-elven hearing, she had only caught faint melodies hummed cautiously.
“Nah mate,” Karlach slurs; clearly a little inebriated. “Nah. Never burst into melody, or anything like that. Honestly, her songs are so quiet, probably only the dead can hear them.”
Felyne wheezes.
“Don’t judge the poor woman, Karlach,” Astarion admonishes with a twinkle in his eye.“Maybe she’s just shy.”
Then, he lowers his voice theatrically. “Or she has performance anxiety.”
Felyne’s flat gaze, once focused dully at the sky, snaps back to Astarion. “I do not—”, she fumes, taking a deeply offended breath. “I can sing just perfectly fine!”
“Why, that is even more cause for hurt feelings,” Astarion splays a palm over his chest. “Why did we never get our Eilistraeean encore?”
“Perhaps you should be thankful our battles so far have not required me to burst into melodramatic song.” Felyne snips between clenched teeth. “Take heart, Astarion. Should you ever hear me bellow so loudly, trying to summon the height of my goddess’s power, it means we would already be one step in the Fugue Plane.”
“Sing! Sing! Sing!” Alfira exclaims, spurred on by the growing intrigue, hands clapping together excitedly.
Karlach joins in the drunken chanting, eagerly looking at Felyne. Even Lae’zel seems piqued, lingering at the edges of the campfire, arms crossed.
Shadowheart continues to watch.
She sees Felyne’s face go through a whole carousel of emotions (some of which Shadowheart is certain she will never see again, unless under extreme duress), before finally settling on exasperated defeat.
“Very well,” Felyne sighs. She lightly blows a stray hair out of her face. “It seems my integrity is in dispute. I shall set the facts in order shortly.”
”Thank you!” Alfira almost screams, clasping Felyne’s hands in her own.
Felyne sighs again, stealing a glance back at Shadowheart, entirely unimpressed. Shadowheart shrugs, smirking, and raises an eyebrow. What?
“Why doesn’t she have to prove anything?” Felyne mutters, waving a hand at the Sharran cleric.
“Our Lady of Sorrow’s teachings are steeped in secrecy, I’m afraid.” Shadowheart says serenely. “It would be the most improper.”
Felyne rolls her eyes; it’s the first time Shadowheart has seen them move in such an exuberant manner.
Alfira almost trips as she reaches back for her lute. “I only have this,” she despairs. “I don’t know what typical instrument you favour, but if you want to sing, I can play along— “
“No need,” Felyne interjects. Alfira’s face falls.
“I— my apologies. No slight on you,” she hastily adds. “I simply meant that the lute is no issue for me, as is nearly all manner of instruments. They all have their unique qualities.”
Felyne’s hand barely grazes the lute, eyes poring over every minute detail. “Your lute is beautiful. May I have the honour of borrowing it for this performance?”
Alfira swallows, a light blush staining her cheeks, clearly taken aback. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”
Felyne takes the lute from Alfira and pulls it into her arms in one, fluid motion, like she’s done it a hundred times before. She settles down on a shallow stump, and begins humming a series of notes, her fingers expertly tightening and loosening the pegs in a flurry of movement.
“She’s so familiar, I can’t believe I implied she wouldn’t favour a lute.” Alfira breathes. “Just look at her.”
Shadowheart is looking. Her eyes scarcely remember to blink. The entire camp has come around to watch at this point, waiting to listen to their mysterious hero Sword Dancer.
Felyne finally finishes with her tuning, breath catching as she sees the large audience gathered. Her face remains steady.
“I shall be performing an Eilistraeean prayer,” she says. “A child’s prayer. One that can be easily remembered and called upon at any moment. One that invokes the Dark Maiden’s light and care, should anyone need it, if they are in a situation where they are afraid. No matter who they are.”
Her eyes stay on the curious tiefling children huddled at the back of the crowd.
”Great, a sermon.” Astarion grumbles. Shadowheart kicks his foot.
“As such, no learned words are needed,” Felyne continues. “I originally learnt this prayer in Undercommon, but it is the intent behind the song that matters, more than anything.”
Felyne closes her eyes. Tucks her long white hair behind a pointed ear, exposing the slender curve of her neck in the pulsing firelight. And begins to sing.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Felyne’s voice is unrecognisable.
Everything Shadowheart knows about the drow is severe. Her hair, though long, untied, and almost rivalling Shadowheart’s own length, is always brushed back behind her shoulders. Her face always carefully blank. No movement or expression spent unnecessarily, efficient and precise.
Shadowheart thinks back to what she had learned about Eilistraee. On how she and Selune are trusted allies. On how she is the drow goddess of joy, beauty and song, eternally fighting against her mother Lolth, her followers usually spreading “merriment” wherever they go; a group of delusional sycophants to avoid (or get rid of) at all costs.
Even if Shadowheart was secretly relieved that she would not be travelling with a brainwashed, deluded zealot as she feared when she first saw the emblem of Eilistraee emblazoned on Felyne’s armour, she had sat outside that mold so entirely, had seemed so out of place, that Shadowheart was in honest disbelief. Never had she imagined an Eilistraeean cleric, let alone a Sword Dancer, would be so hesitant to let anyone hear her sing, or dance, who practiced her faith so privately with a goddess that seemed to demand the direct opposite.
When she laid her suspicions bare only seven nights ago, Felyne’s pallid, frozen stare gave her all the answers she needed.
“You weren’t trained were you? Not even properly inducted into the Church. Just someone trying to play pretend.”
Now, Shadowheart is in disbelief again.
Felyne’s humming is no longer quiet, stilted, stubbornly blending into the background whenever Shadowheart had strained to hear even a whisper of her song. Now, in the cold, quiet night, the campfire lowering to a quiet murmur, even the most drunken cheers silenced to a halt, Felyne’s voice soars, a gentle lullaby sung in a register that is so soft, so light and so gentle, the melody caressing Shadowheart with such tenderness that she finds it difficult to breathe, floating up, up, and up, into the starlit sky.
Felyne plays the strings of the lute carefully, softly, her eyes still closed, though Shadowheart sees them furrow and tense with every change in note. Felyne is singing, a wordless melody only shaped by sounds. Felyne is singing, as though she was embracing the most fragile, small and loveless thing in the world, and trying to breathe it back to life.
She strums the next heartfelt chord, a high note trailing off and lingering and echoing, Shadowheart’s heart is in her throat, waiting for the next crescendo, waiting, and waiting and then she glows.
Shadowheart’s eyes burn, trying to distinguish if it’s a trick of a light.
Felyne glows.
Dancing lights shimmer into existence in the air, falling and floating in the air like snowflakes, and as those lights drift closer, Shadowheart realises they’re a glimmering group of delicate, silver moths.
The flutter of wings brings the scent of sparkling, morning dew, after a relentless storm in the night.
Goosebumps burst across her skin. A brush of a hand, a warm hug, a gentle crease of the eyes, enveloping her all at once.
”Eilistraee,” she hears Gale gasp out hoarsely. Shadowheart’s mouth runs dry.
No one challenges his brazen assumption. At the naming of something so impossible.
The next note Felyne sings, she sings alongside something ancient, something otherworldly, and for the first time in her life, Shadowheart hears the voice of a goddess.
Eilistraee.
Raw terror crawls up her spine. The ground swims beneath her feet. Shadowheart is sitting, but she may as well be falling off a cliff.
Eilistraee is here.
The mark on her hand starts pulsing like an electric shock, but before it can even reach the barest threshold of pain, the sensation fizzles away. Gone. The sudden absence leaves Shadowheart frozen. Breaths coming out in short, ragged gasps.
Any moment now, the warm light on her skin would turn into a torrent of torturous flame. Any moment now, as soon as Eilistraee senses the mark of Shar upon her person, she would be struck down, or worse.
“She’s… laughing!” Shadowheart’s pupils dart to her right. Alfira’s eyes are glazed with awe; shimmering with tears. “She’s laughing… she’s so, so happy… and I can feel it! I can feel all of it!”
“By M— Eilistraee’s light.” she hears Gale whisper. Even he carefully does not invoke his beloved Mystra in the domain of another. “Oh, this is a once in a lifetime… for a display of worship to garner this response… magnificent! I need to record everything down!”
Shadowheart slams her mind shut. Forces herself to be empty, empty, empty; there is nothing for Eilistraee to see, to take.
Lady Shar preserve me. Lady Shar preserve me. Lady Shar preserve…
Felyne’s voice reaches another beautiful, sustained note, and she is glowing. Her body swathed in a silvery wash. Her white hair looks like starlight, a luminous streak brushing against the night. Her eyes are still closed. Does she even know what is happening?
Breathless, gentle laughs echo in her ear, and suddenly Shadowheart is experiencing everything she’s never had. The caress of a mother’s hand against her cheek. The sturdy feel of a father’s arms as she’s lifted into the air. A child’s excited giggle as they take her hand into theirs, running across an endless expanse of nothing. A myriad of memories she’s never had, and never will— but somehow, Shadowheart is experiencing it all in this exact second, exact minute, in this exact moment in time.
Her mind can scarcely form thoughts.
Eilistraee... is that …?
Every insecurity, every haunted thought clips free from her person like a cloak flying off in the wind, and for a moment in time, Shadowheart just exists. Free, joyous, and free, as she is now.
The lute strums one final melody, Felyne’s voice tapering off into a gentle end. The remnants of Eilistraee’s soft laughter fade away with the final note, as well as the lights dancing across Shadowheart’s skin.
The warmth still stays, like a lingering hug given on a dark, winter night. Eilistraee’s warmth. Eilistraee’s touch. Eilistraee’s voice. Shadowheart scarcely dares to breathe, lest the impossible moment be over.
Even through all her daily prayers and sundered memories, Shadowheart cannot recall Lady Shar ever responding back. Only an empty, silent void. Only the incurable wound gives her guidance through pain, and even that can prove inscrutable. The first divine voice, the first divine touch she experienced… was from… from… Eilistraee.
Forgive me, my Lady. Shadowheart prays. I had no choice in the matter. I didn’t mean for all this…
The prayer churns in her stomach. The last vestiges of laughter and warmth, cradled in her chest, she cannot bear to throw away.
Shadowheart looks at the mark on her hand, expecting it to ignite. It says silent; the emptiness almost punishing in its own right, the cold spearing into her chest, and she almost goes down onto her knees, begging for any sort of sign, pain, anything, to know that she didn’t just commit heresy in her Lady’s eyes by listening to Eilistraee’s song, that she would forgive her weakness at not being able to quite let it go, that she would still be welcome in her embrace despite it all.
The violent twang of strings being struck brings Shadowheart’s wobbly vision back to the heretical sight herself.
The blessed Sword Dancer of Eilistraee, no longer infused with godly power, looks ghostly pale. She runs a trembling hand through her hair, then on the sides of her face, as though she’s trying to assure herself of her own existence. Shadowheart had thought she would look more triumphant, confident, reverent. Instead, Felyne looks like she’s about to cry.
Alfira is already sobbing, running over to the drow and holding her hands reverently. “I— I never,” she gasps. “That was. Even Eilistraee herself appeared. I will never— we will never forget this. Thank you.”
“I felt her.” Wyll croaks out. It seems even Felyne’s performance has drawn him away from his isolation. “She reached me. She was so gentle.”
Tears gather in his mismatched eyes.
Felyne, eyes still wide, almost unseeing, mechanically hands Alfira back her lute. The tiefling startles back. “Oh no,” she says tremulously, afraid to touch it. “This is yours now. A goddess played my lute. I could never… I shouldn’t even— “
“I only borrowed it.” Felyne says faintly. “Please. It is still yours.”
Alfira trembles, eyes darting back and forth. Then shakily accepts the offering. “At least, before you leave,” Alfira says, “I want to give you my teacher… Lihala’s lute.”
Felyne’s brows tense in recognition, and finally seems to register the presence of the bard brought to tears by her song. “I… this is your teacher’s. Your only memory of her. I— “
“Please.” Alfira begs. “Accept this. I cannot bear the thought of you having no instrument accompanying you on your journey. Not when— not when you played like that. She would want you to have it.”
Her choked words echo throughout the clearing. Felyne opens her mouth, as though to make one more argument. Then she slowly hardens her jaw and nods.
Alfira almost breaks down into tears again. “Thank you. Thank you.”
She whirls back to the stunned crowd, brushing away her tears. “We had the Lady of Dance bestow her favour tonight!”
The lute once again falls into Alfira’s grasp. She strums it once, and almost sways on her feet.
“We have to sing! We have to dance! In honour of this MOMENTOUS occasion!”
The tieflings roar, and the party sparks back to life.
Karlach is crying, though her tears evaporate and sizzle as soon as they touch her skin. “Fuck me, soldier. That was— that was...! I finally felt the arms of a warm hug again.”
“An admirable feat, to be recognised by your goddess like so.” Lae’zel looks longingly at the sky. “If only I can one day achieve the same for my own. Vlaakith'ka sivim hrath krash'ht!”
“I’m glad… I’m really… ” Felyne is staring at somewhere very far away. The initial shock having worn off, Shadowheart recognises the look of someone well past their limits.
Her shaking eyes land on Shadowheart.
Shadowheart flinches involuntarily; the memory of Eilistraee’s entrance once again brought to life. But it is one she cannot afford to keep, or acknowledge properly, ever again.
Felyne’s lips part, a shaky breath escaping, almost forming a shape of a word… before she aborts the motion entirely.
She stands up. Manages a strained smile. “I… I am honoured beyond words she reached you all,” she says, looking at everyone and no one at the same time. “Reached all of us. I… I need to go. Need a moment. This was… “
And she walks away quietly from her own celebration.
Shadowheart watches her back recede into the distance. Without the flair, the silver, the glow, Felyne suddenly seems terribly lonely.
Lonely? Shadowheart almost snorts. She just received the highest form of favour from her goddess.
When Felyne had finally opened her eyes, she almost looked as frightened Shadowheart was. And maybe she was, or is, still terribly frightened. Shadowheart had no idea what Felyne was going through, when her goddess almost entirely possessed her during her song.
She rubs at her Lady’s mark on her hand. She would know, that divine favour was almost always tantamount to a heavy burden.
Shadowheart looks at the unopened Baldurian red still at her side. Perhaps it’s time to pop open the cork… and hope to share the bottle.