Chapter Text
Ketheric Thorm was dead.
Unfortunately, that only raised more questions, more revelations. This entire insane plot, getting more insane by the moment, was orchestrated by the Dead Three. As if facing Bhaal what felt like a lifetime ago wasn’t bad enough — now the age-old enemies had teamed together.
And Bhaal lingered in her mind, even now. Even as she slept in her tent, her newly-joined adventuring party electing to stay in the shadow-cursed lands one night longer to tie up loose ends, he lingered far longer than Bane and Myrkul ever did.
Perhaps it was just … old memories that kept her thinking.
They swirled around, leaking into her dreams, reminding her of times long gone. Her old friend looked in her eyes when she waited long enough. They watched, waiting for something. For what? She did not know.
They spoke words she could not understand, warned of things she did not hear, muffled and vague and uncanny. They were always too far, always just out of reach. When she held her arm out, when she tried to catch them, they disappeared into thin air.
Something was wrong.
Jaheira awoke to a shape in front of her tent.
At first, she had thought it was a normal intruder, but the glow of golden irises quickly proved her wrong. Her mind, quickly shaking off the throes of sleep in the way that only soldiers could, recognized this as Nethandre.
Well— correction. Was it Nethandre?
The shape was large and hunched over. It twitched a few times, stuck in deliberation, in some sort of stasis.
Then, she lunged. The hesitation had given her enough time to react to the chaos. Jaheira rolled out of the way, and the dagger sunk into her bedroll instead of her gut. Reeling, the tiefling took it out and turned her attention to Jaheira once again, but she had lost her chance.
Tendrils of vines grew from the ground, reaching upwards and wrapping around the larger woman’s wrists and ankles, binding them together and wrenching her to the floor of her tent. She ended up sitting on her knees, tied together wrists tucked behind her, head hanging low though it wasn’t bound.
After her little outburst, she fell completely quiet. It was a thick, heavy silence, only interrupted by the sound of her heaving, shuddering breaths. There was no fear, no attempt to struggle out of her bindings, and Jaheira dared not interrupt her. She had no clue what state the tiefling was in, and had no desire to make it worse.
Finally, after what felt like minutes of Jaheira simply watching her strange companion, she moved. Her head tilted upwards ever so slightly, enough so she could see golden eyes peeking out from overgrown bangs.
“... Jaheira.”
Her voice was a very quiet rasp. Malar’s Mark, she sounded so small , it always frightened her.
“Nethandre,” she returned. “Returned to the land of the living?”
“Yes, I think. Is Astarion okay? I didn't hurt him, did I?”
“Relax, cub. There is no blood on you.”
“Good, I…” When Jaheira attempted to release the vines, her head snapped up and she began to shake her head. “No! No, I— I don’t trust myself right now.”
Maybe it was time to get answers.
“Then, while you are my captive audience, would you care to explain?”
“As you know, there is something wrong with me.”
“Don’t waste your breath on that self-pitying nonsense, paladin. There is a story here, and I would like to hear it.” There was no malice in her words. Jaheira simply knew the woman’s tendency to lapse into self-deprecation if given half the chance and had no interest in enabling it.
“If you insist.” A fond glint snuck back into her eye, if only for a moment, before she began her tale. “I have these … urges, I call them. No, that's not right. I fear it’s all I am — it’s not something like the parasite. There is a call to violence, to murder, constantly digging at me. I want blood , I want to maim, I want to —”
“Careful, you are monologuing.” Jaheira tried to keep her face neutral and betray nothing.
“Ah — Thank you.” Subtly, she jolted a bit straighter. “I was told to kill Isobel. I wanted to doom the inn, to watch all that carnage unfold, all that death. That’s why I could never bring myself to stay.”
Jaheira dared not speak. She was working something out, she could tell.
“You … you make me angry. So, so unfathomably angry. There’s this rage that stirs when I look at you, it tells me you’re my enemy, that I have to hunt you down and rip you apart lest I’m hunted down first. I can’t understand why. I thought I could control it, that I could stifle it, but now… we are here.”
Jaheira knows. She is haunted by the ghosts of her past, haunted by a long-gone friend who whispers in her ear and tells her I never wanted anything to do with this.
“You know what’s wrong with me,” the Bhaalspawn finally whispers.
“I do.”
They frown the same, she thinks.
“You won’t tell me?”
When she looks at her like that, Jaheira almost breaks.
“Not yet. In time, I will.”
It’s dangerous, she tells herself, for her to know now when she can do nothing about it. They have a tenday before they arrive in Baldur’s Gate, and there’s no reason for her to tie herself in knots thinking about what she cannot change.
Her heritage will be waiting there. It will come and pull her back, try to drag her into its tide. Jaheira will be there and ready when it comes to help her in that battle, but that battle can't be fought here. Not yet.
“I don't understand.”
I don't want you to tear yourself apart. I want you to have moments of peace before your father comes to tear it apart , she wants to say. The words are thick on her tongue for a reason she can't explain, even to herself. It’s selfish, surely. She can’t bring herself not to be.
The hesitation is clear enough for her to understand. “You can keep your secrets. I trust you have a good reason for it.”
“You put so much faith in me, cub. What if I’m misleading you?”
“I trust it’s not misguided. Besides, I don’t think I’d have any trouble hunting down an old crone like you if you’re lying to me.” Finally, she grins.
Jaheira laughs — she can’t help the relief that blooms in her chest when she sees that smile return. “Feeling like yourself again? Shall I unhand you?”
“Yes, I think you can.”
The tendrils release and sink back into the earth, and Nethandre stretches her arms out, still hunched over in the small tent. “I think I’m going to need that aloe oil, if you still have it.” She rubs her wrists, peering at Jaheira curiously. “I’ll talk to Astarion, see what he can do about restraining me so this doesn’t happen again. I promise no harm will come to you. I would rather die.”
Bhaal’s hold on her is stronger than she thought possible, but not unbreakable. Never unbreakable. When she listens to Nethandre speak, she knows those words ring as true to her as it does to herself.