Chapter Text
It started as all the stories told: a mood-plummeting lethargy, an inevitable hunger for insane combinations of foodstuffs, and abrupt nausea triggered by any and all movement, both idle and sudden. But mostly the nausea. Isobel, of course, also fell prey to ignorance. Or perhaps it was denial. She, of all people, had no reason whatsoever to believe she was with child.
Part of that reasoning came from her beloved, the daughter of Selûne. Aylin was radiant. Gorgeous. Very classically female, divisions of sex and gender aside. Isobel was blessed to have her as a lover, though their recent plans for an official betrothal had turned her father against them, who was of the opinion that no immortal should prey on a mortal child.
Child—hah! Isobel was already in her sixties, more than old enough for a half-elven woman to judge for herself if she wished to bind herself in matrimony. Because of Ketheric’s machinations, however, if Aylin now wished to visit her, she had to either display courtesy upon courtesy, Isobel accompanied by half a squadron of guards, or outright sneak into Isobel’s quarters to abscond with her. If Isobel attempted to escape her watchers on her lonesome—and she admitted, she was a poor rogue when Aylin wasn’t masterminding an escape—she was rewarded with Ketheric Thorm’s anger. Not even her Uncle Malus, as driven and ill-humoured as he was, wished to risk her father’s wrath by disguising her location for the day. Or night, as it were. She’d asked him on both occasions, and while Malus had been almost disturbingly gleeful at her perceived loss of innocence, he’d still said no.
Moonrise Towers itself was an old landmark. The Thorm family had been in residence for centuries, seeing to it that the mountainous river locks and its cavernous undersides were held stable against the might of the Chionthar below. Isobel was merely the youngest and brightest of the Thorm legacy, born to a human mother, who married her own half-elven father, Ketheric Thorm, then tragically died when Isobel was just a child. Ketheric—and their small extended family—had therefore raised Isobel on their lonesome, helped only by the serving staff that deigned to be in their employ. She had lived a sheltered life, and her only reprieve had been the decade she served as an acolyte in the House of the Moon, in Waterdeep, before her father called her home. It had been…something, adjusting back to her restrictive life as a noble after a decade of freedom. Isobel respected her father far too much to deny him. Luckily, her return had been for good, as mere months after her rise to clerichood, Dame Aylin had toured their little town, and they had fallen for each other hard and fast. Isobel couldn’t imagine life without her anymore—even if her father disagreed with their match in its entirety.
Stomach wobbling despite her stillness, Isobel suppressed the incipient urge to vomit as she looked up from her chosen text for the afternoon, playing with the cuff of her lace gloves. Ketheric had insisted on “spending the day together” but had yet to do anything other than reply to letters at his desk while she perused their library, which was also in sore need of updating. Isobel was sure she’d read all the books they owned, at this point-
Her stomach let out a warning lurch.
‘Father,’ she called out, calm and as indifferent as she could manage with her nausea, ‘If you’ll excuse me, briefly?’
Ketheric took a moment before looking up, eyes creasing as he smiled at his only daughter. ‘Of course, my darling. My apologies for being so distracted—I shall call for afternoon tea while you are indisposed.’ He flicked his quill at Qyere, his attentive butler, who immediately turned to call upon a maid.
While I’m indisposed, my foot, Isobel internally grumbled, closing her book with no care for the page number and settling it on a nearby table. Her sworn guardsman’s armour glittered under the candlelight as she passed him. Walking the short distance to her room, Isobel took a vindictive pleasure in slamming the door in his face, locking it behind her as he complained through the woodwork.
‘Bastard,’ she muttered. Father knew she’d been escaping onto the balconies in recent weeks. The guards knew well enough by now to follow her into her quarters when they could, so she couldn’t escape her prison by angel express. It didn’t matter that Aylin was busy today.
Quick to lock the other two doors, Isobel allowed herself a moment to breathe—which, of course, was precisely when she needed to lunge for her great-grandmother’s antique vase. It was a miserable affair. Afterwards, she was wearily thankful for the idea of tea and biscuits waiting for her in the next room, if only to wash her mouth out.
Isobel inspected herself in the mirror as she turned away from the unfortunate vase. Her face was wan, the front strands of her hair loose and tumbling. The slight wave came from her mother, Melodia Thorm, though after decades of long hair, Isobel knew it could curl further, if she treated it right. It was something she honestly didn’t prefer. Her current lady in waiting in charge of her appearance was one of the acolytes from the Cloister of Chaffinchwest, called Jemima; she’d been putting Isobel’s hair up in an array of crown braids as of late, twined with silver thread, occasionally hung with moon ornaments when Isobel had the patience to let her fuss. Isobel’s heart might have longed for Aylin, but in that moment, she wanted Jemima to come to her aid and fix her bloody hair; Ketheric would fuss if she were anything less than perfect, when she returned.
Stepping closer to the mirror, Isobel felt a burning hatred for the vanity required to be the Lady of Moonrise Towers, Reithwin and All Their Peoples, fingers twisting an illusion into place. Her cheeks filled with colour, hair fixing itself. It might have only been a surface glamour, but it would do until Jemima returned for her evening ablutions. That was the trouble of having novices as courtiers—their service had to be balanced with duties to the Moonmaiden, not that Isobel begrudged Jemima in the least. She was a cleric herself. Though in times like this, Isobel sometimes wished to have a friend at hand to assure her that her regal pantomime was Thorm-level convincing.
An urgent knock came from the door once, then again, her guard hissing through the ancient wood that he was meant to have eyes on her at all times. He threatened to call the butler. Isobel didn’t reply to the banging, pettily straightening her collar in front of the mirror and playing with her rings. The knocking stopped for a short time, and then a sharp, angry thump-tap-thump came, and Isobel practically flew to answer Qyere’s summons.
The old dragonborn looked down at her balefully as the door opened, her guard steaming with embarrassed rage from behind his shoulder. ‘Milady. Do not test your guards, so.’
Isobel’s eyes flickered back and forth between Qyere and her guard, still angry. ‘Perhaps my guards should be less impatient and allow their lady to go to the privy unaccompanied, as would be proper.’
‘But they are not proper, for you are not proper,’ said Qyere, as if she were but a teen. ‘When you insist upon improper behaviour, then you shall face the consequences for said impropriety—and perhaps if you tried, your father might return your freedoms at his leisure.’
Her scoff could probably be heard across the tower. ‘His leisure? I am an adult woman, saer. I follow his commands because I am a dutiful daughter, but I refuse to be spied upon by strangers. There is a limit to my generosity.’ Sneering, Isobel almost forgot why she needed to abscond from the library in the first place, until the moment that Qyere’s nose twitched, his irritation becoming concern.
‘…milady,’ he muttered, taking half a step closer, enough that the guard at his back was no longer in the conversation. ‘Is all well?’
Her empty stomach rolled, and the taste of her own bile sickened her mind as much as it did her stomach. It turned her mean, short to the man who raised her just as well as her own papa. ‘You are my father’s butler, Qyere, not my minder.’ But despite her words, Isobel knew it wouldn’t be secret that she’d thrown up—not from Qyere, and not her father. ‘I have an upset stomach,’ she eventually muttered, sending him a brief glare, ‘if you must know of my troubles. My apologies to whomever must clean the vase.’
Qyere’s eyes flickered with a somewhat pitying understanding, before he nodded and stepped aside, tilting into a short bow as she passed. Isobel knew he’d be discreet about it. Trying to keep messes from the help was an adventure in futility.
O Moonmaiden, give me strength, she prayed as she re-entered the library. Her father had begun smoking a pipe while she’d been away. The acrid scent was her first clue. The second was the pipe in his hand. Ketheric nonetheless put it out with a beleaguered sigh as she wrinkled her nose, though the smell lingered as she dragged an armchair in front of his desk and helped herself to a porcelain teacup. Like magic, the first sip of black, earthen tea eased her stomach and Isobel practically melted back into her seat, enjoying the quiet as her father dunked a sugared biscuit into his own beverage.
‘I’ve always enjoyed sitting like this,’ Isobel said to him. She recalled, ‘You used to humour me as a child when I wished to stay up late, and have the kitchens heat half a pitcher of milk.’
‘You were a devilish child, who required bribery to sleep.’ Ketheric grinned, toasting her. Isobel raised her own teacup with a laugh, then pulled up her knees, wedging herself well and truly into her seat. With her elbows tucked in, warm tea soothing her ailing stomach, Isobel let the afternoon wash over her, not saying a word as her father eventually returned to his letter-writing. There was a certain peace to being silent. When he consulted her over certain delegations wishing to visit for the Eight Hundredth Year of Moons—the anniversary celebrating the eighth century of Selûne’s presence in Reithwin, fast approaching—she hummed and chuffed, eyes crinkling like his did when he made jokes at their visitors’ expenses.
For a little while, even, she was lulled into a short nap. It was a healing thing, but Isobel had forgotten about her glamour—so she woke to her father’s noise of concern, his brow furrowed in an angry sort of worry.
‘Isobel, you’re pale, my child. Why have you been hiding this?’
Illusion broken, Isobel winced and carefully unstuck herself from the armchair, empty teacup clutched in hand. ‘It’s nothing, Father. You always hover so much when I am unwell.’
‘Your mother died from sickness,’ he chastised her, before the dreaded finger rose, pointing, ‘You will see a healer immediately, and plead with the Moonmaiden for forgiveness for your sins against your father.’
‘Oh, that’s rich,’ she said, immediately regretting it. Ketheric’s expression clouded.
‘Isobel. This is not the time.’
…fuck it. No. ‘No,’ she said aloud, insisting, ‘You have no right to keep me from Aylin.’
‘I do not approve of your match, for reasons I have already explained, girl-’
‘I am not a girl!’ Isobel exclaimed, laughing bitterly. ‘I may be your daughter, but I am no girl. At this rate, I’d rather elope for true than get your blessing.’ And it was true. She would rather run off with Aylin in the night than continue this poor existence in Moonrise Towers, a slave to her father’s whims.
At his desk, Ketheric froze. Fear flitted across his face at the idea of her disappearing into the wilds, for they both knew none in Reithwin would dare wed them, not without his word. They’d already holidayed twice by their lonesome, this very year. ‘You would marry without my consent?’
‘I don’t need your consent,’ the cleric reminded him, setting aside her teacup to splay her hands across the edge of his desk. She pleaded with him, ‘I love Aylin. She is to me what my mother was to you. Please, please, can you not see how you are hurting me? How I chaff at this control?’
‘I only want what is best for you, and she is not it,’ he said, though there was weakness to his voice. Isobel didn’t know what from, but she pounced either way.
‘Please,’ she begged, gesturing to her guards. ‘At the very least, reassign the guards. If I truly wish to away, they shall not stop me, or Aylin. You know this.’
Isobel watched her father weigh her words, and waited as he did. There was conflict in his face, and so much grief—she’d only periodically compared herself and Aylin to her parents in an attempt to stop this mess, but had done so enough that Ketheric knew well of her opinion. And in truth, she had not asked for what she truly wanted, which was to marry Aylin in an officiated ceremony. She’d only asked for her chains to be removed. To be trusted to return.
Eventually, her father brought his hand to a pile of letters, taking a scroll from a pile marked for the Emerald Enclave. ‘This is an invitation to treat with the druids. They are in need of a mediator between themselves and the current inhabitants of Moonhaven Temple. I had meant to write to our brothers and sisters in Chaffinchwest-’ he nodded to her, in deference to the acolytes under her wing ‘-but I am willing to fulfil that role, if you would take control over the preparations for the Eight Hundredth Celebration.’
Her heart fluttered at the thought. As a cleric of Selûne, it was far beyond her religious capabilities to head such an event, but as the Lady Regent of Moonrise Towers, etc., it was a debut which had been a long time coming. Heirs younger than herself, regardless of heritage, had controlled far larger celebrations across Faerûn, and Isobel had so far been disallowed from both attending and involving herself in events beyond the magnitude of her own nameday. Her father’s offer was a twofold bribe, of course; her reputation would have to be impeachable over the course of the next three months, and to do so, she would have to conduct herself as any unmarried noblewoman would, rather than a scandal in the making.
It meant, in other words, that she’d have to entertain suitors.
‘And’ Isobel carefully measured her words, heart rattling in her ribcage at being offered something she’d for so long been denied, ‘should you do so, I would be happy to accept such a prestigious responsibility.’ Her hands slipped from the desk, but she felt like a child in her low armchair, only slightly past eyelevel with—and her breath nearly caught as she realised what she had not realised—her mother’s favourite teapot, golden filagree lining the rosebud lid.
Her father’s voice was mournful. ‘I know you would. It is past time. I have coddled you, kept you like a bird in a cage, but perhaps now it is time for me to open the door. I still do not agree to any betrothal with Dame Aylin,’ he said, before quickly adding, ‘though I shall certainly entertain her for as long as you see fit.’
Ketheric spoke as if Aylin’s very presence hadn’t attracted Selûnites from across the realm, her extended residence in their lands made known to all who concerned themselves with Selûne’s daughter. More than one prisoner in their dungeon, and head upon the block, had come from folk who wished to use her for their own ends, or chased after her as supplicants and employed measures to gain her attentions that had harmed others. They protected her from wrath and ruin. In turn, Aylin was a pillar of divinity in the Realms, and her mere presence stabilised the region while the Spellplague ravaged the continent. She blessed their woods and joined their hounds on hunts, chased brigands and plague-changed from the Mountain Pass with their soldiers, laying holy hand upon newborn babies’ brows as they were introduced to the Circle of Greater Powers, acting as a beacon for her Mother in their sacred lands—and most precious of all, made Isobel the happiest she had ever been in all her life.
Isobel felt dizzy—increasingly dizzy, actually, more than in just a metaphorical sense—at the idea that Aylin was allowed to stay, but knew again that her father hoped their bond would be broken in time. Isobel was sure it would not be. She put a hand to her brow as her head swirled.
‘Then I would accept your proposal,’ she said, faint and joyful at the same time. The ramifications of their agreement had not fully settled, but Isobel was sure, in her heart of hearts, that only good could come of it. She looked at her father, settled in her composure. ‘You shall mediate this conflict, and I shall organise what preparations are left for the Eight Hundredth Year of Moons. Thank-you, Father. I will not forget your kindness.’
‘And I will have the guards reassigned,’ he agreed in a gravelly voice, like it had been his idea all along. Isobel smiled at him either way. They had both gotten what they wanted, and she could only thank him for it.