Archive of Our Own ^beta

I wish I could say it ended differently. If I knew then what I knew now...it's easy to believe I'd change in a heartbeat. Ideally, the gift of hindsight would permit such clemency. One would think themself smart enough to avoid disaster when they learned their lesson. However, if I were honest, I don't trust myself—and I shouldn't.

After all we've been through, I swore to kill her. With all my failures in life, there's a piece of me that hoped I'd crash in this mission too—but I've changed. For better or worse.

It is rare to find a person whose soul cuts deep to your very being. In 134 years, I've met only one. Elves can endure a millennium, and the value of each life who touched ours becomes rather unremarkable. Someday, this will be just another tragedy, when I'm in my deathbed reflecting on all my mistakes, triumphs, loves, and losses: a canvas of a life well-lived.

For now, I breathe. The nostalgia of my adventures with unlikely friends is a persistent, dull ache. I still speak to them, enjoy each other's company as we once did. We share stories, laughter, dreams of gathering the old crew together for another quest. Something less world-changing and as much monster slaying, excitement without the stakes. Two years ago, it was fun to entertain such fantasies. Now it's hollow. When we talk, there's a moment when a melancholic silence falls, and we sit in the somberness. What unsettles me are their looks of pity, like they're staring at a stain in my soul. They do not mean to shame, but I feel it anyway.

Shadowheart was good. It was apparent the moment I met her. I was so harsh then, accusing her of trickery when I rescued her from the pod. It's only funny looking back, how one moment we were so desperate to survive then the next we return to old rivalries. So trivial when threatened by death, but religion bakes pettiness into your bones. Neither of us could help it. None of our companions could either. We were all tempted to succumb to the habits that form us. Gale, seeking the approval of a goddess who did not love him; Karlach, lashing out violently because it was the only way she was taught to manage pain; Astarion, fighting the nature of his bloodlust; Wyll, hiding the shame of his infernal pact; Lae'zel, reinforcing the prejudices of her people. It was a breath of fresh air when Jaheira joined us, and even she had her demons.

It took me far too long to accept Shadowheart as she was. We often imagine ourselves heroes, yet when the time comes, we falter. She was tested over and over again, yet an uncorrupted sliver of her remained. It should've been impossible, considering what she's been through, the forces that puppeteer the strings of her life. She was, in every sense of the word, admirable.

I once held no sympathy for those in the dark. For all the ways it can be justified, useful, a consequence of happenstance, evil is still evil, and like everything in the universe, it comes at a price. When that price is death, however, dealt by your hand to a person for whom you cared deeply, the only stain left is your own.

We are embodied contradictions, all of us. The most virtuous and the most vile are painfully boring, for they exist in a plane where nothing could challenge them. Us mortals must struggle in our morality. There's hardly anything in this world that is purely good and purely evil. If there are any, I can think of none. The goal of morality is not to achieve perfection. Nothing in life is. Instead, we must bend the world toward the light as much as possible.

I sometimes wonder if it was worth it. When I pray every night and receive Her blessings, I take it as a sign. The Moonmaiden does not demand apologies on her behalf. Pointless for a goddess of perpetual change. She blesses the ones whose paths are righteous. We ask for guidance because more often than not we are lost. I'll trust her judgement when I cannot trust mine.

This I pray forever and always.

As night fell on the city of Baldur's Gate, the Sharran cloister beneath its streets gathered for a celebration. A makeshift platform bedecked with purple drapes covered the center tiles of the main floor, and on it was a sacrificial table with a lamb, bleating hopelessly. Fifty-three acolytes joined together, all dressed in deep shades of purple. There was a low hum of whispers as they prepared for the ritual. Shadowheart sat in the second row, shifting uncomfortably in her cleric's robes and a chain with a large symbol of the Lady Shar. She clasped the censer tightly, waiting for instruction. The voices went silent, and the bleating continued. She shut her eyes, then tilted her head down so the cowl obscured her face. Without thinking, she counted to ten. Mother Superior's gaze was upon her. She could sense it. When Shadowheart opened her eyes, Mother was standing with her arms outstretched, an intricate knife in one hand and a lit censer in the other. She chanted over the cries of the poor animal: "Darkness come and guide my hand, darkness come and guide my hand, darkness come and guide my hand..." The wound on her hand flared. Gods, the bleating.

"Behold!" Mother Superior declared, taking the lamb by the chin. "Dark Lady accept our sacrifice. Bless our deeds for the year to come. In Her name!"

The chorus shouted in response: "In Her name."

With one precise movement, Mother slit the lamb's throat. Blood gushed from the skin and pooled onto the table, and in a matter of seconds, the hall plunged into darkness. A dense, black cloud shrouded her surroundings, accompanied by a soothing cold embracing her as she recited a prayer: "Blessed Nightsinger, witness our adoration. See how we serve you, only you. We have emptied our hearts of falsehoods. We have vanquished your foes. In the darkness, we see your truth. Guide us to your victory. Shar's will shall be done. As sure as night will fall." Shadowheart repeated her recitations until her senses returned to normal. The mist slowly dissipated, revealing Mother Superior facing up toward the ceiling, still holding the knife dripping red.

Witness, child, her voice commanded in Shadowheart's head. Shadowheart obeyed, bracing herself for the horror.

There was nothing left of the lamb but bone.

Incense smoke filled the air as they prepared for the feast. Everyone was moving—tables, cloths, chairs, utensils, centerpieces. The long, mahogany dining piece they set toward the Chamber of Sorrow for Mother Superior and the justiciars. The others they arranged in lines perpendicular to it, with benches on each side. Then they placed candles to illuminate the eating areas and said their prayers before taking their place at the table. Once they were all sat, they pulled off their hoods and masks and cheered when the food came out. A relief after a day of fasting.

Shadowheart looked around at faces familiar but unrecognized. She knew she's been here before. Every year since she joined the cloister as a child, in fact, yet everyone seemed a stranger except the Mother Superior. Her fellow Sharrans chatted about as if they shared cradles together. For many in this room, that was probably true, and Shadowheart likely grew up with them too, kneeling in doctrine classes and bruising each other in combat training. There were names she remembered, vague memories with no detail. She tried matching them to a person to see if something would click. Nothing so far.

The purple tiefling next to her politely passed a plate of dates. "So Shadowheart: what will you do to celebrate tonight?"

Shadowheart blinked. "I'm not sure what you mean. Isn't this the celebration?"

The tiefling laughed. "No, silly. We all do a little something to start another year serving the Dark Lady. I hear Buddug is starting a pyre outside the city to burn all the things we wish to shed."

She rummaged through a series of references in her head, anything to make sense of what she just heard. "That sounds...intriguing."

"Alternatively," the tiefling leaned in conspiratorially. "I heard a certain someone was looking to pair off tonight..."

Shadowheart smiled sheepishly. "Yes. Where are they now? I haven't seen them."

The tiefling cocked an eyebrow, and followed Shadowheart's gaze, which led to nowhere. "Oh, I see," she replied. She paused. Her entire demeanor has shifted. "I'm Nocturne, by the way. Tell you what, I have an idea, but I can't share it now. I'll meet you in the dorms later?"

Shadowheart hesitated. Nocturne...she's heard the name before. No particulars came to mind. What she was sure of, was that being around the tiefling wasn't unpleasant. Throughout the celebration, Shadowheart has held stiff, unsure of how to behave. Her actions were automatic, as if her own mind was keeping secrets from the rest of herself, the part that recalled her past in excruciating detail—when to stand, when to sit, when to shut her mouth, when to pray. When her body failed her, she looked to the others to fill in the gaps. Most of her fellow acolytes were indifferent at best. Everyone else, she could not discern pity from distrust. Except Nocturne. A primal instinct screamed Nocturne was a key to her survival. It was an emotional signal so jarring from the rest of what she's experienced tonight, it couldn't be ignored. Cautiously, Shadowheart nodded. "Later then."

"I thought you said this place was secret," whispered Shadowheart.

"It is," Nocturne whispered back. "It won't be if you don't keep quiet."

They snuck past the armory and into the kitchen. There, Nocturne moved a few stacked crates in the corner of the room, uncovering a small tunnel, barely enough to fit them. She gestured for her to lead. Then Shadowheart held her breath, went down on all fours, and crawled. It had been a while since this tunnel was used. Cobwebs were a constant nuisance, and dust thickened the air. Shadowheart feared glancing at her hands, worried that the odd tingle was not gooseflesh forming at the sudden cold, nor the tail of her braid brushing against her arm. Occasionally, Nocturne would bump her foot, then quietly request that she go faster, but she was already going as fast as she could. Any more effort and she would surely injure herself. She kept her eyes locked at the end of the tunnel.

On the other side was a small cavern with traces of moss and miniature mushrooms. Rushing water cut through the right side boundary, and along the far side wall, the most beautiful cluster of night orchids bloomed untouched. Bioluminescent lichen produced the soft, peaceful light for the room. Up until now, Shadowheart had not been tired, but the tranquil scenery alone was lulling her to sleep. Nocturne grabbed her hand and led her to the brightest spot in the cavern, then pulled out a journal hidden in her robe. Shadowheart watched her, perplexed.

"Whose is that," she asked.

"You'll see in a moment."

"Nocturne..." Shadowheart didn't know where she was, nor did she understand the nature of this evil deed. "Be direct with me. I don't know what's happening."

Her companion frowned. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so hasty." She held Shadowheart's hands gently. "Do you feel an emptiness within you?"

"I do," she replied. "It's a blessing of the Nightsinger herself."

Nocturne nodded. "Indeed. We offer our burdens to the Lady of Sorrow, so she may lift them—"

"—and we shall taste the inevitable Void to come," she finished for her. "What does this have to do with the journal?"

"While we walk this plane, we form attachments, bonds, desires for things impermanent," Nocturne continued, leafing through the pages. "Frivolous, but without them, we wouldn't feel the gift of loss. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"I...I think so." Already the wound on her hand ached, and the longer she considered Nocturne's proposal, the more the pain swelled. Heresy, a voice in her head echoed. "I shouldn't."

"Not even for a night of debauchery? By all counts this is rather tame."

Shadowheart hesitated. Temptation. A yearning for something taken. This was more than an indulgence, more than a taste of the sweetest cake. Should they continue, Shadowheart would leave this place wanting more, and to want is dangerous—so dangerous that to forget such wants is relief. She knew whose journal it was; she's always known. How terribly sentimental, to cling to the past in meaningless words on a page. "I'd rather we do something else."

Nocturne smiled and closed the book. "Alright. It's quite comfortable here. Care to sleep?"