Chapter Text
Eight days until the army reaches Baldur’s Gate.
He spends the evening weaving her tales of himself from Waterdeep and from his childhood. Sometimes she can see him playing with it on the tips of his fingers, an ethereal and wispy thread, as he speaks with his hands. Wonders sometimes if she will get a glimpse of his mother’s face there. She listens in tandem to the beating of his heart, his hand either stroking her hair or rubbing her back. She feels warm and safe, and for a moment the nightmares and the memories fade in favor of the tickle of his hand as he traces her cheek and the way she wants to curl up into his chest so close he can never get rid of her.
The mark on her hand burns, burns like an agony, and when he is not looking she bites her hand and scratches her face until she bleeds, tries healing it before he returns and shares more stories so they do not have to sleep.
He does not ask her questions, but she pipes up anyway, with bits that she can remember of herself though they are few and sparse between. He seems to weave them into his tapestry of tales, too, and otherwise she just listens to his voice reverberating through his chest and heart, taking comfort in this little thing.
Soon it is seven days left until the army reaches Baldur’s Gate.
He is exhausted, and in pain. She can tell by the way he holds himself, winces when he moves, spends most of the day lying in bed without moving an inch. The orb taking its toll. And so she finds some olive oil and -
“Going to flay me?”
She tsks, “I think that’s the tadpole’s job.”
He chuckles, and allows her to warm some of the oil up in her hand before spreading it out over his chest to massage the aches closest to the mark of the orb, moving to his shoulders and arms to ease some of the tension, and especially in his hands, callused and stiff from gripping pen and staff alike. He moans, and she can see his face relax with each stroke of her hands.
She pats his chest to tell him to flip over, and soon she can hear a soft snore coming from his pillow. She finishes working the aches out of his body, then joins him. They nap, and when he awakens it is only so he can pull her closer to him, her back to his chest, his breath warm against her neck, and so on the seventh day they sleep and hold each other, remembering each scar and mark and muscle on the other. No nightmares, no burning hands, and only peace with them now.
Then it is six, five, four days until the army reaches Baldur’s Gate.
In these few days she feels safe. Longs to have more time to learn each little part of him. But she won’t. Can’t . But that is okay, too, she thinks. A purpose for herself discovered here, though not a bright one. One that is hers all the same. To stay with him till the end. Not dictated by Shar or Mystra or any of the gods above.
When their final night together in their old, musty bed comes around, she asks, “So, in the next one?”
He understands and pulls her closer, and just says, “yes,” a promise.
Is this absolution? She thinks idly as they fall asleep wrapped around each other, or perhaps penance? Maybe I am simply trying to escape?
Doesn’t matter now. Her mind is made and so, she sleeps, and holds him close, until the end.
Your time runs short , it is the wolf again, her visitor’s preferred form when speaking to her in dreams, its jowls running red and wet with blood as its clawed, gory hands move and stalk her, I know you, Shadowheart. You and I are one. And I see in you, you want to save the people from their tadpoles. Yet you wait here. If you do not leave for Moonlight Towers, for the army, everyone will die. And that will rest on your shoulders. In this life and the next.
Three days until the army reaches Baldur’s Gate. Their final day at the Last Light Inn. On that final day, they take a look through each of the rooms that have become not-quite-home for them.
They fill up two old waterskins with the pixie dust to keep on their waists as they trek deeper into the dark, towards Moonlight Towers, the congregation of everything they have been dreading. And as they scoop up the dust, the darkness seeps into the Inn. Its old rotten walls become diseased.
Finally, Shadowheart throws an extra torch directly into the bar of the Inn and watches it go up in flames before them.
Two days until the army reaches Baldur’s Gate.
They have been trekking through the murk for hours, possibly a whole day or more, before they come across Moonrise Towers.
It is in disarray as they move quietly and quickly over the bodies of Harpers, of cultists, of goblins and archers and fighters and prisoners alike. There is a body of an old man, cloaked in the armor of Shar, his head sliced clean from his body.
Shadowheart has not drank in days, but she has also been living in a dream for too long. And so she vomits at the sight all over again, the taste of bile filling her mouth.
Gale rubs her back, and, feeling the thrum in their tadpoles and the yes, yes, yes of her artefact, move upwards. There they find a pale elf woman, and a dignified human, both of their heads severed, displayed like trophies on pikes in front of the final door to the top of the tower. She squeezes the hand she has intertwined with Gale’s, and closes her eyes as he guides her forward.
Above the circular tower roof is a -
“Fuck,” he swears quietly, “An Elder Brain - and - double fuck - is that the Crown -?”
She doesn’t know what he’s talking about and doesn’t think there is time for him to explain as she spots them. Tav. Atop the brain, three glowing shards in their hands, the Night Spear on their back.
“It’s - oh fuck,” she cries.
But they do not see the two of them there on the roof, their eyes closed as they focus their energy into the shards, whatever they are doing with them.
But this is it. The source of their tadpoles, the source of retribution and absolution before them, within the folds and gaps of an Elder Brain thrumming against the protection of the artefact.
“I think we’re close enough,” Gale says, eyes intent on her as if making sure she wants this. That she understands that in a few moments, they will die.
She stares back at him, and hopes he can see in her eyes everything she cannot say to him. She nods.
"Kiss me?" He asks.
"You want me to?"
She sees his throat bob as he swallows, and then he nods.
She kisses him, finally. It is long, and hard, too much tongue and teeth, but there is a softness in his cool mouth she takes comfort in. And then she holds him so tightly, and him the same with her, that she feels she might lose all the air from her lungs before the orb even detonates.
Absently, she remembers to throw the cursed artefact off the edge of the Towers and away from the Netherese explosive.
…Thank you, it says as it skids down, down, down from the top of Moonrise Towers, You fulfilled your end of the bargain. I’ll protect everyone, as promised.
She can already feel the parasite coming over her, but has enough mind to tell her visitor to fuck off one more time. It is okay. The orb is already tearing away at Gale’s body, its magick coming so strong and fast that his chest is nothing but a hole of pure Weave. She stares into it, stares at where his heart should be but sees instead nothing but a searing light.
“See you in the next one?”
“Of course, my love. I’ll remember you, and you’ll be the first thing I search for,” he smiles, warm and bright, his soft lips on hers, until there is nothing surrounding them except the bright strands of the Weave.
She hugs him close.
And then nothing.