Chapter Text
part iii.
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And, frantic-mad with evermore unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
//
Gale snapped his fingers.
And disappeared from this plane.
The manipulative asshole.
In the place where he’d stood was a piece of parchment that fluttered to the ground. Written on it:
Time will tell
how much she loves you.
…
Days passed in a blur, no information forthcoming.
Shadowheart and Astarion came to an unspoken agreement not to discuss in further detail what had transpired.
But Shadowheart knew that the violation, the whole sex act with Gale, had bothered him and bothered him still.
She felt it in his every touch (controlling, forceful); in the way he pushed her head to his cock and demanded worship of his manhood for not minutes but hours–hours at a time. Hours that she did not have, as leader of Shar’s church, chained to the posts of their bed, made to spit on his cockhead and lick his cockhead and tease his frenulum and lave the velvety skin of his shaft until he shuddered and came in her mouth or down her throat or all over her face, over and over and over again. She worshipped his cock until her eyelids were heavy and itchy with the dried residue of his seed, until her stomach was literally full of cum, until she tasted nothing on her tongue but the thick ammonia of his semen. How he did not become oversensitive, she did not understand. A lingering side effect of Gale’s aphrodisiac, perhaps?
“Yes, darling, worship me…only me. Little Shadowslut of mine, who do you belong to? Whose are you, my whore? That's right, my love. Only mine. Mine, mine, mine.”
And when he was done, he made her play with herself for his viewing pleasure: first, parting her pussy lips to show him how wet, how creamy she was, then offering him a sample of her flavor, swiping two fingers over her cunt and finger painting his lips with her opaque cream, and then straddling a down-filled pillow and riding said pillow’s seams to completion, shaking and trembling while he lay back and watched with hungry eyes.
She chose not to fight him on his demands, changing her work schedule to accommodate his whims, as she knew that the humiliation he had endured at Gale’s hands had been very much real, and his coping mechanisms for great traumas had never been particularly healthy.
And that was to say nothing of the humiliation she had endured, being unexpectedly split open by two big cocks like that. But she had endured the experience willingly, hadn't she, knowing that there was some nugget of information to be gained from the enduring.
(Also, she had not disliked the experience. Quite the opposite actually. She had liked being split open by two big cocks. She fantasized about proposing the idea to a willing Astarion; she fantasized about his instant agreement, suggesting that perhaps they liaise with a less manipulative acquaintance, like Duke Wyll Ravengard, or the mountain man, Halsin, remember him? He was big…)
She came often to these fantasies. She dared not tell Astarion about them.
…
Revelations were finally set in motion at, of all places, a statue dedication ceremony at the Stormshore Tabernacle in the Lower City.
Months ago, Shadowheart had donated an undeniable sum of gold to the house of worship to erect a statue of Shar to stand among those of other gods (wicked Selûne included). Lady Shar, in all her dark power, absolutely deserved a place next to her sister, if not on top of her, and next to the likes of weaker gods like Mystra and Tyr.
Members of the Cloister of Somber Embrace had even started an anonymous campaign to remove the ugly statue of Selûne altogether, gathering hundreds of signatures and inspiring daily acts of vandalism to the goddess’ visage. But the Moonmaiden's followers proved stubborn and unwavering, posting at least a couple of vigilant worshippers around her statue during operating hours.
And so, as she reviewed her notes for the commemorative speech she was about to give, Shadowheart paid no mind to the Selûnite onlookers loitering across the way from Lady Shar's statue. They were smartly, mostly dressed in casualwear to remain inconspicuous. But a few of them had chosen to wear the full Selûnite regalia of white robes and floral circlets.
“Look at them,” Griefguard Wilbur whispered into her ear. “They're not even wearing shoes. Ridiculous.”
Shadowheart smirked. “All power to them, worshipping a goddess that keeps their feet exposed to all manner of pathogen and muck covering Lower City streets.”
“All manner of feces, you mean.” Wilbur set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Shall I ask these idiots to leave?”
“Let them stay. This could be the first time any of them have stood within earshot of a Sharran priestess. We do not want to scare our Lady's potential children off.”
“Of course, my lady. Right as always.” Wilbur looked about the room. “...Is Lord Astarion not attending?”
“He's busy preparing for tonight’s festivities.” An elegant, extravagant debutante ball for the young and wealthy debutantes of Baldur's Gate. Astarion had been dying to host this particular fête for ages. Oh, think of the proud mamas and papas, the innocent and sweet young misses all having a grand old time under my roof! Think of the favor we will curry! The memories we will create. These girls won't forget us anytime soon…
“...Am I invited?” Wilbur asked with a grin.
“You know the answer to that.” Shadowheart elbowed him lightly. “My lord despises your very existence with a passion that might exceed his passion for me.”
“Doubtful.” The grin slid off his face. “His passion for you is unrivaled by anything in this world.”
“Hm.” Shadowheart let the conversation end there, looking back down at her notes. In worshipping Lady Shar, we are spared saved from grief and pain. In worshipping Lady Shar, we embrace suffering the unknown with open hearts and minds.
Nocturne had helped write today's speech; Nocturne had always had a way with words. But as Shadowheart read her words and her own edits to the speech, she could not help but feel that they rang hollow.
She could not reach Lady Shar to reaffirm these credos at all…
She shoved the doubt away. She had gotten good at doing so upon their return from Amn and the resumption of her duties at the cloister.
As she began to make her speech in front of the statue, a flicker of movement, a glimmer of robes in the back of the tabernacle, beyond Selûne’s statue, caught her eye.
“Our Lady of Loss protects and saves those who suffer most.” There was a man, perhaps in his senior years, wearing not white but silver. His robes glittered and twinkled like stars. He wore his hair in a single silver braid down his back.
He was staring at her with a serene, close-mouthed smile. Unblinking.
“Our Nightsinger protects the weak, the sick, and the poor.” Shadowheart forced her attention straight ahead, at the crowd of faithful who had gathered to listen to her, both fidelians and civilians alike. “She takes away pain and heals all broken hearts. And who among us has not felt the sting of heartbreak at least once?”
Nodding, some light chuckles. Shadowheart swallowed and flitted her gaze over the many members of her audience. “I am proud to at last bring our savior, Lady Shar, to this temple.”
A flash of light from where the man stood, as if he were signaling to her. But as soon as she looked over at him, he turned his back and walked away, disappearing into the shadows at the back of the hall.
Shadowheart finished her speech. She ordered her griefguards to search the grounds for a man with a silver braid, or a man in silver, glittering robes. He could not be found.
…
Not until later that night, at her lover's palace, where the floorboards gleamed; where servants scurried back and forth with glasses of a rare new type of wine called sparkling wine that was all the rage among nobility; where every surface and banister and column was covered in an explosion of pink, red, and white flowers.
Noblemen and women and their preening daughters and disgruntled sons mingled and gossiped in the ballroom and in the hallways, dressed to the nines. The young ladies making their debuts wore froufrou dresses in shades of white and ivory and matching gloves that pulled past their elbows. They dined on hors d’ouevres that Astarion had spent days brainstorming with chef Bernard. They waltzed to music played by an exceptional duodecet from Sembia.
The party was going “Swimmingly, my darling. I think this is the most well-attended party we have thrown yet!”
“You have thrown.” Shadowheart patted the back of Astarion's gloved hand. “I played no part in the planning.”
“Perhaps not. But you have graced the party and elevated it beyond compare with your very presence, my lady.” He gave her a long, drawn-out once-over. “Or should I say Mother Superior? You are looking delectable in that dark getup of yours.”
Shadowheart was wearing a black, corseted dress, trimmed in feathers and lace. She rolled her eyes. “Please. Your wealthy friends don't care who I am.”
“Au contraire, my love. They care a great deal. They simply do not acknowledge your role to keep us in our place.”
“Our place being beneath them.”
“Of course.” Astarion sniffed. “But not for much longer. I have instructed the property manager to survey manors in the Upper City–perhaps it is time to live among the sharks.”
“Interesting.” Shadowheart toyed with the multi-row black pearl choker fixed around her neck. It hid her bite marks well. “I did not think you'd ever want to give up this palace.”
“I’m in no way selling the palace, if that's what you fear. It is simply easier, safer to raise a child in the Upper City, as that is where the best nannies and instructors and governesses are.”
“Fair point.” Shadowheart flipped open a black feathered fan. “As long as the House of Grief remains a convenient distance for me–”
“I'll arrange a curricle to take you daily.” A smirk pulled at his lips. “...Or you could fly.”
“Hah.” She fanned herself. “Bright idea, wise one–”
The party coordinator, a young man with gray hair and round, wild eyes, ran up to them. “My lord! It is time for the presentation.”
“Very well.” Astarion offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
They and every other partygoer convened in the grand ballroom, brightened and transformed considerably by excessive flower displays and white linen decor. As the hosts of the party and Lord and Lady of the palace, Shadowheart and Astarion took their place at the end of the hall, where they had the honor of greeting each debutante and their sponsors by name.
Shadowheart could not think of a more tedious way to spend her time than greeting dozens of girls, who had only just reached sexual maturity, and their fussing mothers and fathers.
Astarion, meanwhile, flourished in the activity, offering a small, flattering, tailored remark for each miss and their family.
Her tedium was broken only by the occasional catty observation whispered into her ear: I do think the Caldwells have lost their step; Is it just me or has Duke Oberon not bathed in weeks?
I heard young Lord Portyr is tupping the milkmaid–good for her.
Shadowheart was well-served by her Sharran training and did not break into giggles once. Though she wanted to.
She recognized a handful of nobles by their names and faces as well; men and women who patronized the House of Grief often. None remembered her face, but at hearing her voice, a few did a double-take. She fake-smiled dutifully at them.
Finally, the line of young ladies dwindled. Shadowheart was itching to throw back a glass of wine, when suddenly there was a commotion at the grand entrance to the ballroom.
It was as though everyone in the room was being hypnotized, being transfixed at once.
Choruses of ooooos and aaaahs echoed, reverberated around the hall, the sounds of gasping and murmuring breaking out among the crowd, as two people entered the room: one glittering in a robe, and one in a dress, of silver.
Shadowheart’s heart raced. She recognized the braided-hair man from the tabernacle instantly; he accompanied a girl whose walking was more like floating, so elegant were her movements, though she could not be any more than fifteen years old.
Shadowheart gripped Astarion’s arm. “Who is that?”
No answer. Astarion was as transfixed as everybody else, slack-jawed. Frozen.
Shadowheart looked again, blinking. The girl’s features were made clear as she approached.
She was an absolute beauty.
Her long, thick, silver hair, tucked neatly behind pointed, elven ears, fell in luscious waves down her back.
She had a heart-shaped face and a cute, pert nose.
Her lips were full and pink, her pale skin practically glowed, it was so clear. So radiant.
As she neared, Shadowheart felt like she could not catch her breath.
The girl's eyebrows were full and shapely, and had an arrogant tilt to them that on most other people would be off-putting.
But not on her.
Not…not when she had those heavy-lidded, almond-shaped eyes, emphasized by such thick, dark lashes…
Framing irises of pale green, a color that took Shadowheart’s breath away (that she had not seen in a year).
“Lord and Lady of Ancunin Palace, may I introduce my ward, Lady Noor Moonstar of House Moonstar?”
Shadowheart swallowed. Her vision blurred at the edges.
Astarion reached out and tilted the girl's chin upward. “Impossible…”
The braided-hair man continued.
“I am Lord Orlak Moonstar, presenting the debut of the living incarnation of Selûne.”
The girl smiled.
Shadowheart's heart ached.