Chapter Text
Wyll only feels pain. His head pounds and his neck aches. Dried blood sticks to his dishevelled hair, twisting and knotting itself into the once tight locs. Sunlight wafts through the hollow, gently kissing his eyelids, compelling them to flutter open and see the prince who’d slain dragons and demons to wake Wyll from his eternal slumber. A cynical feeling tugs at his chest, leaving the warlock wanting to drift further into unconsciousness. There’s no prince coming for him, just the devil who’d ended his sheltered life and revived him as her Blade, to rid her mistress’ domain of the demonic, the soulless and the heartless.
A ghostly caress moves up his body, ever-so-slightly rustling the fabric of his robe. Even behind closed eyes, Wyll senses a looming presence over him. Self-preservation takes over. His fingers search for the hilt of his rapier, his eyes burst open a little too fast for a dead man.
‘Shit!’
The ghostly elf shoots backwards, almost catlike in his reflexes, hackles raised, and teeth bared. Particularly pointy teeth. Wyll moves a hand to his neck. Pricks of fresh blood wet his palm. His assailant lands among the corpses and piles of pilfered loot, where Wyll’s blade sits unceremoniously under gloves, shields and rotten vegetables. The initial shock subsides in his red eyes, leaving room for a mischievous sparkle.
‘Look at that,’ he purrs. ‘Brought a damsel back from the dead, and I didn’t even need to kiss him.’
If Wyll had enough blood left in his battered head, he’s sure his cheeks would flush in response. But the righteous indignation takes over instead.
‘What in the hells were you doing?’
‘Shopping, darling.’ A shadow crosses his gaze, quickly blown away by an easy grin. ‘Sampling the goods, as it were. Figured a dead man wouldn’t have much use for what he left behind.’
‘My blood, you mean?’
A retort catches in the elf’s throat, leaving him to open and close his mouth like a fish. ‘Among other things,’ he finally answers, sheepishly pulling a manicured hand through his curly locks. ‘But let’s keep that between you and me for now. Don’t need the others finding out just yet.’
The others. The gith. The wizard. The half-elf. Wyll’s heart lurches. The drow, with her one red eye and one pale eye. The conversation he’d heard before his not-so-eternal rest echoes between his ears. Daughter of Lolth, his attacker had called someone. Her?
Wyll ignores the dizziness that spikes when he lifts his head off the ground. ‘The drow!’ he manages to blurt out from his racing thoughts. ‘She slaughtered the tieflings. She brought the goblins here.’
‘Brought them to our camp too, the vile creatures,’ the elf sneers.
Flashes of the fight assault Wyll’s mind. The lavender woman. Her gods-blessed weapon. The cracking of his skull. The carrion of the fallen; pillows to soften his fall. Had the rest of their party also been blindsided by betrayal? Left for dead on the bank of a stream?
‘Is everyone okay?’ Wyll asks, his heart fluttering with anxiety.
The vampire raises a brow. ‘Sure, I guess. Nothing we couldn’t handle.’
‘And what of your leader – the drow?’
‘Well, she’s a little tired after last night but–’
Somehow, in the dark enclosed space, a shadowed figure looms over Wyll, draining all warmth from the air. He turns his head and is met with one red eye and one pale eye. The hairs on his arms jump to attention.
‘What’s this, Astarion?’
‘Managed to find more than a few trinkets among the bodies,’ the elf responds, his tone lilting but his eyes trained on Wyll with such intensity. ‘Thought we could keep him.’
The large drow woman moves in front of Wyll, grabbing him by the chin and forcing his head to the left like she might to a beast she wished to purchase. Her fingers are calloused and a little too cold. Wyll has never felt so small. She moves his face to the right and tuts when she notices the gash on his head.
‘We’re not running a refugee camp, Astarion,’ she chastises. ‘You can’t just invite every bruised and bloodied creature with a sad story along with us. He’ll slow us down. Need I remind you why we’re headed north?’
Astarion lowers his eyes. ‘I just figured Gale could use the company, darling. You’ve seen how antsy he gets alone in camp.’
The drow purses her lips. ‘No,’ she finally states. ‘We don’t need a liability on the team.’
Wyll yanks his chin from her grip. ‘It’s okay,’ he snaps before the sense of self-preservation can stop him. ‘I don’t bunk with monsters.’
A flash of betrayal flits across Astarion’s face.
An inferno of fury blazes across hers.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Her voice becomes saccharine, despite the challenge she puts forth with her wild, bloodthirsty eyes.
Wyll rises up to the challenge. ‘I know what you did, daughter of Lolth.’
An unsettling calmness washes over her features. She pulls him close, hand around his cheek. ‘I see you’ve met Minthara,’ she hums. ‘Do all drow look the same to your small human mind?’
‘No, no– I heard her talk to another woman.’
‘There are plenty of those in Faerûn.’
‘No! I know it was you. You let her kill the tieflings.’
‘After saving them from the rampaging druids?’ she asks. ‘Why would I do that? Why wouldn’t I just side with the druids if I wanted the hells-spawn dead?’
Wyll’s head spins, dizzied by the back and forth. ‘I don’t know. But–’
‘As a matter of fact, we were in the goblin’s hideout yesterday, ridding the path to Baldur’s Gate of their filthy troops – just as Zevlor asked us to. We spent the afternoon defending ourselves from Ragzlin and the entire camp. Isn’t that right Astarion?’
The high elf looks straight through Wyll. ‘Yes, Arachne. I’ll never get the blood out of my pants.’
‘In the chaos, anything could’ve happened. Minthara could’ve slipped out.’ The woman gestures to the entrance of the grove. ‘The gate was broken during the druid’s attack – is it so hard to imagine that she just walked in here herself?’
‘I-I suppose not.’
‘If anything, it sounds like you let her kill the tieflings.’
He wants to yell and scream and get angry. Every bone in his sword arm wants to sever her poisonous mouth from the rest of her face. But with Umi’s lifeless body contorted beyond recognition, Dammon and Rolan laying in piles of their own intestines and the fact that only he sat here, able to yell and scream and get angry, Wyll wonders if maybe she’s right. He rubs the tension settling in his shoulders. ‘But who was the other voice?’
Wyll misses a look shared between Arachne and Astarion. The vampire clears his throat. ‘Could have been anyone – there were a lot of drow in the goblin camp.’
‘Right,’ Wyll sighs. He lowers his head in shame. ‘I’ve been unfair to you Arachne. I’ve made cruel assumptions. You’ve put your life in danger a thousand times over for the sake of this grove. I see that now and I apologise. I would be grateful and honoured to join your camp, but I can understand if you wouldn’t want me after that little outburst.’
The drow hums, pressing one palm to Wyll’s aching head. She mutters a spell and blue tendrils of magic swirl around Wyll, stinging him with each restitch of skin and muscle. In seconds, they fade, soaking into Wyll’s body, rejuvenating every scrape and ache.
‘Consider this an act of forgiveness. But do not expect any more from me.’
As if awoken from a deep hibernation, Wyll feels the tadpole writhe and yearn for something as Arachne moves away from him. The pain is nothing compared to what he’s just experienced, but he grimaces nonetheless as the slimy creature fusses behind his eye like a grouchy toddler. Then, without warning, memories flash through his mind; images of the nautiloid, of the looming Selûnite temple infested with goblins, of Wyll’s own face. Arachne’s eyes stare hungrily into his, and he can see the fear on his features.
‘You have a tadpole?’ he asks.
Her grin widens. ‘Who’s that devil?’
‘Karlach.’ Wyll puffs out his chest and raises his chin. ‘A fiend I swore on my good eye to kill. But I’ve lost track of my original mission. She must be out there terrorizing Baldur’s Gate by now.’
She nods her head, deep in thought. ‘Well, we certainly can’t let her do that, can we?’
‘We?’
Her bloodthirsty eyes flicker. ‘It just so happens we’re on our way towards Baldur’s Gate. To Moonrise Towers, more specifically – tadpole problems and all. We haven’t come across her yet, but maybe we’ll catch a trace of her further north.’
Wyll pauses. Could he trust this woman? Despite her alibi, he couldn’t ignore the seed of doubt planted in his gut, nor the things he thought he knew. Too many loose ends, too many tight threads knotted together, twisting the once clear tapestry into a monstrous thing that made his tadpole hurt.
‘Why the change of heart?’ he finally asks.
Let’s just say I now have a vested interest in spilling this devil’s blood. Can’t leave her to wreak havoc on the Sword Coast, can we?’ She gives him a once-over. ‘And it’s pretty clear that you can’t hold your own in a one-on-one.’
‘And if I don’t want your help?’
Arachne lifts a brow. She taps her temple. ‘Familiar with ceremorphosis?’
‘I’ve heard the stories. Shedding skin, slimy tentacles, your body shifting and splitting over the course of a tenday.’ Wyll counts the days since his unsolicited surgery. ‘Though it’s been at least that long, and nothing has happened to me yet. Maybe the stories were wrong.’
‘The only reason you haven’t been turned yet is because of this little artifact I hold.’ She procures a strange multi-sided box with unfamiliar runes. ‘The minute I cross the bridge into the shadow-cursed lands, you won’t have a week. Your skull will split immediately to make room for those lovely little illithid appendages. Would be a real waste of my magic. A waste of your… talents too.’
Wyll doesn’t need to weigh his options. The only real option is to kill Karlach – and he’s already taken too long. Mizora is not exactly known for her patience and empathy. Although a part of him would love to watch Mizora wrest control of him over the illithid hivemind, should he let himself be turned.
‘Very well,’ he says, hoping the reluctance in his voice is hidden well enough. ‘Lead on.’
The cleric makes a pleased noise and walks off, leaving Wyll to wonder what other deal he’s gotten himself into, and Astarion to pick up all the junk he’d acquired from the dead. Wyll takes his blade from the pile, returning it to its sheath.
‘So, uh, welcome to the team, darling.’ Astarion’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘She’s not so bad when you get to know her.’
‘Gods forgive me, but I don’t believe you.’
A chuckle escapes Astarion’s throat, but it trails off quickly. ‘So, about my… sanguine nature?’
Wyll shrugs. ‘It’s not my secret to tell. As long as you promise to keep those fangs pointed towards the depraved and truly dead, I don’t see why we’d have a problem.’
Astarion’s voice lowers. ‘You’re certain I can’t tempt you for a little taste?’ he pouts.
‘That is where we’d have a problem,’ Wyll says firmly. ‘I’ve lost enough blood in this tenday.’
Astarion rushes to place a hand over his chest. ‘Darling, cross my – well not heart – and well, I suppose I can’t really hope to die – let me start again.’ He grabs Wyll’s hand and holds it against the warlock’s beating heart. ‘No snacking without asking – asking you anyway.’
Wyll skin almost yearns for the lost touch when Astarion moves his hand away. But he rubs his palms together, to dissuade any more longing thoughts. ‘Yes. Very good.’
When Astarion has all the gold and jewellery that he can fit into his pockets, the two men leave for the broken gate where Arachne waits for them with the gith and the half-elf. Their packs overflow with weapons and weave-infused clothes. They acknowledge Wyll with a curt nod but turn to follow their leader as soon as she barks the orders to return to camp.
He holds back for a moment.
Wyll had only picked up one item. Something invaluable. A small wooden sword, its hilt dyed dark red with the blood of its wielder. He sends a prayer to the heavens and stabs the blade into the dirt, next to the body of an impossibly large wood elf. A makeshift gravestone. For Umi. For Dammon and Zevlor. For Cal, Lia, Rolan. For everyone who died a hero, while he lived, a coward too afraid of his own mortality to slay the real monsters.