[Author's Note]:
Welcome to the Truth or Tale series about an unlikely Bhaalspawn pacifist-idealist bookworm (who in BG:I made it her mission to befriend a certain cantankerous Red Wizard). If you are a new reader, you can catch up on some more character background: a prequel (of not-quite-carefree Candlekeep days) as well as the events of BG:I which are already posted. This series is primarily a focus on psychology, developing relationships, and slowly-changing character arcs, but I have tried to drop enough hints as to backstory that if you want to dive in, you should be able to navigate!
Rating~ We are dealing with rather dark subjects this round, so there is that (murder, death, torture, trauma, PTSD, depression). There will be tonal changes, though, so it's not all doom and gloom! Some occasional mild swearing and some very occasional stronger swearing. The rating will eventually be upgraded to "M" (if you have concerns about that, send me a PM and I can get more specific).
Bonus~ On my profile page is a link to my deviantART account [artastrophe] that has a lot of BG character art including -okay, mostly- the characters from this story. I hope to upload some BG2 stuff soon!
=E=
Confessions extracted under torture lacked reliability. The smallest of windows existed, before healthy fear of preservation unraveled into total terror, at which point anything—truth or fabrication—might be said. Might be believed. No way to untie the two, when the subjects could no longer tell, themselves.
Take away all hope, and so quickly did sanity fly with it; nothing would be left worth obtaining. 'Twas a delicate line to walk, indeed: why Mae'Var had spent months on a single prisoner said more about the guild leader than anything they could learn from the lips of this 'traitor.'
Edwin stared down into the room at the stone table and the silent figure atop it (his voice never did last beyond the evening), and smothered a sigh. Disgusting, this. An afternoon—he could have had results within an afternoon! No more than a tenday, if deprived of magic. Not that this mess was worth being mired any further into.
Darker with every step of his descent down the creaking stairs, the air in the cellar thickened, as if the rainy season lingered on in the humidity. Was Amn always so warm in the spring? Or did Mae'Var wish to boil all these pieces he'd collected here into a human stew? The man was creative with his methods, if nothing else.
Wood protested as Edwin reached the base of the staircase; with naught to alert his glyph, he allowed the guards to take their customary posts behind him with little more than a tickle down his back.
Already full, the basement boasted far more of the rogues than necessary—Mae'Var did so love an audience—one could not take a step in this guild-house without tripping over one or another lurking. Never enough to provoke actual alarm, just this ceaseless prickling of his tattoo. One more thing to be endured. (Not for much longer. Surely not for much longer.)
New faces. Four. Wearing mismatched leather garb and weapons they'd taken little trouble to disguise: no one of note in the City of Coin would dress so. Recruits, then. This was to be another 'demonstration,' no doubt.
"And what urgency calls me here today?" More interesting than the acquisitions he'd been assigning, at any rate, but even the guild leader knew better than to disturb him without reason.
"Ah, Edwin." Mae'Var's hushed voice lent the room a surreal quality, as if they must all await with bated breath what wonder he might next speak. "Would you tell these men what we do with betrayers?"
"If they cannot observe with their own eyes, I wonder that they have need of them?" Motivating these monkeys would be excruciating enough; Edwin strode past the recruits, granting them only a passing glance. Poor offerings, these, but the guilds had not been doing so very well of late. "The Shadow Thieves have a technique they use on traitors, gentlemen. They scoop the eye socket, making sure to do no damage to the nerves inside. The eye dangles along the cheek, watching the rest of the body being eviscerated. You can't look away, and you can't blink."
None of those eyes were upon him, now: all watched the body upon the stone slab. As if the wretch might do something more interesting than bleed. "So very crude, compared to what possibilities magic offers. Should you rather hear the techniques of we Red Wizards?" Not that this could be shortened into a single mouthful; the threat of the threat ought be enough.
Throats swallowed, feet shifted. Yes, even if in this gods-forsaken abyssal pit of a country, these fools knew of his kind.
"Are these recruits you've let in, or mewling kittens? I believe one of your 'men' just wet himself."
"They are spies," Mae'Var breathed.
A chill erupted down his chest, as if to confirm it—and confirm Mae'Var's judgment correct (this time)—one of these recruits was readying to fight his way out: Edwin's glyph could not be fooled.
The men shuffled but stayed standing, nothing to tell them apart with their pale faces and quick-blinking eyes, and they'd taken time enough. Pfeh. One of them, or all of them, it mattered not.
Edwin reached into his spell pouch. "Vebren di ibafarshani nar." The eruption of flame flew from his fingers with nearly enough force to blow back his hood, drying his face, though little actual heat penetrated his robe's enchantment.
Wall scorched black behind them, the four figures slumped to the ground, and dying fires sparked trails across the crumbling ash of their skin.
The room fell silent but for a few scattered coughs.
"Hm." Mouth curling downward, Mae'Var appeared unmindful of the scalded stench. "That does not seem a bit… excessive?"
"I suggest you recall for what skills I was hired, and not bother me for anything less." How long must this charade of obedience continue? "(My talent with numbers is not in fact what I am famed for.)"
"You are the only one I can trust to delegate." Mae'Var's gaze shifted around before narrowing in on Edwin. "If you tire of your duties, though, we will discuss this later."
Gods. This was not enough to raise his suspicions, was it? Sudden, perhaps, but not excessive: 'twas not as if the men would have met a different end once Mae'Var's paranoia had taken root.
"This one's still breathing!"
A flurry of activity bloomed around them—given purpose, now, the guards sprang into motion—they would bring in a new table, for their leader wouldn't yet be ready to replace his favored pet.
Mae'Var rubbed his palms together. "You can't ever be too careful." His smile stretched no further than his lips.
Edwin smiled back.
A hundred spells weighed for the purpose, yet nothing matched the appealing simplicity of thrusting one of those scalpels through the guild leader's eye. Soon. Infinitely more important matters awaited his attention. However much his quarry was taking her time to reappear.
Edwin frowned. The guards backed up a step, surrendering more than enough room for him to pass; the tickle on his back kept his spine straight even as the air lightened, welcoming him upstairs.
=S=
Metal hinges screeched, grinding through her ears and through the groove which had worn into her brain each time the cell door rattled open. Nowhere to go, but still she flinched.
Arms and knees folded up, her head ducked down between them as she sucked in the hot stink of her breath. (Trapped like she was trapped.) Her arms clenched tighter. Tight enough, and she wouldn't shake. Don't look don't look don't see.
No confident strides, no firm footfalls, these: the footsteps came to a shuffling stop. Different, something different—what did it mean?—what would he do?
"Sajantha...?"
Cold bars clenched her back as she lurched away. Sajantha? Sajantha? The echo of the sound fluttered inside her; it burst into flight—light—and scattered shadows like cobwebs, sent them crawling from her mind. Sajantha.
Sajantha looked up.
"Imoen." Her friend's name broke from her cracked lips, but she croaked it out again, "Imoen!"
Imoen's lips twitched like she started to smile, maybe wanted to. Too much effort (too much pain), a truth as sharp as knowing that standing would hurt, that moving would hurt as much as thinking.
Tottering to her feet, Sajantha was too tall. Her legs agreed—wanted to fold, to crouch down again—lower, smaller, forgotten. Safe. (Nothing was safe.)
"You're alive." She ran her hands through Imoen's limp hair, taking in her friend's sunken eyes and gaunt face with a relief that wavered like the vibrating thrum of a harp string, so taut and so soon to give way to silence. "I thought... I thought I..."
"Shh," said Imoen, "shh." Her arms came up, pulled Sajantha tight. Embracing, they didn't have to look at each other. Her eyes burned like dark holes through Sajantha's eyelids.
They stood there for a goodly breath, unmoving but for a slight sway, as if neither could decide whom held the other up. One of them shook or both of them did; how to tell them apart, when she couldn't find her own edges any longer? Sajantha trembled with violence enough to unravel them both.
"We'd better get moving." Imoen pulled back, and the chill of the air took over the space she had been, cold against Sajantha's damp cheeks.
She took in an unsteady breath, and cold sank from her lungs to her bones.
"C'mon," Imoen looked back from the doorway, "let's get out of here." She held her hand out—an invitation. (A warning.)
Sajantha's feet caught at the edge.
The hand closed 'round her wrist, started tugging. "Sajantha–"
He was watching. He was always watching. This was another test—it was always a test—he was watching; he was testing her.
Imoen's fingernails dug into Sajantha's arm as she twisted away, but the only pain was the pressure in her ears, high and piercing as the cry she held back in her throat.
A crack had divided the floor. Thin, it split the cell, a fracture deep as a gulf she could not cross.
"He'll come back." Shaking her head, she tried to reclaim her fingers—her footing—but Imoen wouldn't have it; her tug began to pull Sajantha over the lip of the cell.
"N-No–!" Bar by bar slipped from her, with no strength to keep them close. "Please—please, no. He'll come back. I can't," she gasped, "I can't."
"Come on!" Imoen's voice broke, but her grip stayed firm. "I don't think I could escape again. We have to go. We have to go now. Please. Please come with me. You have to come with me." Fingers tugged, again. Dark eyes (holes) glimmered almost bright.
Sajantha took a shaky breath, took a shaky step, and the world did not end outside of her cage.
She took another step, and though her clenched muscles protested—set her stumbling—the world did not end. He did not appear, his voice did not frost the air; no, all the ice was on her insides.
Sajantha took one more step and then another, and then she was running—muscles screaming in pain and triumph as the cold metal grid nipped at her bare feet—she would get out of here, she would see the sky again, breathe real air, leave this darkness behind (leave him)–
The hallway ended.
Stark gray walls pressed in all around her—everywhere—over her head, a shrinking box (a coffin). Sajantha slowed, but her heart did not, kept trying to pound free of her like it didn't realize they had stopped. That there was nowhere to go. Run, it said. Screamed. RUN RUN RUN.
Darkness grew at the edges of her eyes and everywhere she turned: stone and iron and those instruments that hung gleaming (dripping) from the walls, and she knew what each of them did (what they would do) and he would come back (on his way already) he would—he would—
"Sajantha." Imoen waved at her. "Over here."
Here. Her attention anchored: the hulking shadow in the cell beyond had a somber face, a face that lightened just a little when it saw them. A familiar face, even absent of the broad smile he'd always wear.
Used to wear.
"Where's Dynaheir?" Imoen asked Minsc.
The big man hung his head; shadows from the bars glided over his bare scalp. "They—they killed her, as I watched. I… I failed my witch."
Locked in beside him, Jaheira kicked at the bottom of her own cell, hands turning to white claws as they gripped the bars. "Khalid–!"
The swell of sound in Sajantha's head was swallowed by silence, like a dark curtain swung to close it off.
Jaheira looked over at her, and Sajantha took in a gulp of air. Noiseless, now, but for the ringing in her ears left behind. Jaheira had asked a question.
"What?" Quiet—but not soft enough for a whisper—her voice came out hard and cracked.
"Khalid," Jaheira said again, "have you seen him?"
Shaking her head, Sajantha bit down on her knuckles. No. No crying (no begging no screaming). No. No. Khalid—
Someone—Imoen—took her hand, pulled it away from her. Red.
"No." The word fell out of her mouth; it tasted like blood.
Out of here—they needed to get out of here—but there was dead-end after dead-end, and doors with locks that Imoen couldn't pick, with strength that Minsc couldn't counter; there was only one way to go, one dark tunnel to travel down.
What if... what if he was just waiting for them (a test another test) when they reached the end?
Little pools lined the pathway; strange images floated in the water, reflecting colors—scenes?—that weren't really there. Did… did anyone else see them? They all kept walking, so Sajantha did, too. (Don't look, don't see.)
She stepped into Minsc's solid back as he came to a sudden stop—smoke filled the space around them, colorful ribbons swirling out to block their way—a figure formed to fill the hall. (Him—him? No. Not him not him not him.) A... a djinni.
Words wrapped 'round her, as if energized from the same wind whirling beneath him: a twisting tangle took over Sajantha's chest and squeezed her breath away. Will you push the button? A riddle. He'd have a riddle for them, wouldn't he? Questions with no answers, a game to play and no way to win, no way to refuse—
The floor shook beneath her, a roar, a rain like pebbles and grit crashing through her mind.
But no one else noticed; no one else had moved.
Except the djinni was waiting. Had he… had he been speaking? What. What game, this time? "Will you push the button?" he asked.
His words kept clanging inside her head—echoed by a memory—Sajantha clenched her teeth.
"We already played your game," Imoen told the djinni, and her brow wrinkled up as she growled, "Get out of our way!"
Laughter bloomed all around them as the figure faded out, leaving a view of an empty hallway stretching on before them.
Imoen turned towards her, and Sajantha looked away. "Better check for traps."
A coiled metal monster filled the next room, like something out of an extra-planar tale: a great mechanical device armored with gears and pipes and cogs, crouching as it spewed steam and filled the air with a strangely acrid stink.
"Looks like something crawled out of one of Gond's nightmares." But then Imoen had to jump back, for a handful of scaled creatures broke through the cover of fog, darting towards the group in a flurry of leathery wings and sharp claws.
"Mephits!" Minsc shouldered Sajantha out of the way and used his fist to knock one of the devils to the ground, where its small body crunched beneath his large foot; she ducked as another one tore past, and a solid thwack said it had met Jaheira's stave.
"Shut it off!" Imoen tried to point towards the silver structure while wrestling a mephit to the floor. "Try that big switch, there—!"
Jaheira hurled herself forward, disappearing as the cloud enveloped her, but she must have managed something, for a great shuddering click shook the room.
And Imoen cried out in triumph—"Nil'gnosi nar vis!"—a flare of magic flew from her fingers and the mephit attacking her went still.
Magic.
Jaheira batted another of the creatures away, but one streamlined straight towards Sajantha—
"Nil'gnosi nar vis." Sajantha threw her hands forward, but—
But.
The mephit slammed into her with a frenzy of talons, opening little tears all along her arms as she protected her face.
A chirping cry (a snap): she opened her eyes as Minsc's arms twisted and dropped the reptile in a limp heap. "Is Sajantha hurt?"
She unfolded stiffly. "This?" These red lines weren't deep enough to matter. "Just scratches." But…
The hum of electricity remained in the air, a buzzing that tickled at the hairs of her neck even after the machine shut off; she leaned back against a wall worn with rust and grunge (it couldn't make her any dirtier), and sank to the floor.
A mephit. Minsc had intervened quickly enough, but…
Imoen slid to a seat beside her. "That machine—did you feel that? It was powering an anti-magic field. We can cast again!"
Had she not noticed? "I can't." So long (too long) since the Weave had answered her, long enough to forget the lyrics to that song, for its tune to fade from her mind. "It feels like… like there's nothing there." Sajantha flexed her fingers: they looked different. Wrong. Thin skin stretched over thin bones and nails all broken: these scrawny, fragile things could not belong to her.
"That must be how he kept us cut off from the Weave. I didn't know you could do that? Even with a machine. I couldn't cast nothing, either." Imoen looked over at her. "Did he do the same thing to you?"
A black spot floated in Sajantha's brain, like a hole in her vision, a spot that jumped when she moved her eyes; it wouldn't stay still for her to examine. "I don't remember." The shadow flickered. (Don't look, don't see.)
"Your magic's always been different." Imoen half-shrugged. "Guess it doesn't matter so much." She stood back up. "You probably just need some sleep. Maybe after you rest."
"Right." But how to believe it, how to believe enough rest might change anything? The dirt nap. She took a breath and fixed her eyes on Imoen; her friend's warm brown hair stirred as she turned away.
Did he do the same thing to you? Imoen's eyes stared out like scars, gouges on her face (black black black holes). Dark, dark, everywhere so dark. Everything.
On the far side of the room, Jaheira paused her pacing with a look back at them. An expectant look.
"Let's get out of here." Imoen stood, hugging her arms. "I can't stand this place another second."
But nowhere else they found was any better. Like the room with jars too big—big enough for people—but those pieces inside couldn't be people. Not anymore.
"Cover your eyes, Boo." Minsc held his familiar close to his chest.
Grimy tubes stretched from floor to ceiling with some manner of occupants floating within. Sajantha's hand stretched to the nearest one—why?—the coldness of the glass woke a coldness in her belly, a shiver traveling through her. A figure here, yes, but—was there a face?—obscured by the clouded glass or… or… faceless? A shadow moved. Bubbles. Was it trying to speak? (Scream?)
"Unplug it." Imoen's whisper was fierce, forceful. "Them things aren't alive anymore. Not really. Just—just let it die."
Death is pretty.
When Sajantha's gaze flew to her, Imoen bit down on her lip, chapped and red. Had she spoken that? (Had Sajantha?) No. No, never. Why would…
Godchild. The ghost of a blade chilled her skin.
No. Her fingers flexed. No no no. No blade. Sajantha pressed her face into her friend's shoulder, (empty) hands reaching out, and Imoen reached back, her arms soft and warm.
"It's better this way," Imoen explained, her voice a tickle against Sajantha's ear as she tightened their embrace. She had said it. She had said it.
Pretty.
Pretty was the paint on Imoen's bare toes, the few cracked pieces of pink still polishing the tips. Sajantha's birthday gift to her. How… how long ago?
Sajantha stepped back on the cold tile, let go of her friend, and looked up.
Jaheira's hand shook as she removed the power cells; the tube went dark, the bubbles stopped (dead). "What manner of madman's lair is this?"
Madman? Blue eyes cut through her vision, their ice lingering even as she blinked them away. Sajantha raised her hand to her mouth, her voice trembled out through her fingers. "We have to get out of here." (He would come. He was coming.) Get out get out get out—
Imoen's fingers threaded through her other hand and squeezed. "Right behind ya."
Sajantha took in a breath. Alright. Imoen was alright. Maybe… maybe it would be alright.
Maybe after you rest.
Rest.
Maybe.
"We keep moving." Jaheira secured the grip on her stave. Hefted it. "I'll rest when I am dead."
"There is no rest for heroes!" Minsc agreed. "Not when evils must be avenged!"
But there weren't any exits, either, just more and more rooms, worse and worse.
=I=
Imoen pressed closer to Minsc as they rounded another dark tunnel. Just out of sight, something dripped; each drop may as well have landed on her back, the way it tingled. "I'm scared, Minsc." She kept her voice real quiet, so it wouldn't get sent back, like the racket of footsteps all around them. "I'm awful scared." What would they find around the corner?
"We are heroes," he said, like it was an answer, like it was all they needed. "We must take our strength and comfort from this when we cannot find it elsewhere."
That… yeah. That made sense, didn't it? The big guy's voice was toned down way more than normal, but still reassuring. She leaned against his massive arm and gave it a hug. "You go 'n say the wisest things, sometimes."
"All of my wisdom comes from Boo."
"I sure could use a Boo of my own right about now." And as long as she was wishing for things, how 'bout some elven eyes to see in this gloom? She kept scanning the ground anyway, even though they'd run into more crazies and guards than traps. "If he packed so many people in, we know there's gotta be a way out, huh?"
Jaheira's steps were tight ringing echoes along the floor. At least she still had some boots. "I am not looking for the way out. I am looking for my husband."
"Gods! You know I'd never leave him behind." No way Jaheira had meant to throw that glare at Imoen so hard as she did, but it still hurt. "That ain't what I meant."
Jaheira knew that—she had to know it!—but the druid didn't look back, just kept up her determined stride, gripping her staff so tight you could almost hear her knuckles grinding. "I will not rest until he is by my side. Silvanus, hear me!" Her voice echoed all about, like the narrow tunnel they'd just stepped into called them a greeting. Dark dark and more dark. Whatever waited for 'em, couldn't be nothing good.
Almost brought to mind the first time they'd gone exploring in the dark someplace they shouldn't have, though at least that time they'd gone and made a friend. Imoen nudged Sajantha. "Miirym'd be just at home in a place like this, don't you think?"
Her friend flinched, then frowned as she rubbed her arm, like she didn't know why she was doing it. "The darkness eats away with tiny teeth." Her voice was a bare hair below a whisper, barely more than a breath.
What…? That scrambled nonsense sounded like something half-mad Miirym would say. Had she said that? Or… was Sajantha going just as scrambled?
"You…" Imoen cleared her throat. "You here with me?"
Sajantha wasn't looking at her. "Trapped. She's still trapped. I've got to get her out; I have to—!" Her fingers dug into her hair.
"Hey. Hey. Sajantha." Imoen's arms were weak as she raised them, like her muscles had forgotten how to move; the short sword she'd looted off them goblins weighed way more than it should've, and hauling it around without a holster had worn her out just from walking.
She patted her friend's shoulder, taking in a deep breath. "We'll get out first, okay? We get ourselves out first of all, and right afterward we'll go looking for another mess to keep us busy." Setting free a crazy, cursed dragon from an ancient binding had to get bumped down the list. "Yeah?"
One heartbeat—two—as Sajantha just stared at her. "Right," she said at last, nodding. "Alright. Okay."
"One thing at a time." Imoen tried to smile at her.
The hall opened up into a wide-open room, and Imoen took a step back, all the strength sucked out of her, like a vampire had got too close. But there wasn't anything undead here—not even anything dead, for once—and somehow the lack of that was harder to face than any of the rooms before, when there wasn't nothing creepy or crawly or trying to kill them.
This place was alive. Green and growing.
The dirt, all moist and earthy, was soft enough to make her sore feet cry in relief, to make the rest of her want to feel it, too, to just fall over and bury herself in all cozy. The dirt nap, she almost said, almost laughed, but Sajantha might just start laughing at that—because she would understand, wouldn't she?—and that thought only hurt.
But maybe if she could just stand here a moment, let the soil sink between wiggling toes, close her eyes and just—
Someone was here.
It started off as a whisper, like wind dancing through the tree leaves above them, only it came from all around.
Imoen gripped her sword. But… the figures approaching them didn't have no weapons. Didn't have no clothes. And didn't look like they had a speck of fighting in them, nor any will to try.
Minsc was the first to lower his weapon. "Lovely lady trees…"
"Dryads." Jaheira didn't have no trouble identifying them.
Those were good creatures, right? Nature. Trees. Good things, yeah, and there hadn't been anything sane enough to have a conversation with 'til now. "Do… do y'all know the way out of here?"
The three women watched them, all quiet, 'cept for hair all a-rustle from a breeze that only hit them. "We are trapped here, as you." Their large fey-eyes blinked, holding in the kind of sad that said they'd given up. "But we can go nowhere without our trees."
Trapped. None of them belonged down here. Heat pricked in Imoen's eyes, blurring everything to one big smear of green. "So beautiful," she murmured. "So beautiful, I almost can't see you."
"Is this a dream?" Sajantha asked, and for half a moment this place almost made sense.
The dryads looked at each other. They smelled of the outdoors, of sunny days and blue skies, all fresh and wild. But browns and reds dried the edges of their leafy-green hair. "No, child."
"Do you think this is a safe place to rest?" Minsc asked, giving Sajantha a concerned look. "Also," his voice brightened a little, "Boo wonders if perhaps the nice ladies have any nuts?"
Jaheira shook her head. "We need to keep moving." Her gaze caught on Sajantha, too.
The druid was a healer, wasn't she? Maybe she could sense… Imoen gestured, keeping her voice low, "You think… you think she'll be alright?" Once they were out of here, right? Sajantha would be alright.
"I…" Jaheira looked away. "I need to find Khalid."
She—but she couldn't just blow it off like that! Something inside Imoen shivered, a tightness to clench her hands or stomp her feet. "Jaheira—"
The druid whirled on her, nostrils flaring. "I don't know—I don't know! But I cannot think of anything until I find my husband!"
Khalid. Imoen swiped a hand over her eyes. "I'm scared, too, okay?" Scared and sick and tired. But what if they couldn't? What if they couldn't find Khalid or find an exit? Or what if something else found them first? Plenty of creatures and things wandering about down here.
And… he could always find them. Better hope them 'intruders' were keeping the creep busy; Mask-Face had teleported off quick enough after that golem had warned him, though he'd seemed more annoyed than worried at being under attack. Not that you could tell all that much with those weirdly frozen expressions of his, the way his eyes could look just as dead as... as...
Imoen shivered. What the hells would worry that madman? Well. It didn't matter none, didn't matter if the intruders beat him or not, just so long as they distracted him long enough to make good this escape of theirs. Escape. Right. Better hurry after Jaheira.
Sajantha was staring up at the greenery, the calm on her face looking right eerie. "Like the Lushpool Court. Do you remember?" Her eyes were real distant, like she could see all the way back home, back to that courtyard of hanging plants and vines she used to play her harp in.
"Yeah." Imoen swallowed. "I remember." She reached out and took Sajantha's hand and her friend's eyes focused in on her. Bit of clarity. Good. "But we've got to go."
Sajantha scanned the group ahead of them, a frown growing on her face, along with some kind of realization. "Where's Dynaheir?"
"She's..." Imoen sent Minsc an uneasy look, but the big guy was listening to Boo. "She's gone."
"Khalid?" Sajantha took a step back as they all turned to look at her. "I don't know. Why would I know?"
=S=
They all saw him, soon enough. Up on the next floor. (And all the way across it.)
The room was too hot. Sajantha's eyes were too hot, the whole inside of her head; a pain hummed through her bones, her teeth, as it burned in the back of her throat and squeezed.
Khalid's eyes stared up, empty. Empty as the cavern carved out of his chest. Insides on the outside.
Jaheira's shrill scream shook the air; she shook off Minsc and Imoen and all the sympathy they offered. "Words are nothing!" But they still hung in the air, a thousand cries and accusations inside Sajantha's head and outside it.
Inside and outside, implode or explode. The shouts clashed to a crescendo 'til she shook with them, shook them out. Quiet. A white noise, a hum that muffled all other sounds: all these mouths moved with no sound at all.
The cold came back, rippling goosebumps along her skin. Every breath hurt, tight. No outlet to release the energy that built up inside her—her magic was gone—something still bubbled up, swirling in her gut: a chill that seized and clenched all her muscles at once, a fullness, as if something lay submerged inside her that she might vomit out.
Sajantha's stomach clenched again, but she could only heave, dry—still it drained something free of her—eyes watering, head spinning, her knees hit the ground and ice seeped through her skin.
Whatever rested heavy inside her—she took a breath and it grew, swelled, filled her head, her vision; she blinked away black–
A streak of light: a hand stretched out. "C'mon, Sajantha," Imoen whispered, the shadow of a smile on her lips, but only shadows in her eyes.
=I=
Imoen kept her eyes fixed ahead. No point in looking back. Nope. Keep going. Only now she was the one who had to remind them: "We've got to keep moving," she told them. Jaheira, Sajantha. The ones lagging behind. "We're getting close."
They had to be. More 'n more fights were breaking out everywhere—except they were between Mask-Face's guard-creatures and these fellows all geared-up with hoods—causing enough of a ruckus to let a tired little group creep on by around them.
Looked like these 'intruders' were coming in real handy, slicing through golems and blowing walls up left 'n right; who needed to follow the rules of this maze when you could do something like that? The intruders were the only reason they'd got out. Or however close as this was to 'out.' "Real close." Half-promise, half-prayer. Imoen had got herself out of that cage, she'd get them out of here, too.
The ground rumbled a bit, setting off some hollering far-away. Yeah, keep that bastard busy. This was the first thing like a chance to pop up—in days and days and days—so they'd better not waste it; you took what Lady Luck offered and you made use of it. Like this Kara-Turan they'd stumbled into—or had stumbled into them—some mephits chasing behind. At least they could still clean up mephits alright.
It was important, having numbers. You could do more, be stronger, when someone had your back, when you knew you weren't alone.
Imoen didn't look back at Jaheira.
The new fellow hadn't been left in as bad a shape as the rest of them, either, still fresh on his feet. Maybe just kept in the waiting wings, like Minsc and Jaheira had been, waiting to be useful. To be used. This man—'Yoshimo,' he'd introduced himself with a bow and an easy smile worn a little rough by their surroundings—hadn't been one of Mask-Face's active subjects. The marks that left were clear to see. Even the ones not on the outside.
Imoen glanced at Sajantha, Sajantha who was staring blankly forward as she walked, 'cept for every sudden sound when her eyes would dart all over.
"Is she… alright?" Yoshimo nodded towards her, as tactful as he could manage, but he looked about as uneasy for Sajantha as he did at the battles they kept skirting 'round. Was he worried about her? Or just about her slowing them down?
Imoen gave a slow shake of her head. "I think we're about as far as we can get from 'alright.' " No—no—they weren't, for Tymora had gifted them a chance and that wasn't a thing to scoff out, how quickly luck could turn. Things were looking up now, and that wasn't a thing to spit in the face of. Some of them making it out was better than none, after all, right? Yep. Yes, sir. "We'll pull through, though."
You had to… you just had to focus on the bright side. Even if everything in here was all dirt and darkness, and wasn't no light strong enough that it didn't cast a stronger shadow. No. No. Don't think like that, don't think of the way Sajantha's eyes had lit up when they'd found the false forest, then gone so quickly dim.
Imoen tore her gaze from the cold floor. This feller's boots didn't make no noise as he walked next to her, but then he could balance his weight all proper without feeling metal pinching at bare feet.
"Hey. You're the only one of us with enough reflexes left to be useful." He'd even scrounged up—or kept hold of—his own equipment, better than the mismatched pieces the rest of them had managed. "You… you watch out for her, okay?" Bear-sized Minsc made for the best sort of bodyguard, but he was moving awful slow and paying more attention to his hamster than anything else. "I dunno how much help the rest of us'll be if we hit another wave." They hadn't been in much shape to fight, even before the little pockets of patrols they kept walking into.
He considered it—or her?—a moment, and then gave her a real deliberate nod, looking all serious. "I will be sure to keep an eye on her."
Imoen gave him a nod right back, only hers probably not quite so confident. But this was good; it was just what Sajantha needed, someone looking out for her: the more someones the better, especially when Imoen couldn't quite hold up her end of things.
The blood down her arm had dried—damn dwarves!—but that sure didn't help swing her sword any harder, not the way it still ached. Magic, though. Maybe she could move enough to cast a spell or two, as foggy as all that Draconic was in her mind. And if she kept reciting the spell-words in her head, she wouldn't have to think about… anything else.
Sajantha wouldn't be no help there, either, for she'd up and quit casting last year. Well. She'd said she'd quit, but she'd sneak a spell or two when she thought no one was looking; she loved magic too much to just give it up like that, however hard she'd tried for Imoen, since that wild surge had come so close to killing her.
The burn scars from that had mostly faded. But Imoen had some more scars, now. And so did Sajantha, if all that blood on her shirt was any clue. She'd gotten it into her head that she couldn't cast anymore, but given the state of her head, who really knew?
She'd be fine, though. After a rest. After they got out of here. Sure she would. Yep. They'd all be fine. All of them that weren't Dynaheir or Khalid… or the rest of them stuck thinking about Dynaheir and Khalid…
Jaheira's steps had slowed to something short of a shuffle, like the too-deep tired had finally caught up with her, strides that wouldn't stay steady. Dead on her feet.
"I…" But then she straightened. "I think I see light ahead."
Her half-elven eyes saw better than Imoen's; it took a moment squinting through the grayness before the spot of light got bigger. An illusion? A trap? Or…
"An exit!" Minsc whooped, his big body perking up, and his smile kindled a little something inside her, something that everyone else felt, too: the way feet could suddenly move faster, the way air could suddenly flow through tired, tight lungs.
"We made it." Thank Tymora. Imoen grabbed Sajantha's hand as they reached the incline, got her to pick up speed. Almost got her to smile.
=S=
Sun warmed Sajantha's back but couldn't soak in far enough, not past the layer of ice still coating her after… after…
(Him.)
No. No. He wasn't here—out, they'd made it out—but…
These shapes made no sense. All the pieces of people, but put together wrong, nothing familiar out here where the light stung her eyes. Sajantha blinked up at the figures around her, back-lit into silhouettes, nearly featureless. "Who are you?"
"We met him in the dungeon, Sajantha." Jaheira's voice was measured, even, and still didn't flatten out her impatience. "He helped us escape."
"I am called Yoshimo," the silhouetted-man said.
The edges of him faded in and out of focus. Sajantha's eyes tightened. "I don't know you."
"I was imprisoned as well; I mean you no harm."
"No." His cheerful voice grated; her teeth clenched as she stumbled away. "Don't. Stay away from me."
"It's alright! He's a friend."
Friend? Her neck ached, but she lifted her head to look around. The sun burned spots into her eyes, however she squinted. Light fragmented off tiled domes in a thousand facets, as bright and busy as the crowded market: a clash of color and sound all loud and smeared into each other. An arena, almost, with the stalls that ringed the edges, layers and layers stacked up and up and up to box them in—
The noise competed with the pressure in her ears 'til it all rang together.
Sajantha lowered her gaze to the faces around her. "Where's... where's..." Too many missing faces, and the ones that remained stared back at her, bleak. No. No no no.
Head spinning, she looked away, gripping her temples. No thick curls sprang to meet her fingers: her hair hung limp and flat. "It's not real. This isn't real." It couldn't be. She tried to step away, but her feet wouldn't listen—neither would the rest of her—pain pierced as she tried to straighten, and bowed her over, instead.
Hands glided over her back; in the air hung the syllables of a spell that once offered relief, but now–
"No!" She thrashed away from the healing magic (pain pain it only meant more pain); her scream got caught in her throat, a wet tangle of a sob.
The hands reached after her—arms too long to escape, too strong to escape; they turned her around, then held her face as she tried to push away. "Look at me—Sajantha—look at me. You are not a prisoner. You are free. I am not going to hurt you. You're safe."
Jaheira. Jaheira stared at her with emerald eyes and a face of granite. With a knot of words that needed unraveling. Safe. Safe. It didn't mean anything.
"How do you know?" Sajantha touched her chest; her heart fluttered, frantic, beneath her fingers. "I let him—I let him—no!" She jerked back, and this time Jaheira let her. "No more. Don't touch me." How many times had he healed her? (As many times as he...)
He had come back. He'd come back, but no knives, this time.
No Imoen.
"Where is he—where did he go?" Behind them lay the blown-out remains of a tunnel: bricks and bodies scattered all over. Flashes filled her vision, memories of magic: "Imoen. He took Imoen."
She tucked her hands under her arms, but they shook, shook so hard that all of her trembled. Her mouth didn't work right, either; the words dribbled out. "Where did they go?" Numb, her lips were numb, and all of her as stiff and cold. Her legs stopped working, too, let her know with a stomach-dropping lurch as they gave out and left her sprawled on the ground. "Imoen."
Minsc and Jaheira stared down at her.
Not Dynaheir.
Not Khalid.
Not Imoen.
"Oh." Her heart stopped working, squeezed and split and stuttered; she dropped her head in her hands. "Oh, my gods." Not real, no. Couldn't be—it couldn't be—
"This is Athkatla. I recognize this place."
Not talking to her anymore, no; the stranger directed his words to the others. Who needed words? Words are nothing! Jaheira had screamed. They didn't need words, not that stranger's voice trying to be comforting but he didn't know he didn't know and this wasn't even happening; it couldn't be. Close her eyes, if she just closed her eyes, when she woke up when they opened it would be alright it would all be alright Imoen would be alright.
A hum vibrated through Sajantha's ears. The faces looked down at her: it was coming from her— her lips her mouth her chest—but she held it in, did not give it the breath to become a wail; she choked it she smothered it she strangled it back to nothing.
"There is an inn, not too far from here. Not the best company, I'm afraid, but we can't afford to be picky."
Maybe after you rest.
Minsc lifted her up, his face full of too much sadness to focus on; Sajantha held on with her cheek pressed against the chains of his armor so she didn't have to look at him, didn't have to look at anything—or feel anything but his heavy, steady tread—'til they arrived at their destination.
Like the Mermaid, this inn looked like the Blushing Mermaid, dark and dismal and full of strangers with cruel eyes that crawled, lingering like the sweaty stink in the air all over her skin.
Don't be such a wimp, Sajantha, Imoen said.
Jaheira hadn't said anything. Wasn't she supposed to? Say something, do something. Fill in the blanks of the silence that grew, grew so tall to loom over them.
"Four rooms," she told the innkeeper. Like everything was normal. Like everything was alright. Jaheira (and Khalid), Minsc (and Dynaheir), Sajantha (and Imoen). Yoshimo.
(Edwin.)
So many things missing nothing fit together anymore not these pieces of people not the words in her head.
Jaheira turned to her, a terrible depth to her eyes as she stared; when she spoke, it sent a jolt through Sajantha. "You need to sleep."
"Why? How will that help her?"
"It will help you."
It might not help her, but I think it might help you, Imoen had said. Of Miirym. Of playing the harp. Gods, Miirym! The spell—those years of research—was gone her harp was gone her father gone gone gone every little piece he'd left her.
Sajantha touched her neck, but her necklace—his ring, and Oghma's symbol—was gone, too. Nothing, nothing left, yet it bit and tore at all her edges.
"Get some rest."
Minutes later, or hours (drip drip drip each second left her), Sajantha stretched out flat atop the covers and stared at the shapes twisting on the ceiling. However far behind his dungeon, the shadows would still know where to find her.
Maybe after you rest.
But it was better to leave her eyes open to the blackness of the empty room than to what waited when she closed them.
=E=
He was not alone.
Someone—something—had slipped through his wards, not activating them, not dispelling them: not possible.
Throwing back the bedcovers, Edwin fumbled for the wand beneath his pillow as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and narrowed in on the mismatched shapes forming from shadows at the foot of his bed.
Moonlight filtering through the curtains turned the scene even more surreal as it glowed upon this strange trio of creatures that did not move.
He did not move either, even as his outstretched arm began to ache. Yet… something sharpened in the back of his mind as the grainy fragments of sleep fell away. "Speak."
"Athkatla," came a creaky whisper from a half-transparent long-limbed being. It folded in on itself, faded away.
Bearing his arcane mark. Still bound: the only way they'd passed his warding.
"Athkatla." The sound scratched, slippery, like nails across glass, and the second speaker melted through the floor.
Not hostile. Of course not, his glyph would have warned him. He lowered the wand.
"Athkatla," sighed the last, expanding in a fog, dispersing 'til it disappeared.
Edwin sat in silence, evening his breaths; the night air settled a chill upon his sweaty skin.
Months ago the outsiders had been given their tasks—one after another with no results—and only now had something to report? Whatever had been blocking their search had ceased doing so. Why?
He slipped out of bed, summoning his robes to him. 'Why' did not matter, not now—only one thing did—
She was here.
[Author's Note]: Thank you for reading! I would not have made it this far or this long without the support and encouragement from readers (and you all have the extraordinary and extraordinarily-marvelous Kyn to thank for the fact I am uploading this now instead of holding off for... what would possibly be forever), so giant huge thanks to all of you who are able to take time to comment; I know it can be really hard which just makes me appreciate it even more. ^^ (I am writing to learn and improve, so critical feedback is just as greatly appreciated as positive feedback!) I've been working on this story for a rather obscene amount of time haha but I end up getting stuck on advancing it and instead get caught on stupid editing details, so I'm hoping posting this will help keep me on-track to make progress more efficiently; it helps keep me accountable knowing people are reading it. ;)
