A/N: A long chapter dealing with the aftermath. I hope you'll like how things play out, and I hope it'll make as much sense to you as it makes to me. Please, let me know your thoughts.
Important Notice: because of all the editing, now the rating has gone down to T, since there're no graphic explicit scenes. However, if you feel uncomfortable with this new arrangement, let me know and I'll change it back. Also, although the story is set in a part of the Forgotten Realms developed through a module made for Neverwinter Nights 2, I feel now that it has moved away from the game and would be more suited to the Books-Forgotten Realms category: therefore, unless someone thinks differently –in that case, please, let me know- I'll move the fic to that category when I make next week's update.
Next week's update is the last chapter of this fic, and will be on time.
o O o
Act IX
o O o
At some point, the runes anchoring the spell in place weakened and the Glabrezu faded into a shapeless cloud of malice and anger, sucked back to its native plane.
At some point, Mjirn's body gave out on him and he collapsed against a corner, leaving a growing pool of blood to stain his neat pile of clothes.
The female chuckled and left her comfortable place upon the bed. When the mage had offered himself like that, the wave of desire and disdain she had felt had almost taken her under: while she despised his motives, it felt impossible to deny the arousal his actions had conjured.
With long strides, she approached the fallen, shuddering body and poked it with her toes: she grinned when she felt the residual bite of the Glabrezu's acid saliva dripping out of the scored sides. She crouched, grabbing a handful of the once stark white hair and pulling roughly to examine his unconscious features.
Her hand idly wandered to her neck and her fingers closed around the holy symbol that hung from a blackened iron chain: she still had use for the male, and so she called upon her goddess, asking for her healing touch. Not too much, she thought as she watched the cold recede form his limbs and the blood flow anew in his nearly empty veins.
Not too much: just enough to wake him.
The energy, evil, tainted, agonic, flowed into Mjirn's core like molten pain: he had forgotten.
When he had been healed by Sharess, it had been warm, loving, like a caress inside of a cocoon where nothing could hurt him. Lloth's touch, however, was vindictive, crazed; it set his nerves afire as it burned the poison in his system and speared through his flesh as it stitched his wounds closed. It was as if she wanted to remind her children of what awaited them in the afterlife. Or perhaps she showed what she wanted to do to her enemies? Did it really matter? Did the spidery deity even bother making the distinction?
Mjirn's eyes opened wide and the spasms of death jerked to a halt, and he felt the female hovering over his prone body. He felt her fingers prodding his still unhealed wounds, smearing fresh blood over the dry rivulets that ran down his sides and back. And he felt his cheek pressed against the rough fabric of his old tunic and his arm bent at an angle against the cold stone floor.
He didn't dwell on what he was about to do. He could not afford to. He merely groaned and attempted to shift, inch by inch, trying to respond to her touch, trying to keep her attention on his willing body, just a little bit more, biting back the pain and arching just so...
His fingers touched the wool of his tunic, and then closed feebly over the leather he sought.
When she wrenched him to the side, pushing his back flat against the floor and straddling him, she unknowingly gave him the leverage he needed.
With an effort that took away whatever strength he might have recovered, he raised his hand to grab her long hair and, using the momentum of the roll, he slashed in an upwards arc with his dagger.
Many looks passed over her features. First, wanton desire as she believed him to reciprocate her actions. Then, surprise at the attack. Later, it would be contentment at the futility of it all.
Because it'd have been futile but for the adamantine. It cut through the magic defences of the priestess as if the powerful spells were nothing but silk. It pierced her skin and cut her flesh cleanly, and Mjirn's eyes were calm as her blood gushed out and fell on his own face.
In the end, her expression was one of incredulity.
In Mjirn's opinion, death always had the same expression.
Then, the dagger fell from his limp fingers with a clatter, and he only managed to push the female's corpse half off himself. He smiled even as the dim chamber receded into complete darkness for him.
Someone clapped, but he never heard it.
o O o
When Mjirn came to his senses, he was not on the Fugue Plane. He was not trapped inside an ever-hungry wall whose sole purpose was to erode his soul. He was lying on a cot in a suitably dark room, with only two candles providing a flickering light. And under that light, a white head was bent over a slim book.
He shifted, in a move that perhaps was not so wise, and the cot creaked ominously. If he had harboured any hope to remain forgotten while he ascertained the new situation, he was proved wrong.
The head snapped up and smiled, and he blinked, trying to grasp onto his recollections. He had seen that face before, hadn't he? If only his head would stop hurting, perhaps he would remember. Reaching up, he rubbed his eyes, trying to calm the pulsating pain with pressure.
And then he froze, realizing that he could, indeed, reach up freely with his arms.
His expression, unguarded in those awakening moments, must have been amusing for he heard a chuckle.
"Yes, I can imagine your surprise," the female voice said. "It took an inordinate amount of potions to bring you around."
And then she stood and approached and he blanched.
It was the young female who had asked him for help, once. The one he had threatened. The impaired, weak one.
"Where am I?" he asked, pushing himself up to a sitting position.
"In my House," she said, sitting down on the edge of the cot. "Or rather, in a guard's bedroom in the basement of my House."
Mjirn registered that. Her House? Could it be that she had been adopted...? But that didn't answer the most important question.
"Why?"
"That should be the thing worrying you, yes," she never stopped smiling. "It must mean that your addled brains are working once more. Here, drink. I would rather you were fully awake before we talk."
She tossed him another flask and he caught it mid air. Pulling the stopper free, he sniffed discreetly before tilting his head back and swallowing. It was yet another healing potion, and he felt the regenerative energy invading his limbs and his core, the webs of pain and sleep fading off as he grimaced at the bitter taste.
The female nodded and drummed her fingers on her knee.
"Why, you ask. Tell me, why did you not try to kill me when I approached you?"
He'd have loved to be able to answer, but all he could do was shrug.
"You had done nothing to me. I could gain nothing from killing you."
She studied him for the longest time in silence.
"I thought as much. You are sensible. Pragmatic. And you have done us a favour. Does that answer your why, then?"
"A favour?"
"Oh, indeed. Eliminating that bitch was not high in our list of priorities, but she was trying to compete with us nonetheless. Her project of a House is now gone and that is a nice development, if nothing else."
It was Mjirn's turn to keep silent, studying the female and her words. The air of utter innocence and defencelessness had fled her, and while she did not seem to be of the most sadistic persuasion, he still was tense, on his guard. Her hair was perhaps a tad too short for a noble, he thought, and he saw no spider medallion hanging from her neck.
He did notice a small embellishment pinned to her tunic, and his eyes widened as he recognised it as a House insignia.
"It is an honour that House Teken'tlar would consider my actions favourable," he said, without even stopping to think about the courtesy words.
"I consider your actions favourable," she corrected. "Or, rather, I consider you useful."
His head snapped up to meet her gaze.
"You act behind your adoptive House's back?"
"Whoever said adoptive," she smirked. "I have fun teasing strangers, that is all," she added when realization dawned on his face.
She had been a Teken'tlar all along. He had threatened and shoved a female of the first House of Mithuth.
He was as good as dead.
"I would not have dragged you here to kill you after wasting precious supplies on your health," she said, reading his expression only too well.
"What do you want," he dared to question in a muted tone.
She stood and paced the small room.
"I find you too smart to deliberately attempt to move against us. And you are talented: I must grant your former Mistress at least that much," she stopped right in front of him, and he could not help a sense of inadequacy. "You have been granted a second chance. Not by the most beloved Spider Queen, needless to say. But people like us never look twice at a gift, no matter where it comes from, hmm? We use it, and use it well."
And with that, she turned to the door.
"Wait," Mjirn found himself saying when her hand pushed it open. "Who are you?"
"Baejra, Eldest daughter of House Teken'tlar," she tapped her lower lip, playfully. "In truth, that should be Second Sister, but our organization is a bit too complex for outsiders. Perhaps I shall get around to explaining it to you one day, Mjirn of no House worth mentioning."
And then, she was gone.
Mjirn stayed immobile a few more heartbeats, as if expecting the encounter to be a trick of his own mind, and then he stood on surprisingly firm legs and found his clothes, blood stained but neatly folded on a chair. He grimaced in disgust at the dry spots but slipped tunic and pants on in spite of it: he had nothing else to his name, since he could not return to fetch his spare ones.
Below the garments he found his adamantine dagger, clean and stored in its sheath, and he tied it in place at the small of his back with a smile. He wondered why the female... Baejra had left him with his precious treasure, but he dismissed the thought almost as fast as it occurred to him: there were many things about the encounter he did not understand, many variables that could still prove wild. He had to focus on what was important:
He had been granted a second chance.
He had to make the best of it.
o O o
They were sitting in front of the Tapper, overlooking the streets. Chauntea's Hold's silhouette was a dark shape over the resplendent sea, and the setting sun painted the sky and the waves in fiery tones.
All in all, a beautiful day in a beautiful city. Nothing to do with the previous cycle.
There was no darkness and no demons and the smell in the air was sulphur-free, crisp with salt.
Valerie felt almost stupid, talking about her childish worries, but at least he seemed to be taking them seriously.
"I warned you not to trust him," Izzhris explained in his quiet, calm monotone. "He was still prey of the Underdark and its ways. In those cases, betrayal and lies are to be expected."
"But I thought..." she sighed. "I mean, drow can come up to the light. That must mean that, at first, they are underground?"
Merrick, to her other side, snorted and earned a half-hearted glare from the Eilistreean drow.
"We cannot force anyone to be redeemed. All we can do is hold out our hand: they must reach out and take it."
"What he means to say is that drow who expect to be redeemed had better sit down to wait," Merrick cut in with a smirk, seeing the confused look on Valerie's face. "Because they are supposed to redeem themselves."
"It is the grace of Eilistree the one redeeming my brothers."
"Which grows on mushrooms for the wicked drow to pick? You can't ask them to decide on their own that the life they have always known is not for them, Izzhris."
"It is an empty life, and noticing such a thing is the first step. They have to take it themselves."
Merrick shrugged.
"If you say so. I won't follow your Dark Maiden, but still, if you're condemning Mjirn because he's stuck in the Underdark, it doesn't look like you're doing much for holding out your hand."
Izzhris's eyes narrowed.
"And thus speaks the man known to cavort with demons himself. Perhaps you take interest in this conversation because you find yourself much too close to his position than you would care to admit?"
"Devils, not demons," Merrick corrected, leaning back comfortably and letting the dying rays of the sun bathe his upturned face. "And I don't cavort: I am a warlock and I have a Pact."
"Of course. Because having a pact is so much better," the drow sneered.
"Can we please get back on topic?" Valerie said, bringing the pair's attention back to herself.
Izzhris nodded, but Merrick stood and stared down at the pair.
"I've got to get going. Rancid air and all that. But here's some food for thought: If Underdark drow are so treacherous, then what the hell are you doing believing an Underdark drow?"
Valerie frowned.
"Amir was very kind to me, and he just showed me the way to where Mjirn was. I believed my own eyes."
Merrick turned and offered a wave over his shoulder as he walked away, leaving the other two to their own devices.
"Sure. Mjirn also used to be very kind, remember?"
She didn't have time to reply before he was out of earshot. She couldn't find the words. Izzhris put his hand to her shoulder and gave a light squeeze.
"Do not worry. You made a mistake judging Mjirn, and while he is right in pointing out that all spider-kissing drow must be mistrusted, you did nothing wrong in regards to this Amir."
"Do you really think so?"
"Of course. It might have been a little rash, following an unknown dark elf, but he did nothing untoward and, as you pointed out, you had your own eyes."
"I guess you're right. We can all make mistakes, no?" with a sigh, she stood. "I think I'm going to go to bed early today. I didn't grab much sleep last night so..."
The drow and the priestess shared a small smile and a chuckle, and Izzhris stood up as well.
"Rest well."
"You, too."
Valerie turned back into the Tapper. It still was empty and quiet: the crowd that would invade the establishment during the late hours of the night was away, doing whatever they did to earn the silvers they'd later squander in cheap ale and gambling gambits. Any other day, she'd have chosen a table and would have stayed up long enough to watch the place fill and to observe the patrons, but not that day.
She just wanted to rest, to clear her head, so she dragged herself up the stairs to her room.
Closing the door, she let her back fall against the rough wood and heaved a deep breath, rubbing her face.
And then she screamed.
Recognising the shadow that stood stock still in the middle of the bedroom did not serve to calm her, either.
"Mjirn," she said, her voice colder than she'd wanted it to be. "What are you doing here?"
As she spoke, she cast a small cantrip to lighten up the interior and then frowned.
"Never mind the what. Is that blood?", she asked, pointing to his clothing.
"Yes, it is," he replied, his eyes fixed on the floor out of nervous habit.
"I don't even want to know whose it is..."
"It is -"
"I said, I don't want to know."
His gaze lifted at her cutting tone, surprised. He had never seen her like that before; had never heard her voice so full of spite before.
She sighed once more.
"I saw you yesterday," she said, and he stumbled back a step as if physically hit.
For Valerie, the stricken look upon his face was perfect guilt.
And perhaps she was not wrong: he knew how hard the sight must have been for her, he knew it had been his own foolishness putting her in that situation. He had called his former Mistress' attention to Valerie, after all.
"I am sorry that you had to see such a thing. It was never my intention -"
"Oh, I know that. You'd have kept it hidden forever, no?"
Mjirn frowned as she started to pace.
"I would have kept the sight hidden from your eyes, yes. I thought it would be best for you."
"Why, thank you! How about letting me decide what's best for me?" she stopped in front of him, her fists on her hips, and, for Mjirn, she looked then more than ever like a priestess. "I have just one question, and I hope you'll be honest when answering this one time."
She was upset, and he could see her tension, her doubt. He reached out, to calm her, as he had done before.
I have always been sincere, he was going to say.
But he said nothing when he saw the way she stepped back, hastily, with her beautiful smile twisted into a look of disgust for his touch.
"Were you there willingly?" she barked her query into his shocked silence. "Did you want it?"
His hand hovered for a heartbeat, and then fell limp to his side. He smiled, a calm yet sad smile, and, looking into her wide eyes, he did the only thing he could.
"Yes," he said, replying with a truth hidden behind a truth that did not answer her at all.
She never noticed.
"Out," Valerie whispered with a shudder, hugging herself as if to find protection from his presence.
And he obeyed. As he always did.
o O o
Stalking with a sure stride from shadow to shadow, Amir made his way from the teleport stone to the set of chambers where his Mistress would wait for him. He was in high spirits, even though events had deviated from the original plan: the human female had come, as his Mistress had guaranteed she would, but the Sharessan follower had, somehow, become unimportant.
Surprising, yes, but in a good way: Amir smiled when he thought of the other male's fate, and of the rather interesting night he had spent. Better this way, he thought. Not that watching the human's tricks at work with a demon would not have been entertaining, but... he was sure that he had appreciated them more than the Glabrezu would have.
And his Mistress? She would not be sated; no, never sated. But mellowed. And that was something he could enjoy.
He quickened his steps and reached the hideout unmolested, lost in his own thoughts. The lights had burned out, but he did not find it odd - on the contrary, it'd better suit the games. The air smelled of blood and sweat and sulphur and death, but that was not estrange either: he had never expected Mjirn to survive the encounter, anyway.
There were no warm bodies for his infrared vision to discern, though, and he did frown at that.
With a thought, he concentrated on his innate abilities and called forth a gust of feery fire, bright enough to illuminate the open room and the bed and...
He cursed, his concentration broke and the chamber was plunged into darkness once more.
With nimble fingers, he found and lighted a candle, refusing to believe what he had seen. A trick from the fire, nothing else, he kept repeating to himself.
But when the flame flickered to life there was no denying it: the cold, dead body was not Mjirn's. It was his Mistress, her throat cut open and her face frozen in a mask of incredulity. He knelt by her side, but she was long gone. The blood was already dry, her corpse was starting to bloat.
She was long gone.
She had died while he had been entertaining himself with the human wench, he realized, and the irony of it made him curse and laugh and scream in frustration and, yes, in anguish.
Of course, he hadn't loved her. She had been a vicious, dangerous tool. He was not mourning the loss of her.
No, he mourned the loss of his hard earned station. His House, his role of Patron, his growing power and the recognition that little by little attached itself to his face and his name. Everything was gone without her to front as Matron Mother.
The Patron and Weapon Master of House Hunduis had become nothing but Amir of no House worth mentioning.
He knew who had killed her, though, and he allowed himself a hollow laugh. In the end, that piece of scum had turned out to be a real drow, hadn't he?
However, Mjirn was a fool if he thought he could get away with it. After all, Amir had never stopped being a true dark elf.
The former Weapon Master was not thinking about killing the mage, though. No. Because they were drow, the game would be a much more subtle, equally devastating one.
Thanks to Mjirn, his plans and his work had become useless. Well, he thought with a smirk, standing up and dusting his pants off.
We'll see who ends up the victor.
