Writer's note: I'm sure it will come as no shock to anybody that this is one of the censored chapters. The director's cut can be found at AO3 under penname Zhenta.
The climb up the narrow staircase to Safana's room seemed to go on forever. A jumble of thoughts raced through Anomen's mind, though they would've been racing a lot faster if he'd drunk a bit less.
Chief amongst them was the concern that Coran might put in an appearance at any moment. Then there was the fact that it had been two solid days since he last took a bath. Or cleaned his teeth. The possibility that she might intend to rob him crossed his mind briefly. Then a twinge of regret that his first time was not about to be the culmination of romantic courtship that he had once hoped it might be.
Still, his entire life to date had been a relentless series of cockups. Why should this be any different?
Anomen followed her into her room and shut the door with a fresh determination. He was not so much eager to have sex as frantic to get it over with.
Safana's room was a mess of crimson velvet. She adored luxury but was not particularly good at maintaining it. The embroidered silk sheets were screwed up on the bed, and the chairs and carpet strewn with her discarded clothes. A pot of expensive face powder sat in a jewelled jar on the bedside table. She followed his gaze and picked it up idly.
"It's my favourite," she sighed. "Imported from Calisham. Fifty gold pieces a pot, and even then, it's hard to find a merchant selling it. The last time I got my hands on some of this, that oaf Freya accidentally trampled it into the carpet."
"I thought you two were friends," Anomen said vaguely, feeling that the evening was derailing. He certainly hadn't come up here to talk about Freya.
"We were but she turned out to be a bad friend," Safana drawled. "My mother had a saying. Never trust a man to do the right thing, but never trust a woman to do anything. It was never more true than of Coran and his bitch." She replaced the little pot sharply and turned her attention back to Anomen.
Her clever fingers began to unclasp his armour and he shrugged it off quickly. He placed it on the floor and hastily pulled off the shirt under it. His enthusiasm earned him an amused smile. "Not like you. I have a feeling you and I are going to be very good friends. Hmmm?"
"I hope so," he replied shakily. The Charisma Ring was in the pocket of his breeches. He slipped it on discretely and at once his manner grew more confident. Helpful as the little device was, it blared a warning siren into his mind: Safana wants to discuss Freya.
He knew, as surely as the boots on his feet, that if he did not cooperate with her line of questioning he was going to get nowhere.
"You need proof that she is dead?" he asked, raising a cocky eyebrow. "Arowan saw her die. I could ask her to testify for you."
"That might do," sighed Safana. "The problem with Bhaalspawn is that they dust. There's no body, and in the end, I fear that is the only proof that would satisfy her lawyers. I don't suppose anyone thought to save any Freya-glitter?"
"I fear not my lady," replied Anomen.
Safana pushed him playfully down onto the bed and he kicked off his boots. The fire in the hearth had not been long lit. Both the air and the sheets were cold, but in an instant she was warming him, straddling his bare torso between her thighs.
"Are you sure? It isn't just about me," Safana purred. "I want the money, I'll admit, but there's more to it than that. The city of Baldur's Gate is on the brink of civil war. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people will die. There's no chance of the political situation ever settling for as long as Freya's fate is in doubt."
"Alas, asking Arowan to testify is all we can do," Anomen said distractedly. She ran her hands over his taught chest, and he moaned. "Like… like you said… the Bhaalspawn leave no body."
Safana seemed to reluctantly accept this.
"My lady?" Anomen asked sharply, "You are not doing this simply to enlist my aid with securing Coran's inheritance are you? For if you are, I assure you that there is no need. Yours is a perfectly reasonable request and I stand ready to relay it to Arowan without the need for payment."
This was met with a sharp scratch across his chin. Though his beard shielded him from the full force of Safana's fingernails, the gesture came as a shock.
"Payment?" she echoed furiously. "Do you take me for some common whore?"
"No, no!" Anomen backtracked hastily. "I merely meant that…"
"Because I am no 'common' anything. You can comb the trollop houses from Athkatla to Baldur's Gate until you are wilted and grey, but I guarantee you, you will find nobody like me!"
"I have no difficulty believing that," he replied with the ghost of a grin.
He pulled her close, pressing his mouth against hers with a rough mixture of scraping beard and inexperience. Safana did not mind. Sex with Coran had grown into a slightly toxic blend of love and hate, which had been fun at first but was growing staler by the day. Whereas Anomen was something fresh to play with. It was over almost as quickly as it had begun, nice but not mind-blowing.
The world did not move for Anomen that night, but it did seem a little less daunting than it had before. He sighed and rolled off her, flat on his back and breathing heavily. Within minutes he was asleep, emotionally and physically drained.
Safana rolled her eyes and poured herself another glass of wine. She carried it over to the window and opened it, letting the cool night air lift the sweat from her body. The red velvet curtain brushed against her skin and she smiled a thin-lipped smile. The curtains in her mansion would be blue.
It was on a night like this that she had first met Freya and Coran. What a pair of dumb puppies! How that dopey duo, with the combined common sense of a lemming, had survived so long without her was one of life's enduring mysteries. She had partnered with them to get past some sirenes which were guarding treasure she'd been hunting. Her idea had been that the elf man would be charmed. Then she and the thumping great werewolf would retrieve the stash while they were distracted. Only, it turned out that Freya was much more susceptible to the sirenes than Coran. The poor confused creatures had not known what to make of her and let them all pass. Safana smiled at the memory and shook her head.
"Don't think I'll ever cry over you, bitch," she whispered at the moon. "You crossed too many lines."
Coran woke with a groan and sat up rubbing his temples. Beside him his latest fling was sleeping soundly in the stable hay. Dawn's first rays crept in through gaps in the thatch. Quietly, he gathered his clothes together and crept outside.
Spending the night with an affectionate woman was normally like his healing potions. In his experience there was not a problem in the world which could not be lightened by bringing a new friend to bed. Until now.
He dressed and stumbled back to the inn in a hollow trance. Dead. He climbed the stairs slowly to his room. Freya was dead. Coran had never believed it would come to this. Not really. People had come and gone in his life, but meeting Freya and Safana had been like finding pieces of himself he hadn't known were missing. The three of them were meant to be together.
Sure, the Bitch of Baldur's Gate had exiled them, but only because that snake Skie had made her. She would have come back to them, he knew it in his heart. All this time he had been searching the Sword Coast for her, certain that she would be trying to find him too. Darkness had begun to fester in his mind as time dragged on with no hint of her, but he'd pushed it into the recesses of his soul.
"Dead," he whispered. He drifted dully into his room and flopped down across the foot of the bed, barely noticing that Anomen was occupying it. "She's dead Saffy."
"It will be alright sweetie," Safana sighed, sitting up. Anomen was sitting up too, gathering the bedsheets about him and looking extremely uncomfortable. "We'll claim her inheritance and drink it in her name. We'll fuck half of Baldur's Gate in her memory. It's what she would have wanted."
Coran gave her a watery smile. Thank the gods he still had Safana. He'd never make the mistake of being apart again. A dog-shaped hole now existed in his heart. Losing the thief as well would never happen. He silently swore that he would die first.
"Which half?" he asked weakly.
"The half you haven't fucked already," she whispered, kissing the end of his nose.
"Er…" Anomen ventured from the bed. He swung his legs over the side, and hastily pulled on his own abandoned clothes. Safana was still stroking the shoulders of the despondent elf.
Though it was obvious that Coran's misery had nothing to do with him (the thief had barely acknowledged his presence) Anomen felt guilty about sleeping with his girlfriend. To his eyes, theirs was a bizarre, surreal and frankly unhealthy relationship.
"I er… I'm sorry about what happened to your friend," Anomen said, wondering whether this could really be happening or if it was all just a very odd dream. What if he had never left the wild forest and all of this was a mushroom-induced hallucination? "Her grave is just outside of town if you erm… if you want to say goodbye?"
Safana dropped Coran's shoulders suddenly and he crashed against the mattress.
"There's a grave?" she echoed, sharply.
"Well, sort of. More an upturned mace and a tankard," Anomen said sleepily. "It's in the woods left of the road, about twenty minutes North from the main gate, if you and Coran want to pay your respects."
"Pay our respects?" Safana scoffed. "Why is my bed such a magnet for idiots? If there is a grave then presumably you had something to put in it? Coran, this is what we need!"
Coran sat bolt upright, horrified. Safana meant to dig up whatever was left of Freya and take it back to Baldur's Gate. Anomen was scarcely happier with the direction this conversation had taken. Though he had not known the woman himself, the idea of bringing that vile coat back to the surface made him sick. What's more if Viconia, Rasaad or indeed the cult of Selune ever got wind that he'd had a hand in it…
"You cannot be serious?" Coran wailed. "You want to dig up Freya's corpse? No! I… I won't let you!"
"It won't be her corpse," Safana explained patiently. "She can't leave a body. It will be a… what? What exactly did you bury, Anomen?"
The young cleric did not want to answer. Not with Coran already blindsided by grief. Yet he had no choice. It was obvious that Safana had every intention of digging up the grave with or without their permission. Which meant that someone was going to have to tell him how Freya died.
"It seems that there was a… a fur coat," Anomen said stiffly and reluctantly. Coran's eyes widened like two green islands in his face. "A golden coat. I never got a proper look at it myself, Arowan and Yoshimo buried it, but apparently it was unmistakable."
It would be. Freya had one of the most artificially inflated charismas that had ever existed. This applied even when transformed. Her golden coat was special and uniquely beautiful. It had been seen by hundreds of people in Baldur's Gate during her lifetime and could not be mistaken for the pelt of any other creature.
This was the incontestable proof of death that Safana needed, and yet she was not delighted. She sat down slowly, turning green and this time her response was not feigned. Anomen watched her eyes darting side to side as she deduced how Freya must have died, and it was too much even for her.
"Praise Helm that I did not take a complete monster into my bed," he thought ruefully.
Coran rose unsteadily to his feet. He placed one palm flat on the bedside table, steadying himself. Though his eyes were dry for the moment, he was bent over double and seemed to be having difficulty pulling himself upright.
"Take me to the grave," he said his voice barely a whisper. "And while we walk, I need you to tell me how this could happen. All of it this time."
At Anomen's insistence they collected Jaheira and the four of them headed into the wood toward the spot where Freya's fur was supposed to be buried. As they walked Jaheira explained how they had been captured by Irenicus and taken to his dungeon, but that the mage had failed to subdue the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Torture, starvation, threatening her friends, nothing had worked. She had been too strong for the mage to get anywhere near her, and he'd been forced to keep her caged.
She told her about the things in the complex. The captive dryads, the tanks and the clones of Irenicus's mistress that they had encountered. At this, Coran turned and gripped the bark of a nearby tree. He was shaking but at the same time fighting to keep some sort of composure.
"Did he do something to Freya and Arowan that you're not telling me?" he asked. His eyes locked with Jaheira's, burning with pain. "Jaheira, I have to know."
"No," said the druid firmly, and Coran let out a shuddering sigh. "Imoen, possibly, but the Bhaalspawn no. Getting anywhere near Freya was physically impossible. Even if he had managed to disarm her, she was still a werewolf. As for Arowan there would have been no point, but I will get to that later."
When describing Freya's death, she gave Coran the minimum bare facts. The only parts of a Bhaalspawn to dust were those still attached at the moment of death, and she had been skinned alive. Therefore, there was a pelt. Khalid had put the poor creature out of her misery, and in revenge for her death, Imoen had killed Khalid. Tears rolled down the elf's face and he made no attempt to stem the flow.
"Khalid was a good man," Coran said at length. "He must have known what Irenicus would want to do to him for depriving him of Freya. My friend suffered a terrible fate, but your husband spared her a far worse one. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that he is dead."
To her surprise, the druid took some comfort from his words. She held the elf's shaking hand in her own.
"Freya was…" she began. She could not end that sentence with 'a good person' for that would be too blatant a lie. "She meant a lot to a lot of people."
"Even she didn't deserve to be flayed alive," chimed in Safana, who was being rather quiet. "So Irenicus turned her into a coat and you stole it from the compound?"
"No," replied Jaheira, and reluctantly she explained what had happened next. How Arowan had been brought to the compound on numbing potions. Coran, who harboured a fondness for the ranger, buried his head into his hands. She described her rehabilitation with the Order, their accidental run in with Rejiek Hidesman and how the tanner met his end in Trademeet.
As they grew nearer, they heard a rhythmic chinking noise and some poor but energetic singing. The lyrics were very rude indeed.
When they reached the grave there was a surprise waiting for them, for Viconia's upturned mace had been replaced by an elaborate stone monument. The grave itself remained untouched, apart from the combined symbol of Shar and Selune that the drow had traced into the dirt. That had been very pointedly scuffed out. Above it had been placed a huge slab of marble. A red-headed dwarf was working industriously with a pick and hammer, carving Freya's cocky grinning face into the stone. She looked around and brightened at the sight of Anomen.
"Hello again, handsome!" she said, waggling her flaming eyebrows. "Do you like your statue as much as I liked carving it?"
"It's very nice," replied Anomen awkwardly. Bearded and burly was not his type.
"Them Sun Soul monks liked it too!" Margoff grinned proudly. "Commissioned me to make this as soon as they saw it. The Hero of Baldur's Gate!"
"Do you mean the two Sun Soul monks who were looking for Rasaad?" Anomen asked. "They commissioned this? Why?"
"Why?" laughed Margoff. "Freya Silvershield, the Bitch of Baldur's Gate? Only the best known Selunite on the continent, wasn't she?"
This gave them pause. Technically that was true but…
"She was hardly a shining example of the Selunite philosophy," Jaheira observed archly.
"She were a drunken whoremonger from what I've heard," the dwarf replied, ruffling her red beard and nodding approvingly. "But they don't give a damn about that now she's dead. She won them a lot of new converts and gods know the Selunites need them. They're being hunted up and down the Sword Coast. Someone is picking their Order off like flies."
"Won them converts? Rubbish! I was Freya's best friend and I never saw her try to convert anyone in her life!" said Coran, who was not in the mood for this.
"In life perhaps not. But in death?" Margoff countered, sobering her tone. Then she tapped the side of her large nose. "Power of celebrity ain't it? Won them over a lot of new followers she did. This site is special to them. I reckon our statue is only the start. That strapping, juicy bull of a monk was talking about founding a temple here when they left."
"They are gone then?" Safana asked quickly.
"For now. Off looking for that Rasaad fellow," Margoff replied. A dreamy expression swept over her face. "Now Rasaad is a Selunite I'd really like to sculpt. He was even bigger than the other monk. Gorgeous chunk of man meat. Blimey I'd like to..."
"Not wanting to disturb your poetic description nor the completion of this stunning masterpiece," Safana said sweetly, "But might we have a moment alone to grieve? We were, as my dear Coran pointed out, Freya's best friends." Margoff looked doubtful until Safana pulled out a large, glittering sapphire from her gem bag. "We will see you handsomely compensated for your lost time."
Margoff took the gem eagerly, as Coran sank to his knees in the settling dirt where Freya was supposedly interred.
"I reckon I'll make copies of this statue," she babbled, twirling her ruby moustache, "See if I can't drum up some commissions in Baldur's Gate itself. I don't normally like to sculpt the ladies but Freya's where the money's at, eh?"
"Indeed," agreed Safana. Her eyes were starting to glitter dangerously again. "She certainly is."
Anomen and Jaheira continued their journey toward Umar, leaving the thieves at the graveside. The druid noticed a marked change in her companion. He seemed soberer, more mature and generally less desperate. It was a welcome change and when the mayor of the town greeted them with a long list of worries, she was glad of his company to set out and investigate.
"With any luck we'll have sorted it out ourselves by the time the others get here," she said, striding out confidently with her oaken staff. Before them spread out the forested hills of Umar. She surveyed them with satisfaction.
"Doubtless between the two of us we can set the place to rights," nodded Anomen piously. "Let us proceed then."
Back in Trademeet, Safana waited until everyone had been gone for a while, before leaving Coran sobbing at the graveside. She returned an hour or so later with two courtesans armed with spades and a burlap sack. As the shovels hit the earth with a crunch, Coran became hysterical.
"You've lost Freya, would you lose her fortune as well?" Safana snapped. "Stop bleating like a little lost piglet. You'll bring half this fetid town down on us."
"I don't want to see it," Coran sobbed. "I don't want to see."
"We'll put it straight into this bag and take it to Baldur's Gate," Safana assured him. "You won't have to look at it or touch it or anything, I promise. Once it's all sorted out we'll bury her again, properly this time. In Baldur's Gate, where she belongs."
They dug and dug. It was hot, sweaty work but the grave was not that old and the soil still quite loose. Yet they found nothing for, of course, there was nothing to find. Safana had to pay her courtesans double to keep digging, and the hole ended up three times as wide and twice as deep as the original grave. Still nothing. Then they hit a layer of granite and it was clear that they could go no further.
"Empty!" Safana panted in rage and disappointment. "The grave is fucking empty!"
"We still expect to be paid," sniffed one of the courtesans, clambering out and adjusting her muddied skirt.
"Fill it in and take your gold," snapped Safana. "And just remember what I said those Sun Soul monks will do to you if you breathe a word about any of this."
"Discretion is our watchword," the courtesan simpered.
"Syphilis is your watchword," muttered Safana, as they sashayed away.
"What does this mean?" Coran asked. "Could Freya still be alive?"
"No," murmured Safana darkly. "Unless you think Jaheira was lying to you? No… it means one of two things. Either someone dug her up, which seems unlikely with Margoff and those moon monks hanging around or…"
"Or what?" asked Coran weakly.
"Or that little minx Arowan never buried the fur coat in the first place," she said. Coran curled up, sobbing at the base of the grave. He wished he could roll into it himself and block everything out with cold earth.
"Why?" he wailed. "Why would she do this?"
"I don't know, but I intend to find out," Safana said with a steely glint in her eye. "Get up Coran. We need to track her down. If we find her, we find the coat."
"Can't we just let it go?" whimpered Coran.
Safana thought about Freya's fortune, especially the horde of dragon treasure that she had won on the way to Dragonspear. It had been Coran who had fired the killing shot into that greedy reptile's throat. He had slain the creature. He had a right to that treasure! He had helped the werewolf win it and he was her heir. She'd rather die than let it go!
Yet she had never seen Coran like this. There was no trace of the happy-go-lucky elf she knew so well. This man was pale and shaking and had been pushed as far as he could go without snapping. She had no claim on Freya's estate without him.
"Alright we'll let it go," she lied soothingly. "Let's get away from this place."
"Can… can we go to Tethir?" Coran asked, as though he needed her permission. "I haven't been home in years and I know you don't like forests but…"
"Of course we can," Safana crooned gently, gripping him ever so slightly too hard. "Come on now. Everything will be alright. I will take care of you."