A/N: WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS AHEAD.


Chapter 7, part 4, Epilogue

That very next morning, Eldoth announced grandly in the common room, just out of earshot of Winthrop, who was in the cellars,"I've got in contact with one of Entar Silvershield's agents. Seems Dad is quite worried about his little girl. He's so worried that he's willing to pay good money to make sure no harm comes to her. Every two days, we're to go to the Blade and Stars and meet with someone named Elkart. Elkart will give us the ransom money, and we can be on our way."

She wasn't about to ask how, but refrained from sneering at him. So it seemed Skie hadn't informed him of their little revelation; good. How much to tell Eldoth, Edwin and Shar-Teel was something she'd not quite decided, but right now, they did not need to know. One thing was clear though: Eldoth was utterly pathetic. Skie needed to learn what kind of 'man' Eldoth was.

[…]

Over breakfast, Hecharna's mind wandered as it once had, as if the mere act of being back in Candlekeep, its familiar scents, sights, and Winthrop's repugniveness – even when the man wasn't there, encouraged her thoughts to drift along the many halls of the library shelves. It was almost as if she'd never left, except for the companions at her side. A part of her wondered what Kivan would have made of it all, but somehow she doubted the stoic elf would be impressed by the accumulated knowledge.

It struck her that the absurdly named elf, Firebead Elvenhair, was not in the inn, the rat-killing dwarf Reevor having finally found his way into the tavern.

Perhaps Kagain's shop could function as an inn? A fifth such place in Beregost… what would be their draw? Wyvern eggs, wyvern egg omellete, wyvern egg cake… the possibilities of farming seemed endless, except for the lifecycle of wyverns would swiftly be exceeded by the demand. Only, once the novelty wore off, the 'wyvern's egg inn' would surely fail. Still, it'd give the surly dwarf something to do and he certainly had the right temperament for it. A draw for the mercenaries too… and impossible to keep them in check. Maybe she could sell the hatchlings as pets for nobles. Now there was an idea… an idea doomed to fail but mad enough that if it became fashionable, it might just take off.

[...]

The stairs felt longer than they ever had, and with it the weight of what must be done. She ventured alone, having set her morning amusement aside.

Rieltar Anchev, the man himself, seated at the centre surrounded by his lackeys. Who else but her foe could he be, that poise, that dignity, those ruthless eyes and thinned lips, the sharp gaze. His finery was an afterthought; yes, this was him.

"The right people can afford to be rude, but this is not you. Leave now, before my irate companion Brunos lets his temper get ahead of his reason!"

Slowly, Hecharna drawled, leaning against the doorframe, unarmed, unarmoured, in the high necked gown Skie had made for her, one of a few; "You're the leaders of the Iron Throne." Statement, without feeling. "We're the ones who've caused you so much... trouble over the past few weeks."

"You've the...? And you're stupid enough to admit this? Well, my young friend, you may find safety within the library, but once you've left there will be no place for you to run." Said he.

"Koveras told us you were all but undefended here at the keep." She spread her hands, before re-folding them across her chest, one ankle across the other.

"Koveras! Who is Kove... of course. It seems I taught my son all too well. Well, my young pups, you've been used as dupes."

You don't say? Hecharna thought.

"Koveras does not want what's best for you, but rather what's best for him. Hmmm... well, you should stop your foolish prattle and get out of our conference room."

She flashed her toothiest smile, and executed a small bow, her arms spread wide. "We'll leave." She added with a wink, holding up Koveras' ring and turning it, "but don't think this is over."

"That's fine, little ones. I'm sure we can expect to see you in the future, if not in person then at least your heads."

She laughed lightly and backed out. She couldn't help herself; there was something oddly charming about the man, even likeable. Of course, she expected nothing else but threats, despite delivering news of the coup.

Her thoughts darkened and she retreated to a quiet bookcase.

[...]

It was only a matter of time before they came for her. Guards, doppelgangers, doppelganger guards. Candlekeep, once a sanctuary, was now a trap and she was caught in it. Deliberately, she quit the chamber and made for the stairs.

As soon as she was tucked safely behind a bookcase, she executed her plan: first the invisibility potion. It would not allow her to elude the scrying magics for long, not on its own, but she had that dwarf's cloak, the one imbued with arcane wards against scrying. She doubted it would be enough but it was a start.

Then she doubled back down the stairs and there, she waited and watched. It didn't take long. Her very likeness slid by, identical down to her crooked teeth, her disjointed nose complete with an old scar the regenerative potion had removed; "You again? Back for more?"

The not-Hecharna and her not-mooks drew steel.

...

Waiting at the scene of the slaughter was perhaps unwise, but the false-her did not bother to rifle through the slain. It was over quickly, with a savage efficiency that afforded little finesse and even less parrying. Rieltar was left until last, the opening barrage of wands leaving Rieltar's cohorts open to the sword thrusts. Forced to his knees, a garotte was set around Rieltar's throat, the air slowly held, his neck slowly crushed. She knew she could never unsee those bulging eyes, those clawing hands; finally, his hand fell limp, the stench of excrement wafting from his hose.

His end had lasted much longer than the others. After the garotte, his head was severed in one fell blow and left to roll and gush across the stone tiles.

Hecharna almost couldn't bring herself to approach; her legs were leaden, rooted so firmly to the ground that she might as well be a tree. Death did not usually bother her, but this... she had to keep from drawing her breath in. Beside her, she could feel the warmth of Sarevok, whose form had silently appeared, and with a dead, golden gaze, not even so much of a trace of satisfaction, he departed.

It took her a few more heartbeats, the false mooks trailing after Sarevok, shedding their forms for hooded scholarly monks.

It took all she had, but one foot followed the other, and then she was there, able to plunge her hand towards her foe's pockets.

...

Of course there was nothing of true value on him, no notes, no letters, loot, yes, but that was of no help. It would be a few more moments before the bodies were found, before the alarm was raised. She had planned for it, readied herself. It wasn't for failure but flight; to withdraw to a place of her choosing. Still her hands shook; her body trembled, her legs quaked and she almost emptied her stomach. In its pit, she felt a hollow emptiness, and the slow burn of bile. Retreating from the carnage, she quaffed another potion of invisibility, and instantly clutched her mouth; a second so soon after the first on an already queasy tummy? Sucking in a breath, she reminded herself of the consequences of her capture: her imminent execution, the violence and violation of her body and mind, the nature of her foe, of the Flaming Fist. She remembered the trio who accused them of banditry, who were prepared to string them from the nearest tree: not a swift, sharp fall but a slow, agonising death, like Rieltar. And why? Because they arbitrarily decided that she was not worth taking into custody, of being given a trial, of being taken to their commanding officer not an hour's march from the town boundary.

It was indicative of the Fist's collective character. She could almost feel their calloused hands, their rancid breath and acrid sweat bearing down upon her. Her clothes would be torn from her and she would be beaten bloody; bruised, battered, too weak to resist, she would be at their mercy until her trial, and then all night until her hanging or burning. If Sarevok could bring doppelgangers into the Seven Suns, into Candlekeep, bypassing the arcane wards, then the judges would be in his pocket or replaced. How could she contend with that? She had come here to confront her foe, but she had lost. Sarevok was always three steps ahead of her. He had engineered the perfect coup, written that she must die, taking a personal interest in her demise. He was the one in the armour that night. He had seen it all. Gorion had tried to warn her in his letter but she was too blinded by anger to see. Sarevok was like her, one of Bhaal's seed. The prophecy said one must rise up... how could it ever have been her? She never stood even the slightest chance; the acceptance that came with that acknowledgment wasn't despair but simple realisation, that she was simply outmatched, outclassed, and out-armed. Sarevok held all the cards and her friends were probably already dead.

Even if they weren't, the inn was undoubtedly compromised. If Skie and Garrick were able, they were to hide and slip away. That was the plan. Perhaps they wouldn't be noticed.

As to the others? Shar-Teel was smart but proud; she might make the rendezvous. Edwin... he was like a rat on a sinking ship; Eldoth too. Eldoth would betray them in a heartbeat, if he wasn't already in Sarevok's employ. Perhaps Sarevok would run him through; perhaps not.

Either way, she mustn't assume any of her friends' loyalty: any one of them could be replaced by a doppelganger and she'd be none the wiser, at least until the mirrorkin slipped up and by then it would be much, much too late. Even if they weren't doppelgangers, they might easily have been captured, tortured and forced into a geas. Aside from Dusty and her connection to Shoal, a connection she could no longer afford, she was alone.

Unsteadily, her fingers reached to fasten the concealed belt, its buckle hanging open beneath the long folds of her gown.

Hecharna winched, grinding her teeth. It felt like her bones were breaking, her hips expanding, bulging, their very structure twisting into unnatural and unwelcome proportions; her chest reverse heaved, as if sucking inward. Her muscles rebound themselves. It was over almost instantly and her first staggering step almost sent her careening into the wall. She tried very hard not to focus on the bulge between her thighs, the unwieldy weight and bizarre tenderness; it felt excessively sore, as if she had been turned inside out and her gusset, Shou silk, strained against the newfound... lump. She had grossly underestimated the change, merely assuming her attire was enough. Surely the male counterpart wasn't that different? Boys wore what they wore, she assumed. But she wasn't Imoen and she had never actually seen the male anatomy outside of sketches, lewd graffiti, and statues. What did a half elf boast in prowess and stature, she had thought. It wasn't enough to simply don their guise; she had to become, really become, taking a leaf from her doppelganger foes.

Beneath her gown was an extremely snug tunic, which now breathed just a little easier. Not that what she had before were ever remotely close to generous; she couldn't quite blot out the various remarks that even having come of age, a thirteen year old human, even a gnome, was better endowed than she. Imoen had always said it wasn't true, but Hecharna could never quite bring herself to believe her.

The hair was next, the braid severed beneath her belt knife, the dye, magical, a momento of her and Skie's shopping trip: strawberry blonde, more red than flaxen. It supposedly lacked all scent. A headband to cover the tips of her ears left her feeling more like a sailor than a scholar; her hood drawn up, and then... then the real pain: her crooked teeth. A balm a few seconds ahead of time helped numb her to the pliers; a few yanks and she straightened them, or at least moved them. The sip of the regeneration potion put a stop to the searing agony that abruptly burst past the balm; as it worked, she yanked and twisted until, she gingerly ran her fingertip along the path she'd chosen: it was as straight, as closed, as she was ever going to get it. She might be wasting precious time, but she had to be certain: Hecharna was dead. Instead of a half elf maiden, she - he - was a fourteen year old human boy, a stablehand.

...it was as well she'd had Garrick bury her mail and hammer, wrapped in canvas, of course, with the majority of her coffers, since her enemies knew her effects. To be dead, really dead, she couldn't be identified. Biting her lip, her fingernails slid towards the delicate pointed tips of her ears. The potion would reform them, but maybe they could be trained, like the rosebushes in the gardens. This was the worst part, the part she dreaded, feared, the most. There would be blood, pain, and the very thought made her want to pass out, her upturned tummy even queasier than before. But what choice did she have?

The knife split the tip in two, and gritting her teeth, she pulled each half back and pinned each with an earring, her fingers slick even as the potion did its work.

Somehow she didn't pass out; somehow she didn't lose control of her bladder; somehow, she remained on her feet.

Then the final touch: the herbal balm meant to bring colour to her pale, freckle-speckled face, to touch up her pre-regenerated blotchy skin near her eye. Then she remembered her nose. Closing her eyes, she once again grit her teeth, gripped and twisted with all her might. For a heartbeat, she was certain someone had heard the sickening crunches, first one then the other.

Tears stung her despite the potion. She wasn't even sure she could bring herself to, but her hands belonged to someone else, and the fear of certain death drove her to extremes she never thought possible. Of course she and her "accomplices" would be tortured, given to hot irons and worse; of course she would be placed upon the rack, inside the iron maiden, kept alive by healing magics. Every time she thought upon it, the dread terror grew as her mind conjured up more and more. The Cloakwood mines had such a chamber; she could not forget the horrors she spied there, the mass of flayed dead at thd hands of the ogre-mage, of Davaeron's personal chambers.

Even death was not a certain escape; a powerful enough priest could return an unwilling spirit, she was sure. She had no proof, but it would make sense. No, this was the only way. As a boy, she'd no doubt be given the belt over nothing as soon as she found a place to stay, but compared to what she'd already seen, that was nothing.

Had she not been gifted, or cursed, with her elven lineage, she would have quaffed potions of speed, as the idiotic sculptor Prism had, to increase her years, one for each potion, if she understood right. But what good would it do her? No, it was best to be a boy, try to apprentice somewhere, hide in plain sight, and get as far away from here as she could.

The only real choice left was whether or not to abandon Skie. There was only one belt. Dusty knew how to polymorph himself and possibly he could apply it to others, but such tricks could be revealed. But Skie might never abandon Eldoth...

She could decide later. First thing was first: timing her invisibility and getting out, and for that, she had Dusty; not as a giant bat, or wveryn, but as a giant spider, capable of cresting Candlekeep's walls and cliffs to the shore. There had to be coves and caves beyond what she'd spied as a child. She could test the limitations of her new form later; Dusty would do the heavy lifting for now, and once she bound herself to him, the rest was in his hands... claws. She'd need to discard her dress; a pang ran through her, and then she hardened. It was nice while it lasted, but nice was something she couldn't afford. She'd have to leave her gold as well, or as much of it that she couldn't conceal in her enchanted gem pouches. Perhaps she could buy her way into the Order of the Radiant Hart, but without a letter of introduction... perhaps not. Being a paladin wouldn't really suit her, which is why it was perfect. Skie had shared about her brother as they lay side by side that night, how proud he'd been to join the Order. But Hecharna couldn't afford to think of it right then, even if it had given her the idea of joining the Order.

Her proportions all feeling off, except for her arms that felt just as ropy as ever, she headed towards the nearest wide window, and pulled Dusty from her satchel. "Your turn," she hissed quietly, "and no backchat."

For once, the Mephit obeyed, and an invocation and an invisibility potion for Dusty later, she climbed on, wincing as her new anatomy, already forgotten, was crushed against her now-chittinous mount. Riding bareback was the least of her concerns, she reminded herself as she faced the abrupt and perilous drop hundreds of feet to the surf below. Now or never, Hecharna murmured inwardly, and nudged her steed before the potions wore off. It wasn't long before the chaffing began, the wind howling against her scarfed face, tugging at her hood and tunic, and the roar of the wsters below. Her arms clung tighter, praying the rope would hold as her innards twisted and her bowels clenched. With a sinking feeling, she knew she might never be able to return to her natural form, not whilst Sarevok still lived. Once again, he had taken everything except for her life; uncomfortable though it might be, she recognised she would need to adapt to her new body and quickly, along with everything that meant. Would her feelings change? Would she look at Skie differently? She already felt different, and not just the obvious, but inside, as though there was something present that wasn't there before. Perhaps it was the cause of the 'stupidity' in boys Imoen was always joking about, that secret essence that drove them to such absurd acts, braying peacocks desperately vying for attention.

Would she feel that u unquenchable urge to rut as well, then, or was it all just silliness on Imoen's part? It felt so alien, so unfamiliar and yet, she was already getting used to it, shifting ever so slightly against the chittin even as the gale whipped them.

...and if she was driven to mate, would she seek out her own kind or turn to other males? The question dogged her until she decided she really had no interest in it at all. While she had yet to even consider the mechanics, a part of her kept picturing Skie, and then wondering what Garrick looked like beneath his foppish suit. Is that how Edwin felt all the time, Eldoth? Garrick? Surely not Garrick. Kagain? Kivan? Well, Kivan was an elf, so probably not. She wondered at this need to see when it had never mattered before, then forced herself to focus on the present and the crashing waves below. There would be time to figure it out later, assuming they survived.

The question begged, however, where should she go? Into the cliff caves? North, skirting danger, south, towards and beyond Nashkel, where this whole folly had taken its second step; towards a ruin like Ulcaster or Durlag's Tower; somewhere else? Sneak into the Gate and buy passage on a ship, any ship?

There was one thing she wasn't doing: Sarevok may appear at his most vulnerable here, and on the road, unaware she knew his identity, but he was surrounded by his doppelgangers and possibly that priestess of his. No, what she needed was to stage her own death: a potion of fireball bundle in her room, six of them on a string. She'd left orders not to be disturbed under any circumstances. The last piece of her plan. Sorry Winthrop.

It would never be over, not until Sarevok Anchev was dead, but that didn't mean it was she who had to kill him. Revenge for a man she didn't love wasn't worth her life; she was done with killing to survive; she'd had her fill of 'adventuring'. Skie, Garrick and Melicamp were no longer her responsibility; like her, they would have to learn to stand up on their own: that was the true knowledge, and they would learn. As for Sarevok? The damnable piss-swilling Zhentish could take him out of the realms; she was done. It was over.

Fin.

A/N: so there you have it, dear readers, the Hecharna novelisation of Baldur's Gate 1. As it currently stands, my laptop fan is broken so writing more is going to be a tad tricky without the source material, however! The good news is that I actually penned five chapters of the next installment some time back. So i shall be uploading those now I know ff dot net will let me upload from my phone.

I hope you have enjoyed this little tale. It's been a blast, and I've greatly enjoyed writing around the core dialogue, despite taking a few creative liberties along the way. I've thoroughly enjoyed watching Hecharna grow and her losing companions, unscripted as I began this no reload run (to a point: that point being my own stupidity vs. staying in-character: she and her predecessors shouldn't be punished for my inattention at times), greatly shaped this piece as did her randomly rolled no-reroll stats. It's been a challenge, it's been fun, and it's important to know where to cut it off. So here it is, an end but not THE end. As a certain unmet half elf is fond of saying:

"Better part of valour, better part of valour!"

I hope to see you all for the second part of the "adventure". In the meantime, stay indoors, stay safe! (Not an April fools, despite being the first of April, 2020).

- Late to the Party.