I apologize for a long time with no updates!
I have no excuses, but sometimes writing is one long act of masochism, and it doesn't mix well with anxiety.
It wasn't my brightest plan to first take the most unhealthy personality in this game and then try to create functional and as healthy as possible romance with the said character.
But I enjoyed writing these two chapters, and I hope you will, too.
I have no idea why my gods are sci-fi aliens, by the way.
Dear Nimloth of Thay, I am incredibly grateful for your comments! Whenever I feel overwhelmed with self-doubt and think that I should be banned from writing, especially in English, your kind words inspire me to keep going and keep me motivated. Thank you so much for taking the time to write a comment, they mean a lot to me!
Grow up, girl | 1
Back then, before, it all was easier.
Back then, she could have feigned ignorance about what she was doing.
She vividly recalls that moment in Spellhold, when her body was enveloped by that power, when her frame blurred, her figure changed, sprouting with flesh not entirely real and not wholly illusional.
But her mind, her mind remained unaffected.
It was later, in the Underdark, when she lost the ability to recognize faces for the first time. First faces, then memory and feeling of time; after that, she often found herself trapped inside her mind, like in a strange maze without an obvious exit. It came and went in sudden seizures, like epilepsy, when all those noses and eye holes placed on the fabric of skin became recognizable human faces again - only to leave her unable to comprehend her surroundings again.
In time, she recovered partially, but every time she did it again, those seizures came back, accompanied by visions lately. Fortunately, after Irenicus, she had to do it only a handful of times.
More importantly, she somehow managed to keep it all a secret from everyone, even from Imoen.
It's not like she doesn't trust them.
But they must not know what had to be done in order for them all to live.
Back then, both the first time and every time she did it again to herself, every single time she had to do it, it was easier.
And now - now she not only knew she made a grave mistake, she strongly suspected it was irreversible.
Nonetheless, she felt there was no alternative.
Blood dripped down her chin, flowed down in a thin trickle, and those drops were the only thing left of the feeling of time.
Human existence is organized in time, and moment A is always followed by moment B.
Seconds pass, the sand shifts and shadows move across the ground, marking the passage of minutes and hours. This is how humans perceive and track time, this substance that is everpresent in their lives, organizing it, ordering it.
Now she knows how the gods perceive time.
The concept of time seemed distorted; time was intertwined into a Mobius loop. At that exact one moment, newly hatched salamanders crawled out of their eggs and melted under the fire of her spells, dying. There was no canyon around her; there was a solid mass of stone in front of her, a mountain not withered yet into a ravine, and a desert, a chunk of nothing, into which this canyon would eventually erode.
Time was like a twisted rope, with no sequence or connection between events from point A to point B.
Her blood flowed down to the ground – drop by drop - and this was the only thing with such a quality as a sequence. One drop was followed by another, but nothing else around her or in her had any order.
Humans around her were babies and corpses at the same time, devoid of individuality, identity and recollection of their purpose for being there.
Blood was flowing, her transparent green time was floating in slow drops in front of her eyes.
Right at that moment, the very first ritual in her name happened.
Right at that moment, she died in the Times of Trouble.
Right at that, she still had a mortal body, surrounded by a stream of inconsistent events without any straight direction.
She heard the dragon above as the cub squeak and groan of the dying beast; it was not clear whether her mortal body had already reached that dragon or if it was only going to happen.
Planes were entwined around her, like a many-layered cake that had been stirred with a fork, and it was not clear on which her blood dripped heavily to the ground and where her light green time counted moments until she was dead and immortal.
She was overwhelmed by the multitude of goals swirling in her mind, and that power, too vast, too wide for a mortal being to comprehend or contain, bubbled like a stream around her. The stream of thoughts was confusing, and it was hard to determine where it was leading her.
Only much later, she can unravel tangled memories of this moment and recall what happened - relying on both her companions' accounts and her own recollection.
When they approached the ruined temple, it had already been obvious that an adult high dragon lair was nearby. Packs of semi-sapient lesser wyrms attacked them from all sides at once while salamanders emerged from the ground and wyverns descended from the sky. Reila recognized that the presence of so many lesser wyrms indicated the proximity of an adult high dragon lair. Lesser wyrms are pack creatures, and with the area so crowded with them, they must have chosen to settle somewhere near the biggest specimen.
And that's when they heard its roar, a fully-grown dragon's roar high above their heads.
Nothing, nothing was left in her but panic at that moment.
They were standing in the middle of the plains, without a corner to hide, engaged in combat with salamanders. They were cut off the chance to escape to her pocket plane, and somewhere above them, an adult high dragon was roaring, meaning instant and oh so very unpleasant death from the sky.
The damn thing could have easily destroyed them before they forced it to land. This was the worst position possible to fight a dragon; adult dragons should be killed in their lair, where they cannot get high in the air.
She felt spent, unable to bend her magic into something more powerful than a simple firebolt, which couldn't have helped them.
Minsc's right arm was injured by electricity, and he could barely bend it; Jan had to switch to his crossbow, pages of his spellbook empty as on the day he made it. The drow priestess was barely standing on her feet, a shade paler than usual. Sarevok's face was covered with blood – no telling whose - and a high dragon roared up from the sky.
Reila swore to herself that this time would be the last, she managed to go very far without doing it again, but now she had no choice. After having promised herself she would never do this again, she did it to herself again.
Like in Spellhold.
Like many, too many times after Spellhold.
But she had no choice; she could not make any other choice the moment when she watched blood dripping from the bronze chin and Immy's fearful face.
And all for the same reason.
Back then, in Spellhold, Immy stood behind her back, and there was nothing in the world but fierce love for her.
Love for her, fear for her burned so brightly and so feverishly. Bones of her dead comrades and recent friends, of those whom Reila promised and could not protect, were scratching the wet beating surface of her heart, and fear, fear drowned the world, extinguished the world.
That undead woman danced around, and Reila knew if she didn't come up with something quickly enough, Immy would die.
And then she called it for the first time.
No one knew, no one could have thought. Later, some speculated that the loss of her soul caused her actions, but Reila knew better.
Her taint did nothing.
It was her, Reila of Candlekeep, who did it all, being of sound mind and under no duress, did it by her own will. It was her, Reila of Candlekeep, who tried to shape her tainted essence as she would do with her magic, called for it and allowed it to fill her.
She did it all herself.
To herself, to others, to her past and future.
Slayer was her attempt to cast Tenser's Transformation or something similar, using her taint as a power source for her magic, as her natural ability to feel connected to the Weave was already spent.
Power is power, she thought.
Most sorcerers have some unnatural spark; they use external sources for their magic anyway, she thought.
In a way, that was a success. Slayer drove the undead creature away, barely hurting her companions, but some successes bring you to defeat easier than any failure.
Back then, it seemed like no big deal; she only did it once, no damage was done.
Yet.
Love is not a beautiful, noble form of self-sacrifice.
It's regret, it's pain, it's fear.
Any family, any closeness means pain and fear.
In the Underdark, she was so weakened after losing her soul, she could not even feel the Weave and had to tap into that power source time and again. And everyone admired her resolve and willpower and did not know a thing.
It was even easier every time after Spellhold and mostly worked just fine. Little more ferocity in the effect of her spells than it was before. Little more damage to her mind each time she did it to herself.
They did not know how visions started to grow brighter than reality, how this new calling of that power became almost audible, how there were days when she completely lost the ability to recognize faces and learned to distinguish her party members by details and minor features. The long scar on Viconia's palm. The smell of Immy's hair. The way Minsc walks.
Sometimes she lost the feeling of time, and events occurred all at once without a precise sequence.
Sometimes she saw, felt them all... All the local idols, dead and gone, ancient and recent, glimpses of other essences, other lifetimes, and it was hard to remember her own life after that.
Sometimes she heard howling unison of their voices, like a loud choir, and her own amongst them, and couldn't immediately remember which one was hers.
Everyone believed Reila needed nourishment, healing and attention following the loss of her soul. Reila observed the process of silent, quiet dissolution of part of her own self and did nothing to halt it. Instead, she continued to delve deeper, relentlessly calling out for that power.
They didn't know a thing, and Reila never felt that what she did was good, honorable or noble.
She felt only blind, paralyzing fear when all the graves and bones she carried within her heart, which she will always carry with her, clawed her soul, and she knew that she couldn't have survived if Immy was one of them.
She never sought advice or consulted with anyone; she never thought there could have been another option; no, she did it to herself repeatedly without ever trying to reconsider.
Can it be called a choice, truly?
And her companions saw their good old Reila, windy, chaotic, sassy sorceress, who laughed, joked and clung tightly to a mortal girl as she knew that her time as a mortal was limited.
Still, we take what we can get.
Of things done our way.
Isn't that what they call life?
She pulled out the power of the dead god through herself over and over again, firmly realizing that she was tying herself to it so tightly that there would probably be no way out. That power wielded and owned Bhaal, wielded others before him, that power that was too immense for a mortal to contain without suffering harm.
She lost her mind slowly, drop by drop, and as visions blocked reality, she occasionally glimpsed the ultimate desire of that power - to return to its source.
What was scattered, torn and dissolved to all corners of the world wants to be united into one flow again.
Nothing else, nothing more.
Simple as this.
As she gazed upon the smoldering remains of Saradush, she felt a deep urge to wail and scratch stones: all of this happened only because what was one essence, one pool of power, wanted to be united again. To shatter mortal bounds and become a solitary being once more.
To wield an old or new name and avatars again, to be one again.
All the cities burned, all the people dead, for nothing but power wanting to be back at its source.
And they ask her why she detests the notion of serving deities so.
After her soul had been returned to her, it became easier and more difficult.
Easier because it was possible not to call for it anymore and pretend that none of this had ever happened. Harder because what was lost could not be returned.
Maybe, she would have preferred murderous outbursts, violent rashes, madness seizures. But, instead, madness crept on soft paws and slowly washed a human named Reila out of her own body. That power dragged her along to its ultimate goal and hastened her rush toward Saradush.
It used her as a fork to gather peas from the plate.
All Reila could do was to have her little nows, tiny moments of existence. Moments, minutes or seconds when she was still a human, silly girl, sassy humorous sorceress. She clutched to it like a last straw, to her moments of person and not a seedling of power, not destiny in the flesh, and at times she could convince herself she still was a person.
That power grew hungrier. It dragged her along the last miles of this war to reunite with itself, to become whole again. This power didn't care if it would return as Bhaal or someone new. It was bigger than Bhaal, as well as bigger than Reila.
Even if she wanted to run to Rashemen tomorrow, she knew for sure that she could not. Her legs would have turned back on their own.
She promised she would never give in to it again.
She promised - and lied.
They would all die if the dragon attacked them from the sky. People she cared about faced the prospect of becoming ashes, a new box with pain, where the sad "sleep well, abbil" was engraved on the lid, and a tiny hamster burned to black dust finds his final rest.
Dead gnome.
Dead bronze-skinned warrior - and this picture punctuated her heart so sharply, like a fish bone stuck in the middle of her throat, making it impossible to say a word or breathe.
Dead Immy.
No.
No, no, no.
And Reila promised that this would be the last time. She survived it many times; she could do it once more.
But, love is first letting someone inside, letting someone become a part of your soul, family and friends, and then love means receiving a hard blow right in your tenderest soft belly.
From pain, from fear, from regret.
Love, it has two sides, like a coin. It's a very cruel feeling; one hand caresses your cheek, and the other will not hesitate to hit you on your most tender spot.
Fircaag's head ghost appeared in the sky and brought hell. The flame danced on her companions without touching them, harmless and cold for them, while wyrms around her burned, turned to ashes, died and dissolved into charred remains. Stones melted as the flame so hot it was hurtful to even look at it roamed the ground; the air was blazing, black and thick with ashes. Her legs were cramped; her lungs were burning with each inhale, her throat seized by an invisible hand making her breaths short and strained - there is a limit to what a mortal body can channel through itself undamaged - but she held the flames until the last of the beasts died.
Dragon's breath.
She read about mages able to conjure it, and then she was one of them.
At some point, she stopped counting how many spits of the flame she spewed until the salamanders and wyrms were eradicated, enabling them to evade the high dragon.
She became light, cheerful, omnipotent, like elven wine with funny bubbles, and then that power washed her away completely, like a writing on the sand.
What was left of her was no longer human.
It was the daughter of the dead god and the power of the dead god.
People portray gods quite strangely because people's imagination is limited by their ability to comprehend aliens. For people, gods are simply mighty people.
Such an utterly human way to imagine gods, really. Imagine creatures with enough power to shake planes of existence to the core, bickering like fat grumpy merchants at the nearest slum market, making alliances, breaking alliances... Behaving just like humans do.
Perhaps, that's simply because humans struggle to imagine something truly inhuman.
No, gods are different. They are not only above humans; they have nothing in common with humans.
They say the power of the gods is greater and older than the gods. Some philosophers believe that gods are simply a way for the universe to personify itself.
And specific Bhaal or Myrkul are nothing more than puppets, masks that elemental forces of the universe, domains of existence wear for their amusement.
Voices in the chorus of that power.
Sometimes, Reila believes those philosophers.
She has difficulties making Immy tell her what happened next. Reila doesn't remember a thing because, basically, she wasn't there.
Immy is reluctant to tell her this but does, after some struggle.
She starts with how Reila almost devoured the last salamanders and wyverns.
Immy uses this word carelessly but pales at the memory.
The sorceress swayed like a puppet dancing on thin strings, unsteady and exhausted. Then, by her small, barely noticeable gesture, Shadow Slayers appeared, who tore salamanders to pieces.
Blood was gushing down her face, her eyes were unseeing black pools of nothing. What had been Reila a minute ago, it laughed and asked what their name was and where they were.
They all felt her, the daughter of the dead god. For the lack of better expression, they felt this irresistible, merry and hot wave rising from within themselves.
Immy stumbles, face darkened.
"You know, like I suddenly relived all the times I've killed someone. All those moments of death that I brought. Moments when it was scary to kill and when it wasn't. And you know what the worst part is? There was nothing but me, no outer influence about it. I, myself, this side of me suddenly surfaced in my head and became bigger than the rest of me. Does this even make sense?"
Because we all feel basic domains of existence the same way, Reila wants to say but doesn't.
Kindness or anger, justice or malice, murder or mercy.
Elemental forces of the universe are not brought to us from the outside; we harbor them inside of us.
Our own choices, our own self.
Immy's face is ashen when she tells Reila all this.
None of them had ever seen the daughter of a dead god before and never knew what was hiding behind the surface of Reila from Candlekeep.
And Sarevok...
Immy doesn't know how he even managed to come up closer to that creature; it was scary to even look at what she became, let alone come closer to it. But somehow, he stepped almost face to face with it, and when it - I'm sorry, sister, it was no longer you, it was it - when it sneered at Sarevok, he didn't even bother trying to talk to it. The creature outstretched its hand to him for some reason, and Sarevok pulled out his knife and cut the creature's fingertips swiftly as he could. He dug his blade deep into her fingers, almost reaching bones, trying to get as many as possible.
Your fingers are a little shorter now than they were, sis, and you're missing one knuckle.
The daughter of the dead god didn't kill him for this. Instead, she laughed, threw him away with an impatient palm swing, breaking a couple of bones as he landed, said that he would be her Chosen if he was already born, and went further to the temple.
Reila remembers the rest that followed.
Because sharp, unexpected pain brought back now, brought back time.
It brought her back.
The most innervated parts of the human body are the fingertips, lips and genitals. Sticking needles to fingertips or a busted lip can hurt more than whipped back. Of the available alternatives, Sarevok had her fingertips, hoping that pain would pull Reila out of the trance.
Mostly, sharp bodily sensations can jerk people out of trance-like states; wizards attribute this to the deep connection between body and soul.
Reila sank to the ground, howled, focused on the pain that brought back her consciousness, trying to shake this power off, to turn deaf on its calling. Someone forcibly unclenched her teeth, pouring ice-cold liquid down her throat, whispered her name and called her in different voices. A healing touch of another god tried to reach her, but she pushed it away, clutching to startling, overwhelming pain.
She bid hard on her lower lip, drawing more pain, more blood, and that power retreated slowly, leaving her to merciful darkness.
But someone jerked her awake, someone shook her in his arms and yelled desperate and meaningless words; they just wouldn't let her crawl to blissful nothing.
"Pocket plane, little, now; come on, sys, it's almost over; come awake, abbil; you have to, dear girl, a bit more."
Their words had no meaning, but they refused to give up, and she could hear the distant roar of something large. Without any other wish than to seize existing, finally, Reila tried to reach for something, and the little cocoon she's been carrying with her answered, teleporting them.
That restless, demanding someone finally stopped jerking her, and she dived deep under the surface of darkness.
oxoxoxoxox
It isn't sleep; she switches on and off like some weird gnomish device, resurfaces out of the surrounding darkness of nonexistence and is consumed by it again. At first, even when she is aware of her surroundings, she can't see or comprehend, has no feeling of time and recognizes nobody and nothing, but slowly she returns to herself.
Some other being holds her so tight it hurts, whispering words she cannot comprehend but can hear the intonation well enough.
"Fool, you bloody little fool," said like a tender, terrified caress.
She is surrounded by something soft, without her robe and boots, covered with a clean sheet, and another someone holds her hand, cries and tells her that it's going to be okay, sis, it is going to be okay somehow, just you see.
Boo – she has regained her ability to recognize people by that point - sits on her chest and tickles her cheeks with his whiskers.
Jan offers her a spoonful of clear broth.
Viconia sits next to her, checking her pulse.
And then, by inconsistent pulsation that she cannot predict - darkness again.
"Even Cyric has already visited you. We should meet in person, too," an indistinctive, vague hooded figure tells her.
There is no telling if she sees or imagines them, this blurred hooded figure with her voice.
Slight traces of what was Reila of Candlekeep can be recognized in that shadow figure.
Reila is sure if they throw off their hood, there will be a skull with coal-black glowing eyes underneath it.
"Go away."
"We don't come and go; we exist simultaneously at all the moments which belong to us. If time is a unidirectional river, we are air bubbles within its flow. This moment belongs to us, as do you."
"Why are you here?"
"Those who become and are not created as gods must lose what is called mind when transformed into gods. Mind is limited, it cannot accommodate what we are. Have you felt what it's like to be us? You must lose the rest of your mortal mind, too; stop clinging to it. If you survive the transformation, you will become us. Just as Bhaal made death part of himself and himself part of death. We all are changed at this moment. The world is far more complicated than you mortals imagine."
"Go away," repeats Reila.
This is the only thing she remembers, still – Reila, Reila, Reila, my name is Reila.
"We are what you are going to be if you survive the transformation. This has already happened in many other mirrors of this timeline; perhaps it will also happen in this one. We will become you, you will become us. You chose it all yourself."
And again, the room around her floats, floats away, spiraling into nothing, where is neither time nor mind no longer.
You chose it yourself.
And yet, was it indeed a choice?
When you don't have a minute to look into your own eyes but have to make desperate panicked decisions in vain hope you won't make a mistake – should this be called a choice?
Was it truly her choice to be a person who can't let go of pain, guilt and regrets because what else does she have in this world but bones and graves she has hidden deep in her heart?
When your horse has bolted, and you are clutching onto the useless reins without deluding yourself that you hold even the remotest control, is that a choice?
You chose it yourself.
If there is an arrow in front of your face, promising a quick and unpleasant death, forcing you to give all you have to the robber, is that truly a choice?
Viconia holds her hand when Reila steps out from the darkness again.
Viconia doesn't have a face.
Reila sees the holes in her eyes, chin and the lines of cheekbones and nostrils, but it is impossible to make a face out of these meaningless lines and curves anymore.
But the scar on her palm hints it must be Viconia.
"We need to return to the temple," Reila says hotly. "Help me; we need to get back there as soon as possible."
Because the hot order, which lives deep inside her being, is now stronger than anything else.
That power needs to get back there; what has been divided for far too long needs to become one again.
"The fuck you think..." she hears a low male voice, full of anger, somewhere beside her.
Reila cannot look at him, if only because she doesn't want to know what he looks like when he no longer has a face.
Because there are no faces even in her memory anymore.
Neither his nor Immy's.
Why can't she at least have those two faces, and not because they are children of Bhaal?
But because these are the people she wants to keep in her memory.
"You are right, abbil, we should press on. Drink this, you must regain your strength before we move."
Sarevok lashes at Viconia, but she silences him with a short gesture while Reila consumes a cold steamy potion, bitter as hells.
It kicks in immediately, making her lids heavy, her body as soft as a feather and her mind fogged.
"I'm a drow, abbil," Viconia says, holding her tightly and placing her back onto the bed. "We lie. Sleep, what you need now is a simple sleep."
And limbo greets Reila again.
oxoxoxoxox
"I think you owe me an explanation, Reila, daughter of Bhaal," he roars so loudly that Reila winces.
He looks endlessly tired - as if from the lack of sleep, though Reila cannot understand why; they must have rested for days while she was in her not-really-alive state - and full of barely contained, mad, hot fury.
"Look, except for the... complications, the idea was good: lesser wyrms are semi-sapient pack creatures; they fear high dragons as much as follow them, especially big old specimens. So conjuring dragon flame was an effective way to drive this Abazigal swarm away and give us time to flee before the high dragon approached us. You know we would all be dead if an adult high dragon appeared from above and we were out in the planes. Gnomes say they who have won the air win the war."
"And retreating to the canyon and then teleporting us back to the pocket plane seemed too obvious a solution for you, lacking creativity, Reila?!"
Because it's been calling for me and not the other way around. Because I was so scared, I gave in. Because I thought I could master it.
Because it was so close and I was so scared.
Because, you idiot head, some feelings make you do stupid, stupid things.
Utterly human, simple, stupid feelings.
The table between them creaks a little when Sarevok leans his hand onto it, and Reila takes a step back from him just in case.
Her legs hurt, and her muscles cramp with pain from every step and attempt to move.
The consequences, as Viconia explained to her kindly, of what you did to your body with your own decisions.
Not only to my body, Viconia, if only it were my body and nothing else.
"I didn't want to give Abazigal a chance to regroup and..."
"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? You thought you could survive channeling dead god power through this bone bag you call body?!" unleashed, his anger is loud and hot and makes her flinch.
"Stop yelling, please. I know it didn't turn out that good, but..."
"DIDN'T TURN OUT THAT GOOD? YOU IDIOT IMP, IF YOU WANT SUICIDE, JUST CALL ME, I'LL STRANGLE YOU QUICK AND CLEAN!"
And before she can answer, she suddenly understands why he is so furious.
Why he started with this - you have to explain it to me.
Because he hasn't seen Bhaal's daughter before. He didn't know there was such a thing as the daughter of the dead god within Reila.
Because first the two of us crept in, with whispers, hints, little things, little tidings; first you understood and decided what is it that you want, and only after that did you see the daughter of Bhaal.
Because at first, you said yes to that stupid uncalled feeling that sprouts and grows inside you without asking for your permission, and then you saw the daughter of the dead god where you wanted to see a silly sorceress, a mortal woman.
What's the feeling called that fills with hot desperate anger when you realize one little idiotic imp does not exist?
What is the feeling called that makes you want to curse and hit that idiot girl for being the daughter of Bhaal - which you knew theoretically, but knowing things and seeing them are very different experiences?
I know what it's called, Reila thinks.
I know why you're feeling this fury now.
This is the primary purpose of this feeling, to do us good and evil. To leave nothing but fear or anger in us, or both, simultaneously.
It can do the ugliest things to us, this feeling.
It sneaks in until it seems that the world can change, you can change, and then it burns you to the blackened bones.
It's a very cruel feeling.
One hand hugs you, the other holds a whip.
"What happened was... an unexpected complication. It wasn't my first time doing this."
"Wasn't your first time OF WHAT REILA OF FUCKING CANDLEKEEP?"
Some loud sounds come from the hall next to them. Reila shrugs and turns toward this sound, but Sarevok barely notices it.
"Not the first time when I used our sire's power. It wasn't like this before. The Slayer was a minor misusage, but the consequences were not so dramatic all the other times. At least, not on the surface."
"All the other times?"
His voice is quiet now, but that is worse than loud yells because Reila can clearly hear a murderous rage in it.
It is so irrational, stupid, this feeling.
It will smooth out all the frowning masks, all the bitter wrinkles on your face. And then it will get stuck inside you like a sharp hook, and it can cause a lot of pain, this hook.
Fear, pain, anger - all this is the reverse side of love.
Reila coughs hoarsely.
This cough may pass. Or maybe now she has to live like this.
She did it to herself by her own hands, didn't she?
"How do you think I can do eight time-stops in a row? I am not Mystra in disguise. Of course, I have been using it. I... I want to say I had no choice, but maybe I had all the choices and made mine."
Dimly, Reila hears slamming noises in the hallway, and Cespenar muffled cries but chooses not to care.
"I would like to hear the exact reason and some explanation on how you, the one who put a rather impressive amount of time and effort into convincing me you want nothing to do with Bhaal's power, turn out to be such an expert," his voice raises by each word in that too long a sentence, until Reila wants to hide her neck in her shoulders like a turtle, "IN FUCKING USING IT!"
Reila walks around the table and comes closer to Sarevok until her nose almost touches his collarbones.
His hot, human pulse is beating desperately and madly at a quick unsteady pace.
They say every story must come back to us sooner or later, must return us to where we were, reversing our role until we can see this story from both sides. As a villain and as a victim. As someone who was lost and someone who watches another getting lost.
They say circles are destiny's favorite geometric form.
You were the son of god; well, now you can learn how it feels to look at the child of god where a mortal person used to be; see the daughter of Bhaal instead of the mortal woman you kissed so eagerly a couple of nights ago.
It hurts, doesn't it?
"I simply can't. There are four people, apart from your yelling head, I care about. I cannot... cannot think about them being dead. I cannot lose anyone anymore. You're all mine; I'm keeping you alive."
Her throat hurts, her lungs burn from every cough, and her right foot cramps again.
You see, everything in this world has its price.
The price of someone's warm hands, the price of friendly whispers, the price of a comforting shoulder underneath your cheek - they are paid with vulnerability, pain and fear.
The price of everything that connects you to other people is a box of pain.
You decide whether it is worth it or not.
"I gave so much to get Immy out of Spellhold, and Minsc, he's a big baby..."
"That's the result of having incompetent loyal fools as companions, you bloody idiot! Do you know how they all differ from adults?! You don't have to make decisions for adults! You can seek advice or consult with adults! And you have recruited loyal puppies, and do you know what differentiates you from fucking adults?! Adults can be consistent in what they say and do! Wholesome, have you ever heard such a word?!"
"Don't yell at me! You, of all people, are in no position to give anyone personal growth advice! What's next? Life coaching sessions?"
"Maybe, on the contrary, I am. At least I could step over my past and review it while you are stuck so deep in your past and regrets that you can't even face your fears! And don't even open your mouth, that's what it is, your fear of promises, your fucking commitment issues, your intention to not ever discuss your plans, and finally doing this ill-conceived shit when you simply panicked, that's fear and nothing else! I have told you, if you won't stop dwelling on the past, that's your downfall," he grabs her shoulders so hard that it will surely give her bruises and shakes her. "You should have told me."
"Gods, what an idiot you are. The same trembling fool from Candlekeep. Why the hell did you try to convince me of all your idiotic ideas?! What the hell did you need from me," again, he shakes her shoulders as if he would like to shake out everything that happened and did not happen.
"You think it is easy? To overstep the fact that all my life I have been doing nothing but bring people I like dead?! And would it be for some higher goal, but no, I have fucking zero goals of my own. I don't even know what I am, what my life is apart from the endless long joke!"
The loud knocking in the hall stops, replaced by a distant echo of conversations. She seems to hear, "Kiss already, idiots."
Well, thanks, whoever you are.
The most valuable advice at this moment.
Reila sees how furiously tense the muscles on Sarevok's neck are.
"You ask ME that? You ask me, of all the people, if that is easy to review your life and be at some resemblance of peace with your past?! No, it's not, but it is possible for some people who are not cowering girls like you are!"
Reila slumps heavily to the floor beside him, dropping her head on her hands.
In their common room, someone is hit with his head against the wall, judging by the muffled sounds.
Judging by Sarevok's face, the same process will soon begin right here in the kitchen.
"Maybe that's the only thing that's mine. The fact that I love someone. And everyone has them. Fears, regrets, or mistakes. You have no right to yell at me for being human."
"I am not yelling at you for being human, I am yelling at you for being a coward and immature idiot. And I have none, Reila."
"None of what? Humanity or idiocy?"
Sarevok stays standing, and even by his voice, Reila can practically see how tightly his jaw is set.
"Regrets. Until the moment I have found out you are this scale of moron, Reila."
And suddenly, she falls silent, not knowing what she could possibly say to that.
"You lost your fights, you were dead, you lost everything; you were in the Abyss, for fucks sake. I'm not buying your no-regrets thing.
Everyone has them. Everyone has regrets, this spot in your past you sometimes remember, and you just want to run away from ever remembering it again, and you know, make every now so full and so loud you never remember it. Never, never remember it again because you just... Can't."
"I don't. I did what I did, and I paid for it. There's a moment when you must choose where to look, forward or back. Past or future, Reila. At least I had some fucking integrity to make that choice. Fool, gods, what an idiot you are. Coward. Pathetic, immature coward."
Reila sits quietly, not raising her head.
Because she understands perfectly well why that man is so angry.
How can you make decisions if you don't even know yourself?
How can you call it your choice if all you have ever done is dance between your boxes of pain and attempts to live your every now, at least in some way?
You. I needed you, she wants to say but doesn't.
Or maybe, she needed herself, of both of them.
Somehow, for some reason, she wanted them both to be persons, in between her nonexistent future and past she never wants to remember again.
Strange noises are heard in the corridor: a distant echo of a fight, attempts to bind someone and arguments.
Reila doesn't want to hear them.
Even if they are placing bets on how this conversation will end.
"Bloody little imp. If you can't make reasonable decisions by yourself, talk to someone who has a brain in their head for a change."
"And how do you suggest I should behave? Like I don't give a shit about everyone, let the high dragon come and eat your asses?"
"You should act," Sarevok says firmly and angrily, "as if you're a fucking adult. Surrounded by competent adults who know what they are doing and why, and not puppies you keep for warm cuddles and need to save by making idiotic decisions."
"I just want you all to live," Reila replies quietly and sadly. "Is it so difficult to understand? I don't want to lose you; I just can't lose anyone anymore."
And then suddenly, he turns around and sits on the floor next to her, taking her chin in his palm.
"Go to some fucking Ilmater priest if you need to lift your burden. But stop this shit. You're afraid to even think of your past, afraid of hurts and your ghosts, you're constantly running from it. Stop that. Some people are dead, and you know why they are dead? Because they made their own decisions. You made your choices, they made theirs, end of story. To follow you, to stay by your side and face all the risks with it. They have chosen a move in combat or spell, and apparently, that was a wrong choice, and now they are dead. Some are dead because they were weak, some because they made a mistake, but the only life you're responsible for is your own. You're surrounded by adults, they do not need saviors. Even your rodent-talking ranger is perfectly capable of deciding whether he wants to follow you and of looking after himself in battle. They... We are not lost puppies you're responsible for. We are people who decided to stick with you and all that comes with it."
For a while, only silence hugs them both. Sarevok is panting heavily as if after a long run; Reila does not lift her eyes to look at him. Then, in a moment, it dawns on her suddenly: it's not because of what she did that he's so angry.
He's angry because one particular sorceress spent several days switching on and off between consciousness and darkness. Even Viconia couldn't heal her body as much as she tried because even gods can't heal what she did to herself.
You...
You were scared.
You were scared and hurt, and that's why you look so tired and so angry now.
It does terrible things to us, this feeling; cruel, beautiful, unexpected, ugly, tender things, all at once, brings it all to our hearts.
"Past or future, Reila. Make your choice and grow the fuck up already," he adds, so quietly that it seems her ears deceive her. "Try to understand, you damn idiot, that there are people who are ready to protect you because they are fucking adults who decided that's what they want."
"Where's the "little frecked imp" part? You make it sound too tender, I miss all the insults. And I don't want to lose myself too. Or you. Help me get up, please?"
"You idiot," repeats Sarevok quietly, hopelessly, and then picks her up roughly and jerks her to her feet.
Her whole body hurts terribly, and Reila coughs again, but on the bright side, her mind mostly works. She even sees faces; perhaps there is this brief window of clarity after good long simple sleep.
"It was... So close, so reachable now that there are so few of us left. I was scared, desperate that you all would be dead if I didn't think of something fast. I watched a lot of people die because of me. They cripple, wound you, such things. I don't know how you manage to live with your ghosts; I can't. I thought I could do it once more and not be drowned by it."
"You were out for four days. You were not entirely alive, not really dead, and spells were flying around you, so your gnome and Imoen had to keep you covered by a spell protection globe constantly. You prophesied as well. Told us that the power must return to its source, and time is almost up. We... There was a chance that whatever came back in your body, it would not be you anymore."
That's why he looks so tired. That's what he was so afraid of.
Love makes you weak; love makes you afraid; love makes you do stupid, stupid things.
His hands are locked on her upper back, but his anger faded, replaced by an unreadable mixture of feelings, like a patchwork blanket sewn from scraps of too many emotions at once.
"Have you ever thought, this time, it will be the way around? Fates love such twisted circular stories. I killed you, maybe this time, it will be your turn to slay someone consumed by that power. Full circle, eternal dragon devours his tail; I am sure our destiny can twist in this ugly symbolic way. I have no idea what will happen if I am the last of us. Maybe, there will simply be no me anymore and not by my choice."
"Then stop doing this foolish shit, you idiot!" he yells again because he has probably thought about this very thing.
And didn't like it one bit.
Reila cuddles closer to him.
Such a marvel their relationship is.
A dream come true, with idle unrealistic illusions of fried scorpions and a possible future, and this unbearable, unbelievable pull towards one another, and tender yells on the subject of who should kill whom.
Timora must laugh hard, looking down upon them from the sky.
His finger tilts her chip up, the other hand holds her tightly against him.
She has no idea what to say, what could she say.
Humans created an awful lot of words. There are simply no words to explain what she feels now.
Two people, whose relationship is a marvel come true, tangle even closer in their strange resemblance of embrace, hairband from each other.
Sometimes, this communicates more than words ever could.
"Everyone around you can be dead in every fight. Find some damn guts to accept that."
"You do know, usually, they say sweet and nice things to people in such a state as me. Maybe you are right; that still sounds cruel."
"Cruel, yes. And also true. You cannot allow yourself to be a little emotional girl now; you don't have this fucking luxury, do you get it?"
"I told you, people don't change."
"They do, you little fool, if they have a little more integrity than you," he answers with the same angry, desperate tiredness.
Cespenar bursts in, screaming loudly that he has finally come to save his mistress, followed by Minsc and Jan.
"I've told you to bind him, Imoen! He has ruined it all, and we were nearly at its culmination. I still bet we could have heard a real confession this time!"
Reila lets out a small laugh.
Because, oh come on, Timora must hate her.
She really ought to have doors, good soundproof doors with bars.
Or maybe she should start charging money from her group for the excellent show.
Immy and Viconia follow Cespenar shortly, the drow looks nearly concerned as she approaches Reila, and Immy jumps to hug Reila - almost embracing both Sarevok and her in the process.
"Unhand me, or lose your hands," Sarevok sneers.
He doesn't move as Cespenar barges in or when all her companions come in, though. No, the warrior just closes his eyes, almost amused by the hopelessness of it all.
He doesn't let her go, either, keeping arms curled around her shoulders, and strangely enough, no one seems to care.
"Boo says you smell all nice and healthy again!"
"Do we have some food?" Reila asks as her stomach rumbles.
"Ah, I'll make you my favorite soup, just you two, move and keep hugging somewhere away from my cooking table."
Do you know what being not alone anymore feels like?
It is being caught in the whirlpool of warm palms, lips kissing her cheek, smiles, concerned faces, warm gazes, light caring touches, Viconia's angry scolding, Immy's worried smile, and Minsc's happy expression.
How can he tell her she should accept that she cannot and should not try to protect them?
Sarevok steps sideways, disentangling from her, expression flat and unreadable.
A little thing lingers, though: a slight trace, the barely noticeable shadow of fear mixed with anger in his gaze.
It does all kinds of things to us, this feeling.