"Working with evil against evil is unwise," Ilamin said, trailing at the general's heels. Elohis was a flawless, winged humanoid standing probably nine feet tall, with skin shining like bronze and glowing white eyes. He radiated divine power that left the aasimar feeling even more dwarfed than he would have by height alone.

"It is necessary, Ilamin," Elohis lectured patiently, picking up his large golden helm and donning it. "One priestess of Lloth with her own aims is nothing compared to the might of the goddess she serves. Nor anything compared to the armies of the Abyss united in a fervor for the destruction of the Upper Realms. Demogorgon, Graz'zt, Malcanthet—that is the caliber of the demon we face. And now this new one who has courted the favor of Lloth, Valyne, is upsetting the balance. This must come to an end, but that means we first must cut the legs out from beneath the beast. Never fight an enemy at their strongest if it can be avoided."

"So what do you propose to do? Kill every living, breathing thing around this vessel of Lloth?" Ilamin said uncomfortably. He was beginning to dislike the conversation's direction, but he was bound to it now. "We tried that once."

"You attacked the strongest links, not the weakest ones. If you wanted to bring down those mortals you intended to slay, you should have first stripped away their armor. The elder can be slain on the field of war. The younger...that is more complicated. Fortunately, we know of a light in the darkness," Elohis said, beginning to strap on his armor.

"He'll never turn on her," the aasimar said emphatically. He knew who the celestial was referring to. After all, he had just spent a considerable amount of time in and around Menzoberranzan. It was a mystery to him how he hadn't been found out. Or maybe it wasn't divine providence, but the hand of Baenre that kept him hidden from the omnipresent eyes of Lloth's faithful servants.

Pure, glowing eyes focused on him. "Perhaps." The celestial's face was unreadable, as it always was. Few creatures were such an enigma to the aasimar rogue. "Or perhaps you mistake the target."

"This is wrong," Ilamin said, shocked that he even found himself saying such a thing to an angel. "There has to be a better way."

"If there were one, we would take such a course," Elohis said. "But remember, this is evil we speak of. It can be given no quarter. For the sake of the greater good, we must sometimes turn ourselves to grisly tasks. You know this better than most."

"He would be killing his—"

"Torm is obedience. Torm is duty. He will understand," Elohis said, unwavering and unrelenting. It was like trying to shove a mountain, the aasimar was quickly realizing. The champion of righteousness had a certain inertia to his course. "A vision will be granted, an ultimatum. He will either choose the light or the darkness."

"Things are not black and white," Ilamin said desperately. But of course they were to a creature made of the light. And, as he was beginning to understand, light and good were not always exactly the same.

"There is no gray in this war," the celestial said firmly. "To accept it is to accept doubt. Are we to allow evil to survive and flourish merely because it hides in the between spaces? Are we to allow good to sink into depravity by the slow erosion from white to black as we lost Sehaneth? No. That is why the world is split and divided into good and evil. And as for our ally of convenience, that evil too can be purged when the time is right and the threat of the Abyss has ended."

"I...understand," Ilamin said quietly. "I will convey the location to Drisinil Baenre. Our force will be there, correct?"

"Indeed. A small force of true celestial warriors, myself included. We are powerful and we have the light on our side. We need never fear the darkness."

"It's time, then," Cessair said to the darkness, kneeling in front of the demon lord's statue. The voice in her thoughts had faded and vanished, leaving an ache of longing in its wake. The world seemed to come into focus when her Lady's attentions were focused on her. The colors brighter, the taste of the air sweeter, the beating of her own heart almost melodic. It was unfortunate that this would not be her battle to fight. There were other things yet in store.

"Cess."

The tiefling turned around to see her brother standing there in his armor, sword drawn. "Galen, I didn't hear you come in," she said, a bit surprised to see him in the sanctuary. She knew Asaron was lurking somewhere nearby and hadn't expected the succubus to simply allow a paladin of Torm through. For all her brother's nuanced observation of life beneath the surface, he still clung to his faith like a beacon in the darkness. He had been trying to guide the drow in his life with a gentle hand rather than smiting fury. But underneath all of that he was still a holy warrior more suited to bringing death than redemption.

"This has to end, Cess," he said firmly. "Do you even know what you're caught up in? The demons are trying to unify to destroy the Upper Realms. They'll destroy everything that's good. You used to be kind once. You used to love life and all the things in the world that were gentle and light. Come back to that, please."

Cessair's face hardened, her blue eyes cold like the deepest ice of a glacier. "Or you'll what, Galen?" she said coolly, fingers brushing against the hilt of her small-sword. "Innocence is all well and good, but it's not the real world. I am who I am by my choice. It wasn't forced on me. My family isn't just you anymore, and I'm happy like this. Doesn't that count for anything? I won't turn away from my Lady now. Not when she needs me the most."

"Please don't say that," Galen said quietly. "I don't want to have to fight you."

He was old now, and slow. She knew that. But she didn't really want to have to kill him. For one thing, Lirayne would never forgive her. And she pitied him in a way, still bound to a god who was slowly withdrawing his favor as Galen continued to simply let his beloved live. If it came to blows, she could win. But maybe all she would have to do was fend him off until he was too tired and weak to continue. "This is the way it is," Cessair said, drawing her own steel as she looked at him with almost distant eyes. The shard of obsidian on the cord around her neck seemed to glimmer in the light of glowing braziers. She would fight not with everything she had, but with enough to wear him down until he would listen to her reasoning. Galen was a rational creature. He would understand, she was sure of it.

Galen barely threw up his shield in time to stop his half-sister. He heard the dagger in her off hand sink into painted hardwood, but it didn't pierce through. The blow actually staggered him. When had she become so strong? It seemed inhuman. "It doesn't have to be, Cess!" he said, knocking her back with a bash of his shield. He didn't want to turn his sword on her yet, not unless he absolutely had to. But there she was, short-sword in one hand and dagger in the other.

"What do you think will happen to you if you give me quarter, brother?" Cess said with that same sharp edge to her voice. "Fight me." She sprang like a hunting cat, sword slipping by his shield to nick his shoulder and barely miss his throat. Her aim was a little sloppier than she'd realized. She'd meant to disable that arm by breaking his collarbone.

Galen stepped off line and parried before thrusting back. She hooked his blade with her dagger and spun it away from her body before stepping in to administer a hard overhand strike. He barely evaded death or at least grievous wound by bringing up his shield hard and almost breaking her wrist. She kicked out and snaked her foot behind his to disrupt his balance, shoving even as she pulled at his ankle. By some miracle, he managed to pick up his own foot before she could take him down and potentially finish him. His sword drew a line of blossoming crimson across her face just below the eyes which caused her to flinch back. He heard her pull in a sharp breath with a hiss of pain, blood running down her cheeks like tears. Cess tasted that familiar salted copper of blood in her mouth. She'd been hit in the face enough to recognize it almost instantly.

"You always were the better fighter," she said, moving swiftly to the side and lunging again. He had to batter away the assaults with his shield. She was faster and more nimble, just as she'd been before age had caught up with him. And even then she had beaten him as often as she'd failed. He couldn't understand why she wasn't just tearing him apart. Surely she'd become better with a blade over the years. Gods knew she hadn't been sitting on her hands the whole time she was working with Yvonnel.

"And you were a gentle soul who didn't kill people if it could be avoided," he said softly, making certain he was always facing her. If Cess could get to his back, he would be dead. She knew just where to stab and just how to twist the knife. He knew these days his sister was a touch sadistic, which in turn made her a much better fighter than she had been before. But as they prowled and blades danced in the dark, he saw it. An opening.

Without thinking, he stabbed and felt his blade slide through flesh like butter. Cessair made a soft sound, stumbling forward and further onto the blade. Her weapons clattered out of her hands as she reached for his wrists to try and stop him. He'd run her completely through, puncturing the diaphragm and leaving her unable to breathe. "Cess!" He couldn't believe he'd actually harmed her. It had been reflex, not intention.

Cessair was still gasping and clutching at his hands with trembling fingers, trying to breathe even though she couldn't as she crumpled to the ground and slid off the end of the blade. As soon as it was free, the blood started to pour out as major arteries and veins alike emptied onto the stone floor. Galen dropped to his knees next to her and his sword clattered to the ground untended. He tried to staunch the bleeding, but there was nothing he could do except feel hot life-blood wash over his hands. "Cess..." he pleaded softly, begging her to hold on as the soft light glowed around his hands. But it wouldn't work. Torm wouldn't let him heal someone so corrupted. Whether she was his sister or not.

He had to sit and watch those familiar blue eyes cloud over so slowly as she grew paler and paler. The horns and tail of a tiefling, the whole feeling of a native outsider, faded away to leave him holding a limp half-elf in his arms, her aura tainted irreversibly by the Abyss. Her soul would fall directly to her mistress to be reborn as some kind of demon. She would never, he thought as his eyes started to burn, find peace.

Finally, the hand that had been shaking and grasping weakly lay still and the blue eyes ceased blinking. They stared, glassed over, up at the vaulted ceiling. Cessair was gone.

Galen cradled her body close, struggling with his tears. She felt so small and fragile now, head tucked loosely under his chin. He smoothed her blonde hair like he used to when they were young and she came home in tears from the taunts of 'half-blood'. "I'm so sorry," he whispered to the empty air and her quiet, still form. The grief was welling up in him, knotting his throat painfully. The life, the playful light, the laughter...all gone. And it was his fault.

He heard the door open behind them and footsteps. "If anyone would know about celestials, it would be..." Yvonnel's voice trailed off.

Galen gently set his sister down and turned around to see Yvonnel and Lirayne standing there, both in stunned silence. Lirayne broke the spell first, sprinting over and dropping to her knees as well. "Cessair!" she said as if in an effort to rouse the half-elf from a sleep. Her healing magic burst to life easily, but seemed ineffective. "Yvonnel, can you resurrect her?"

"Not if her soul is claimed by something in the Abyss," Yvonnel said, her voice hard and sharp. "Galen, how could you?"

"Torm—" he tried to explain, but his tongue seemed to tangle on itself. "It was my duty."

"You killed a servant of the Church," the Revered Daughter said, advancing on him with a drawn blade and a spell readied in her other hand.

Lirayne immediately stepped between the two of them. "Yvonnel, he's under my protection," the priestess said steadily. "Think this through. Do you really want to jump to this so quickly?"

"Do you really wish to make an enemy of the Church and the Spider Queen?" the more powerful cleric shot back. "You have a daughter to think about. A House. This demands retribution. A challenge to our authority like this cannot go unanswered."

Lirayne seemed to be struggling with herself, torn between duty and loyalty. Yvonnel was right, because of course she was. Yvonnel was always right when it came to matters of doctrine or the Church. "I—"

"Lirayne, let this happen," Galen said gently, his bloodied hand resting on her shoulder from behind. "Yvonnel is right. This is your duty. And I'm old. Perhaps I had a year or two left in me, but that counts for nothing if Faen loses you forever."

"Galen, no." It sounded as conflicted as she felt.

He knew what his duty to Torm demanded. Yvonnel offered him an escape from having to turn on Lirayne, something he couldn't do. It was a way to die as a paladin without compromising his own morals. Ultimately, it was a price everyone knew that one of them would pay eventually. "We both understood that one day it would come to this," he said gently. "Yvonnel is not being cruel. She is doing what is necessary."

Lirayne knew it was true. Yvonnel would offer Galen something painless and swift rather than the drawn out agony the Church so often demanded of its victims. But that didn't make it any easier. "I'm not leaving you," she said quietly. "I...why do you have to be right?" It would be normal in this situation for her to kill him to prove devotion. Something that she would never be able to live with doing.

The Matron's daughter felt a hand on her arm. It was Yvonnel. "Look away," the Revered Daughter said. Her voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "This is a burden you should not have to bear." She was offering Lirayne a way out, something that the younger priestess was grateful for. "I will give you someone to blame. Someone to hate."

"Thank you," Galen said. He lowered himself down onto knees aching with arthritis and bowed his head. "Lirayne, I love you."

The response she always gave him immediately leaped to her lips. "I know," she said, turning burning eyes to the floor. Even moments before his death, she couldn't find the words to say it back in any other way.

Yvonnel's hands tightened on her sword. She did not want to do this to Siniira's daughter, but it was better than the alternatives. She raised the razor-sharp blade and struck down with all of her might, wanting to make this quick and clean. There was a noise like tearing silk and a soft, wet thump as Galen's head dropped to the floor.

Lirayne heard the screaming, the wails of pain, long before she realized it was her own voice. She felt armored gauntlets grip her shoulders. Her hands slammed into a breastplate, tearing at the patterns of webs and spiders until her nails broke and bled. It wasn't right. He couldn't be dead. The anger was the only thing keeping her alive. Not at Yvonnel, not at her goddess, only at a situation she was powerless to control. At herself for not being able to do anything. She tore at the metal armor and battered it with her fists. Nothing in her hands broke by some miracle, and she hated that too. It should have hurt more. There should have been more pain. She deserved it.

And Yvonnel was there, steadying her, letting her vent it all out. They must have been there for hours, because finally Lirayne went still, exhausted to the point of collapse. "Tend to his body, Lirayne," Yvonnel said sharply. It cut through the fog of pain and loss. There was no shock for the younger drowess, just a pervasive numbness seeping in through all of the cracks. "This is your chance to say your goodbyes. To not leave him as all the dead of failures are left."

"Help me," Lirayne said hoarsely.

"I will," Yvonnel said, sweeping a lock of Lirayne's hair out of her face with her unbloodied hand. "You need to be strong."

"How?" She sounded so small.

"Put one foot in front of the other. The rest will come in time."

There were no shrouds for brother and sister, but they could make use of the sanctuary's things. Lirayne took the task of washing the bodies and laying them out while Yvonnel found spider-silk sheets to wrap them in. It was a duty performed in silence, without tears and without thought. Just automatic precision and gentle hands. Neither drowess even looked at each other. Each knew what to do without a word being said. Yvonnel gently set Cessair's shrouded body in front of the statue of the Lady of Sacrifice, well aware that there was nowhere the dead woman would rather be. Then she turned to see Lirayne setting Galen's shield and sword with his body, her house symbol tucked above his heart.

"I'll help you carry him home," Yvonnel said. Home. Lirayne wasn't certain she even knew what the word meant anymore.

And somewhere, far, far above, something smiled sadly.