Shadow of Doubt
Description: To be a paladin is to be an unshakable bulwark. It's to be steadfast and certain amidst darkness and doubt. Yet, beneath oath and armor lies flesh and feeling, and love makes fools of us all. Cedric tries to redeem Shadowheart as the Dark Lady beckons, but even as he fears losing her to the night, he's not even sure if he can save himself.
It was the silence that bothered him, Cedric decided as he surveyed the darkened halls, his eyes straining to penetrate the murk.
There were different kinds of silence, of course.
In the wilderness, silence was the distant chittering of wildlife and the murmur of the wind through the trees. In the Underdark, it was the creak and clatter of shifting stone and the perpetual, echoing drip of water falling from somewhere above. In those places, the only true silence was that of death—either your own, or the death that waited patiently in the dark for the faintest lapse in concentration.
Here, though—in the depths of the Gauntlet of Shar—there seemed to be no other kind. It was the silence of fearful expectation, like the held breath of the condemned as the noose went taut the instant before they felt themselves falling.
As the party had journeyed deeper into the temple, the paladin had found himself clearing his throat and idly shifting his weight so he could hear the rustling of his armor. Any small noise he could make to momentarily drive away the awful quiet was welcome, but the high ceilings and hungry shadows of the ancient halls seemed to swallow all sound.
Even Karlach had given up making half-hearted quips about the surrounding gloom, the tiefling uncharacteristically grim and tight-lipped. Her flickering eyes scanned the shadows that danced just beyond the edge of the light cast by the small mote of flame Halsin carried, wary of any more unpleasant surprises that might be lying in wait.
They were intruders here, that much was clear. They were living, breathing creatures in Shar's sanctified domain of not merely death, but of unlife—unwelcome blemishes amidst a sea of flawless, empty void.
Ahead of them, a submerged gateway glistened like the jaws of a waiting trap. Cold light spilled from its maw, illuminating the pool of still, crystal-clear water that stretched before them like a yawning grave. The paladin wasn't sure where the portal would take them, but he was certain it wasn't anywhere he wanted to go.
If it were possible, Cedric found himself sorely missing the Shadowlands above. As utterly hostile as they were, at least the shadowed ruins there had used to be something. The Gauntlet had the feeling of a place that was never meant to be anything at all.
"Shadowheart?"
His attention fell to the cleric kneeling at the edge of the water, just enough light falling across her face for him to see that her eyes were closed. The paladin let out a quiet sigh as he studied her pale features, the knot of uncertainty in his chest tightening as he looked at her.
She'd been different since they'd set foot in the Shadowlands.
Distant. Distracted.
As they'd walked among the shadow-shrouded ruins of Reithwin and picked through the ancient bones left behind, she'd muttered prayers to the Lady of Loss, remarking on the "beauty" of the emptiness even as she stepped over the shattered remains of the lives that had once inhabited the place.
It had been unnerving, listening to her talk that way. Hearing Shadowheart speak of the "destiny" Shar had laid out for her, Cedric had found it hard not to feel a stirring of dismay as his eyes surveyed the desolation all around them.
Was all of this Shadowheart's "purpose"? To be the scourge that tormented the innocent who'd suffered under Sharran tyranny? To one day join the yellowing bones that lay scattered around the barricades that Shar's faithful had died assaulting?
Despite his best efforts to clear his thoughts, worry and doubt had been gnawing away at him since they'd found the Gauntlet. In his mind, he found himself examining and re-examining his every interaction with the cleric. Had this always been a part of her—one that he'd been stubbornly refusing to let himself see? Was it truly possible that he'd been so willingly blind?
The thought of learning the truth scared him far more than it should have.
Cedric had given up lying to himself that he could be an unbiased judge where the cleric was concerned. He was... too closely involved.
Before setting out through the Underdark, the pair had found a few precious hours to themselves, leaving behind the noise of the tiefling's festivities and slipping off to a quiet spot not far from camp. There, half-giddy with the notion of not just survival but success and filled with the pleasant warmth of good wine, they'd kissed.
Lying there by the waterfall, for the first time Cedric had allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to survive all of this.
After waking up aboard the nautiloid and being told at every turn that he was already as good as dead, the paladin remembered the faint stirring of hope he'd felt as he drank in the way the moonlight seemed to dance in her eyes. He remembered how much the feeling had frightened him.
As Cedric focused on Shadowheart, he felt himself gently pressing his way into her thoughts—not intentionally, but not entirely by accident, either. After a moment, he felt his breathing fall into step with the easy cadence of her own as he entered her mind.
Shadowheart's thoughts danced like arcing electricity, a chaotic buzz of exhilaration and pride, mingled with fear and uncertainty. Cedric had little time to linger on the sensation, however.
Take my spear, step forward, and strike drown the Selunite.
A voice cut through her thoughts, cold and sharp, like the kiss of a blade being lightly traced down the back of his neck. Shar, he realized at once.
As if heeding his thoughts, the cold echo of the words in his mind seemed to curl like a wicked grin, and a pang of dread raced through his veins as he felt something turn its attention towards him. It could sense him in Shadowheart's mind—it knew he could hear it.
It smiled cruelly at his shock, and for an instant his mind found itself falling through an endless void as pieces of him were torn off by the jagged claws of the darkness around him. He sensed Shadowheart respond to Shar's words, but she felt distant, as if a vast gulf lay between them as the paladin's mind reeled at its brush with the Mistress of the Night.
And be wary of your companion—he pries in your thoughts.
Shadowheart's thoughts snapped back into focus as Shar's presence retreated, and for an instant Cedric felt the cleric's betrayal and white-hot anger before the connection was abruptly severed.
"That wasn't for you to hear!" The cleric hissed as she shot to her feet and rounded on him, her face twisting into an expression of outrage.
He felt a pang of shame at such a flagrant breach of her trust, but bit back the urge to apologize. What could he possibly even try to say? That he thought undergoing the Trials—her life's dream—was a mistake? That he was scared that he might soon look at her and no longer recognize the person who stared back?
No. The paladin would have to explain himself later, when he could find the right words—but that time would have to come soon. The Lady of Loss cast a long shadow over this place, one that Shadowheart seemed poised to step into. Once that happened, Cedric felt increasingly certain he'd never truly get her back.
"I have a right to know what I'm getting into." He replied in a studiedly neutral tone.
At present, the mission at hand was the only safe subject he could think of, despite the unease it filled him with. Thankfully, she seemed to accept the deflection, her glare hardening for a moment before the flicker of anger behind her eyes cooled ever so slightly.
"It's simple. My Lady Shar demands a sacrifice. One life." She paused a moment, searching his expression carefully for a reaction. What precisely she saw, Cedric couldn't say for sure, but he doubted his mask of dispassion withstood her scrutiny. "Not that it matters, but her reward aligns with your own interests."
The cleric had probably hoped the assurance would be of some consolation to Cedric—gods knew it was the closest he was likely to get to a comforting word from her, under the circumstances—but he couldn't fight the twisting sense of dread and doubt that filled him.
Was this how it happened? With one final step into the shadows? With one last life snuffed out and offered up to Shar?
He studied Shadowheart's features in the failing light for a long moment, her emerald eyes steady and sharp as she returned his gaze.
Here he was, telling himself that he was trying to save Shadowheart, but he couldn't even say for certain that he wasn't already too late. Perhaps he was just a fool, lying to himself as he followed her into the dark. The uncertainty stung bitterly.
Shadowheart had speculated that whatever creature they'd have to strike down as part of her final trial would be a monster—as twisted and horrible as those they'd encountered in the Shadowlands—and as Cedric gave the cleric a reluctant nod and turned towards the steep, tiled stairs towards the gateway, he prayed she was right.
Water flooded into his armor as he hesitantly stepped into the pool and he suppressed a quiet gasp, finding it exactly as ice-cold as he'd expected.
What he'd failed to anticipate was the foreign sense of dread that suddenly filled the pit of his stomach like a cold lump of lead, and as the water rose to his knees, he found that it took considerable effort to will himself to take another step forward.
However, as his foot met the next step, something like a powerful set of hands closed around his legs and a shot of unadulterated terror raced through him. He felt himself being dragged deeper into the water and strained against it with all his might, but to no avail as the baleful glow of the gateway grew brighter and nearer.
A scream tried to rattle its way out of his throat, but the icy water filled his mouth and nostrils before it could escape, and Cedric's world went black.
...
With a hoarse cry of pain and fury, Cedric plunged his blade into Balthazar's midsection, a thunderclap sounding as the golden light that wreathed his longsword exploded outward, vaporizing the necromancer's torso and scattering his putrid innards in a messy arc.
A piercing cry rang out from above, and the paladin watched Halsin's owlbear form crash down among a row of skeletal archers on one of the upper levels, half a score of arrows bristling from his back. With a few powerful swipes, the undead were reduced to a messy scattering of dry bones, and the roar of battle finally died away.
With an exhausted groan, Cedric sank stiffy to his knees as he surveyed the carnage, leaning against his longsword to avoid toppling over entirely as adrenaline was quickly washed away by pain and fatigue.
Karlach milled aimlessly nearby, unbothered by the flames licking her skin or the half-dozen gashes and rents in her armor as she reduced the grinning skull of a fallen skeletal warrior to powder beneath her boot. The barbarian wobbled on her feet slightly as she whirled, searching in vain for another target with a gleam of frenzied glee in her eyes, and Cedric couldn't help but feel a tinge of worry about what sort of state she'd be in when the rage and rush of battle faded.
Not that he was in much better shape, the paladin thought, his chest burning like fire with each wheezing breath.
His breastplate bore a pair of ugly dents left by the crushing blows of one of the necromancer's towering warriors, and his ribs ached and shifted unpleasantly as he tried to stand.
The battle had been hard-fought, but the party had a great deal of experience contending with the undead—even those as formidable as those at Balthazar's command.
Cedric had hoped to locate the Nightsong and slip away with it before the Absolute's loyalists were any the wiser, but if he had known how much trouble the fat, arrogant necromancer was going to be, he'd have spilled his rotting guts the moment he'd laid eyes on him. Still, he was dead now, and the thought filled the paladin with a measure of grim satisfaction.
He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and found Halsin beside him, the druid's brow furrowed as he took in Cedric's battered state.
"Try to keep still, my friend." The archdruid counseled as he placed a broad hand over a gash on the paladin's side. "I am afraid this will hurt."
Sucking in a deep breath, Cedric grimaced and gave a quick nod.
A cool tide of healing magic began to flow through his chest and the paladin's vision swam as his broken ribs realigned and began to knit themselves back together, a pained shudder escaping through his clenched teeth and the taste of copper filling his mouth. After a few moments, the white-hot agony tearing through his chest retreated, replaced by a painful throbbing that accompanied each breath.
As his senses began to clear, he could pick out an unfamiliar voice rising above the ambient groan of the Shadowfell. Bitter. Determined.
"Not a dagger—a spear." Another voice. One he recognized. "My Lady Shar's spear!"
Shadowheart.
His searching gaze found the cleric standing just beyond the circle of arcane runes that contained Nightsong, and a cold wave of dread washed over him as his eyes fell to the Spear of Night clutched in her hands.
The paladin pushed himself back to his feet, waving away Halsin's assistance as he stepped forward to join her at the edge of the circle. He stopped short as Shadowheart turned at the sound of his approach, a hard look set in her eyes.
"Her fate is mine to seal. Let me handle this."
"The fate you seal is your own!" Nightsong interjected. "To be a Dark Justiciar is to turn your heart from everything but loss."
The bottomless dread Cedric had felt as he'd watched Shadowheart open her palm with a dagger and offer her blood to Shar resurfaced as the words he'd read in the Silent Library echoed from the celestial's lips.
"You will know no love, no joy—only servitude."
This was it—the last blood price to be paid as she stood on the cusp of oblivion, not of a monster, but of a helpless prisoner with the divinity of Selune flowing in her veins. If Shadowheart went through with this—if she struck true with the Spear of Night and let it drink deep of that divine blood—then she would be lost to Shar forever. To herself. To him.
What would be left if he let Shadowheart sell herself to the night? A hollow vessel, to be filled with the will of the Lady of Loss? A blade in the dark, to be used and discarded when the time came? The only thing that might've been more unbearable than the thought of finding out was knowing what it might take to stop her.
"You don't have to do this." Cedric said, mustering as much conviction as he could.
"Have to?" She spat the words back at the paladin venomously as she rounded on him. "This is my mistress' will—my life's purpose!" Her expression tightened into a sneer, a tone of challenge rising in her voice. "If I have to step over your corpse to fulfill what Lady Shar asks of me, so be it. Your choice."
Despite himself, Cedric felt himself recoil at the cold malice dripping from the words as they left her lips. Even as he watched Shadowheart begin to turn towards Nightsong once again, his mind reeled, and his limbs numbly refused to obey.
Draw your sword, paladin—his oath commanded grimly—and do what you know you must.
Unbidden, he envisioned the series of swift cuts that would fell her before the Spear of Night could find the aasimar's breast. His right hand ached ferociously, and he looked down to find his fingers clenched around the hilt of his longsword with terrible expectation, bloodless and white beneath his gauntlet.
He was too late to save her, a part of him rumbled. He had always been too late.
Whatever gentle part of her that had once been, the part of her that he... that he cared for was gone—eclipsed by the black shadow of Shar's devotion. All that stood before Cedric now was a minion of the Nightbringer, an instrument of darkness and torment to be struck down before it could inflict itself upon the innocent.
And yet, even now, that wasn't what he saw when he looked at Shadowheart.
Cedric saw the determined young woman who'd been beside him since the beginning, who'd stood tall despite everything fate had thrown at them. More than anything else, he'd come to admire her for her strength—her perseverance.
The things Shadowheart had endured would have made most people bitter and resentful. They'd look around and see a world that had caused them nothing but pain and despair, and they'd resolve to pay the world back in kind. They'd be heartless. They'd be cruel. They'd inflict suffering onto others just as it had been inflicted on them, and the great cycle of evil would go on and on.
But Shadowheart hadn't.
Despite all the pain and hardship she'd gone through, despite her fears and uncertainty about who she was and who she thought she was supposed to be, she cared. She still saw the beauty and goodness in the world and did her best to safeguard it as best she knew how.
Cedric thought of night orchids—the sweet aroma of the violet bloom he'd plucked in the Shadowlands filling his nose as he surprised Shadowheart with it in camp.
She'd batted his hands away as he tried to tuck the orchid behind her ear—the faintest hint of a blush threatening—but, she'd thanked him. Later that night, he'd spied her near her tent with the flower in her hair, quietly admiring herself in the mirror after she thought everyone else had fallen asleep.
He remembered the warmth and feeling of her lips that night—a taste of lilac and cherry wine that lingered like a promise.
"Shadowheart!"
Cedric found himself taking a step after her, his voice rising above the howling of the void around them.
She paused, the tip of the spear she clutched straying from the aasimar momentarily as she looked back. The cleric said nothing as she studied him intently, but her careful mask of dispassion slipped ever so faintly as she took in the way his hand trembled uncertainly upon the hilt of his sword.
Something stirred in her green eyes. Sadness. Pain.
Their gazes met for the briefest of moments. The paladin had vowed to free Nightsong before he'd struck down Balthazar—now, how far was he prepared to go to see that vow through? What if the cost was the cleric's last breath, with her blood dripping from his hands? Was that a price he was willing to pay?
She must've wondered.
So did he.
Cedric's voice, so strong only a moment ago, escaped his lips as a choked whisper. "Please..."
Shadowheart turned away, and Cedric felt as though his heart had stopped beating when her gaze returned to the Nightsong once more. He could delay no longer—if he was going to make a choice, he had to make it now.
His oath—all that he truly had left of himself save his twisted, half-remembered nightmares of blood—howled. If the paladin refused its bidding, what would become of him? Without his oath, what would be left of him?
No.
He wouldn't do it. Couldn't. It was too much—even to save himself. He'd never forgive himself, never know peace.
Cedric felt as though every ounce of his strength suddenly drained out of him, and a single, mocking question echoed in his thoughts: Did he love her too much to strike her down, or not enough to spare them both from what Shar would turn her into?
The paladin collapsed to his knees, dread and helplessness coiling around him like iron chains as he watched Shadowheart turn the Spear of Night toward the bound aasimar and tighten her grip. She paused for an instant—and he wondered whether she was hesitating or simply savoring the moment.
Before he had his answer, and just as it seemed as though the killing blow was prepared, Shadowheart turned suddenly and cast the spear aside, and Cedric watched disbelievingly as it landed with a clatter near the edge of the rocky platform. There, Shar's sacred weapon teetered for a moment before plunging into the endless abyss of the Shadowfell—and the darkness seemed to retreat, ever so slightly.
The pair stood in speechless silence, Shadowheart as shocked at her own actions as he was, and they both stared at where the Spear of Night had disappeared over the edge before looking at one another.
"I can't believe I did that." The half-elf mumbled in a trembling voice. "Lady Shar will disown me... what will happen to me?"
A shuddering noise escaped Cedric's lips, somewhere between a hitched sob and a choked sigh. He pushed himself back to his feet, nearly light-headed with relief as he wiped the hot tears from his eyes and crossed the distance to her, pulling her into an embrace.
The next few minutes held a dozen revelations—about the Nightsong, about Ketheric and the Absolute—but Cedric found it hard to focus on anything but Shadowheart. Despite her fear of the future and the uncertainty that played across her face as she accepted Dame Ailyn's friendship, she seemed lighter—as if a piece of the darkness she'd been carrying had vanished.
There were doubtlessly countless struggles ahead of them still, but Cedric couldn't help but feel a swell of enormous pride as he looked at her. Whatever choices lay ahead—whatever life was out there for Shadowheart, for the first time, it belonged to her and no one else.
"Come on," he said at length after the aasimar had soared away, offering her his hand. "Let's get out of this place."
After a moment's hesitation, Shadowheart took it, and the paladin gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before the two of them stepped through the spinning portal and left behind the darkness of the Shadowfell for good.