A/N: This will be a collection of shorter, contained pieces for Shadowheart and Solistre. Chapters won't be in chronological order, and context will be given in each chapter's summary.


Chapter Summary: On their first night at the Last Light Inn, Solistre finds those flowers Shadowheart had spoken of fondly.


Enclosed within its shimmering, moon-blessed barrier, the Last Light Inn possesses a silence not of peace nor respite, but grim resolution in the face of doom. Harpers with shadowed eyes patrol the perimeter, torches held in hands to ward off the encroaching darkness, and to bolster hopes dimmed in their hearts. Scattered across the inn's grounds are tiefling refugees and stranded Fist soldiers, huddled in groups and speaking in hushed tones, planning for futures so uncertain, they may as well build castles in the clouds.

With a parasite in her skull, and a future all but stolen from her, Solistre has little sympathy to spare. She walks hidden in the shadows – slipping past the quartermaster's makeshift store, down the length of the inn where the High Harper's barked orders float through open windows, towards the small backyard with eight tents pitched on dry soil. Their occupants had retired an hour ago, after sharing a light dinner to recover from their first harrowing trek through this cursed land. But Solistre has no doubt some of them are still awake – sleep has been a fickle mistress in their journey so far.

Melting into the shadows, Solistre makes for a tent in the corner, the black wisps of her incorporeal form coalescing within its dark confines. Despite the lack of light, the tent's half-elf occupant is reclined against a stack of old pillows scrounged from the inn, reading a book with worn bindings in contented silence – which is broken by Solistre's sudden appearance.

Shadowheart starts, book falling from her grasp as she grabs the mace by her bedroll, left fist burning with divine light that throws her fierce glare into sharp relief. Upon recognising her visitor, however, that ferocity is shot through with irritation.

A sharp exhale bursts through Shadowheart's lips, as she drops the mace and dissipates magic from her fist. Threat of violence gone, Solistre lowers herself to one knee, lips twitching into an amused curve in anticipation of the incoming tirade.

"What are you doing, sneaking into my tent like that? I thought you were another one of those damned shadows, I could've–"

Shadowheart's breath catches in her throat audibly, like a gasp just barely smothered, when Solistre raises the hand she had kept hidden behind her back. Green eyes stare at the three stalks of flowers in her hand – purple petals that had bloomed along tall stems in spite of the curse that plagues the land. Such persistent beauty in unrelenting darkness; Solistre couldn't help but admire it when she had first laid eyes on it, and was reminded of one other.

"They…are night orchids?" Solistre asks, when the silence stretches on. "They resemble a drawing I'd seen before."

"Yes." Shadowheart's reply is instant, just a tad breathless, as she wrenches her eyes up from the flowers. "Yes, but you just–, picked them barehanded?"

Solistre cocks her head curiously, when Shadowheart reaches out as if to touch her, but recoils.

"They are deadly poisonous," Shadowheart says – voice tight and urgent. "It must have seeped through your skin by now!"

Solistre frowns, and looks down at her hand – where dark grey skin appears unblemished. She spots no overt signs of poisoning, and feels no shortened breaths, nor lightheadedness. But her own comfort is hardly a reliable indicator – her mother had built her resistance with controlled doses since childhood, as with all her sisters. For all she knows, this natural poison could be coursing through her veins now, too weak to compare to insidious poisons concocted by Drow hands.

"I'll be fine. I have–'' Solistre blinks when a giggle meets her ears, and raises her eyes. She watches as the giggle builds up into a laugh, which seems to burst from Shadowheart's chest, as if held below the surface for too long.

Shadowheart leans back, clutching at her stomach as she collects herself slowly, all the while watched by an attentive red gaze. Her face seems to glow with gaiety in the dark, her smile wide and captivating. "Just joking! And you believed me – how precious."

Solistre rolls her eyes at the teasing croon, despite the small smile on her own lips. She lifts the orchids in her hand, offering them once more. This time, Shadowheart accepts them, her victorious smile turning soft as she looks down at the flowers.

"They're safe, by the way. And beautiful. Thank you." Her fingers brush gently over purple petals. "How did you even find this?"

"I was wandering the grounds. Spotted it by the barrier."

Shadowheart's mien tenses, her eyes flicking up sharply to meet Solistre's gaze. "'By' the barrier?"

Not for the first time, Solistre wonders when Shadowheart had gotten so adept at reading her, and if it is foolish to allow this to continue.

"Just a few paces from it," the fool replies, nonchalant. "On the outside."

"You went beyond the barrier. Alone?"

Solistre shrugs, if only to watch the exasperation build further in Shadowheart's disbelieving expression. "I had a torch."

"Don't do that again." Shadowheart leans forward, the look in her eyes insistent and sincere. "It's not worth it."

"It is."

A frown, and those persistent shadows that had dogged Shadowheart's gaze since they entered these cursed lands return once more, dispelling remnant joviality from her bright laugh. Solistre feels a pang in her chest – she misses it already.

Shadowheart glances down at the orchids. "I…do appreciate it. But not at a risk to your life, please."

When Solistre just shrugs, non-committal, Shadowheart smiles faintly. She knows better than to force an answer where Solistre has chosen to give none. "I don't have anything to give you in return."

Solistre cocks a brow. "Really. I suppose I'll take that back, then."

She reaches for the flowers, but Shadowheart moves it out of her reach, and sets a finger on her palm to push it back. The playful smile returns to her lips, and Solistre's eyes are drawn irresistibly back to it.

"Ahem, no. You shall not." Coyness glints in her eyes, further dispelling its shadows. "I'd hate to reward a kind gesture by breaking your fingers."

A smirk. "You can try."

"Don't make me." Shadowheart mirrors her expression, meeting the challenge with poise. "Give me some time – I'll see if there's a way I can make it up to you."

"I can think of a few things right now."

She holds Shadowheart's stare, through the palpable tension fallen over them. Familiar, frustrating, yet…not entirely undesirable.

What they have remains unnamed, sealed behind lips too accustomed to the safety of secrecy. Yet it hasn't stopped the teases, stolen glances, lingering touches, and kisses stolen in the dark. Neither has it stopped – ironically – a mutual exchange of deeply-hidden truths; Shadowheart's uncertainty bred by the brutal demands of her desperate faith, and Solistre's shame as the sole survivor of her family's demise in Menzoberranzan.

They have bared slivers of their souls, relished the feel of skin on warm skin – but something still stands between them, keeps them hovering on the edge of 'what-if'. Solistre's suspicion had grown in their time within the Sharran fortress-turned-duergar camp, where Shadowheart's religious fervour had been kindled anew. Now she has a name to that obstacle, when Shadowheart's faith had flared brighter at the sight of the shadow curse.

Shar, and her nothingness.

And Solistre refuses to be reduced to nothing. Not like this.

Driven by envious desire burning in her chest, drawn in by the weakness of want in soft green eyes – Solistre leans in to lay claim on Shadowheart's lips.

There is no resistance, and victory surges in her veins when Shadowheart responds, warm lips melding with hers as a hand pulls her in by the nape, deepening the kiss. Emboldened, Solistre claims another kiss, lips hot on Shadowheart's as she leans her weight forward, forcing the half-elf to tilt back. The hand on her nape slides tantalisingly down the curve of her neck, to rest on her shoulder – where it asserts a firm, familiar pressure.

Solistre's heart sinks, and she is left bereft when Shadowheart parts from her. The smile is a weak salve on her soul, as green eyes darken once more, from shadows deeper than the absence of light.

"Someone's eager." Shadowheart's voice takes on a teasing, velvet tone, but Solistre can hear the rasp beneath.

"You haven't seen 'eager' yet."

A bait – but Shadowheart doesn't take it. Instead, she stares back into red eyes, their breaths just close enough to mix, then pushes Solistre all the way back.

Accepting defeat, Solistre sits back, quiet in disappointment.

"One day. In the meantime…these will have to tide me over." Her smile turns inevitably softer when she gazes at the flowers again.

The sight makes Solistre's lips twitch into a faint curve, before she catches herself and tears her eyes away, stubbornly ignoring the catch of breath in her throat.

"I'll leave you to it," she utters. Without a backward glance, she leaves through the tent flaps before Shadowheart can finish saying 'good night'.

The air is lighter than its charged counterpart in the tent, and Solistre draws it deep into her lungs, expelling with the next breath the ache that had built in her chest.

What holds her back, Solistre wonders, as she strolls aimlessly into the long shadow of the inn. What makes her obey without question, where she would've taken anything she wanted with a noble's right, a mere decade ago.

Perhaps she has changed, hammered into a different shape by the social climes of the surface. Or, perhaps, she senses something in her heart's desire that would be crushed by her old possessiveness. Something precious, fragile, buried deep within Shadowheart's diamond-hard exterior; its reflection shining in green eyes during moonlit nights, while she unravelled her soul thread by cautious thread.

Something worth protecting – until Solistre can lay her own, world-weary eyes on it.

Is it an imagined prize, a haphazard excuse to survive, a hope to see something beautiful after all the blood and death since the nautiloid? Possibly. Her hope had died years ago, but she doesn't mind having it breathed back into her lungs anew, through those soft lips pressed against her own.


A/N: As mentioned above, this is a collection of shorter pieces. Heavier, more plot-related pieces will be uploaded separately. Thanks for reading!