Chapter 12 – Lost at Sea
He was adrift on a sea of memories. Reflections of his own mind and hers, caught up in the turmoil of the waves as pain broke against lust and sorrow crashed over joy. Saltwater, sweat, and skin all melted together on his tongue to become one sensation that tasted of warmth and life, but it only lasted for a few seconds. He felt her fading from his reach; sinking back down into the darkness of oblivion with one last whisper.
I want you to live. I want you to live and find peace. Peace in the shallows, the old mariner's say…not in the deep…
Halsin and Shadowheart closed in, their weapons raised in a slightly menacing way. Not because they feared him necessarily. Rather because they feared what he would do next. But, to their surprise, they watched as their pale companion appeared to slowly lower his dagger with the hilt braced against his hip, his blank gaze staring off momentarily into the distance. He stood there for several moments as Cazador continued to cower and spit. Whether he really noticed it though was up for debate, until he turned back to his old master with a terrible gleam in his eyes.
"You…you're right." He suddenly replied to no one but the shadows. "I can be better than him."
Shadowheart traded worried glances with Halsin who chanced a sideways look at Lae'zel. But the githyanki warrior only glared at them, arms crossed and blade stowed, from her position nearest the main pedestal.
Astarion glowered over Cazador, a malicious smile starting to play at his lips.
"But I am not above enjoying this."
Without preamble or warning, the vampire spawn launched into an absolutely savage attack on his prone master, stabbing him over and over and over again with a relentless speed born of pure hatred. He gripped his head, yanked it back, slashing the elder's throat repeatedly until he took a small step to the side for better leverage, and punched his blade again and again into unprotected ribs. Blood erupted onto every surface. It soaked into Astarion's skin and splattered his face, chest, and arms. He screamed and struck harder, sinking the point of the dagger into unresisting flesh until he could no longer count the blows or even see where to strike next. Another gout of blood and it was all just a jumble of reds, purples, velvets, and gore. Astarion couldn't even see through the chaos of it all, but he didn't hesitate for even a second. Not so long as he was met with resistance or could hear the sopping wet wheezing of escaping breath. And then, Cazador fell.
He gurgled once and choked, his fingers flexed, and then, he lay still. Never to rise again.
The clang of the dagger hitting the floor startled the cleric and druid alike. But not as much as the sight of Astarion falling to his knees in a pool of blood an inch deep. He was shaking, trembling from his core, as he swayed unsteadily back and forth.
Though Shadowheart would never have admitted it, the sound of a soul tearing apart was nothing to the sound of a soul on the precipice of being reborn.
He let out a mournful sob. A short, pained sound that died away in the vast spaces of Cazador's temple. Then it was followed by a second, longer lament. A shivering wail of disbelief as he started to let go of his old self, the memories of torture finally beginning to uproot as they were dragged down into nothingness with the dying elder vampire. A sound of deserved grief and requited spite that can only be uttered by those who have sought vengeance for a lifetime without ever truly preparing for its end. And then a third cry, a howl of sorrow so anguished that tears actually spilled down his face from the regret, remorse, and repentance that overwhelmed him. Astarion's chest heaved in agony but not in heartbreak, and it was almost worse than if he'd been denied his revenge and destroyed by the ritual instead. That at least he could understand on a cosmic level. He deserved to die. To fail. To lose. Victory for him could never really be earned and he broke down under the weight of its laurels. He should be nothing but ash and oblivion by now.
But he wasn't.
Breathe, he told himself. Breathe.
The footsteps of many shuffled towards him and he felt the presences of his siblings gathering around. They were as unsure as he was and desperately afraid.
"Is…is it over?" It was Dalyria's voice that spoke. "Is he…?"
"Yes." Astarion replied, finally gaining control of himself again and stiffly getting back up to his feet. "He's gone." Since when did he sound so tired? So… drained?
"What does that mean for us?" Petras replied, the fear in his voice making the sound sharp, his tone almost snide. The other spawn hung back, their red-lit eyes fading as they looked from their savior to potential escapes.
"Us." Astarion repeated with a vaguely distracted look. And then, just as suddenly and without warning as he had attacked his sire, he turned and sprinted through the circle of gathered spawn. In fact, he moved so fast it took him less than a finger-count to cross the dais and take up the crumpled form heaped on top of the furthest pedestal. Through layers of blood-soaked taffeta and tulle, he tore through the unsalvageable mess of fabrics until he found her and freed her from her embroidered prison.
Lyric had crumbled in the brief aftermath of Cazador's death. Her fingers were bloodless white, and her face was smeared a clotted black. Red hair matted against her shoulders as the clicking of bones heralded even darker bruises. And her chest was utterly mutilated, with the cuts of the Profane Rite of Ascension still bleeding out around faintly blue tattoos covering even paler old scars in a writ of battles won and lost. But Astarion ignored all of it in favor of gently placing his palm against her cheek so he could turn her head up to him, cradling the rest of her in his lap as he knelt once again on the cold marble floor.
He felt her face and then laid his hand lower onto her neck, silently begging whatever gods might still be listening to feel a pulse. When his thoughts became more like threatening whatever gods might still be listening, he pressed down lightly. He didn't dare add any more pressure lest he injure her further, but he needed to know if Lyric was alive. He needed to feel her breath or her heartbeat, or he just might find it within himself to scrape up what he could find of Cazador's blood with a spoon and pour it all down her throat.
The first thing that happened however, was that her eyelid twitched. And then she took a short, painful breath. Beneath his palm, a steady heartbeat tapped worriedly behind her collarbone. She lived, but barely.
"Astarion!" He heard the druid call out from the near distance. "Is she alive? Is Lyric alive?"
"Halsin!" He snapped in response. "Get over here and do what it is you are actually good for! Now!"
Time passed slowly at first, with dreams of high oaken boughs shimmering in the sun. For a time, Lyric even imagined that she was back in their first wilderness camp following the crash of the nautiloid. Astarion was there too of course, coyly making eyes at her from the margins, still pretending he was just some lost magistrate from back in the High City. And Shadowheart too, glumly stuffing her secrets into her pillow at night while avoiding the raucous storytelling around the campfire that Wyll and Gale inevitably initiated once they were at least a few bottles of Amian dessert wine into the evening meal. And there was Karlach, egging them on naturally, while occasionally tossing in some utterly bizarre tale of Avernus to compliment Wyll's exploits as the famous Blade of Frontiers. Even Lae'zel was eventually drawn into the excitement, keen to one-up every victorious flourish with an example of her own prowess. Which, to the amusement of everyone, almost always ended with the githyanki recounting some unbelievable battle on the Astral Sea just as Gale was praising his cat. Lyric could see herself sitting there among them, laughing and cheering them on with a full glass raised high. Just like her crew on the deck of a ship lost at sea. What innocent times those were…
"And now thou seest the threads weaving together as they must…" Withers' familiar voice broke through the haze. Lyric felt as if she should turn around, but her body refused to move. Ah, that is because corpses cannot actually respond of their own accord, she reminded herself. The dream began to recede, darkness taking its place once more.
Lyric chuckled sadly and drew on an old mariner's poem in response. "The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; The game is done! I've won! I've won! Quoth she, and whistles thrice."
"Are those her ribs through which the Sun, Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that woman's mate?" He replied, the rhymes lilting from his airy rasp in a perfectly macabre way.
"Nice to see you, Bone Man." She sighed. "I guess those old sailor songs of death ought to be pretty familiar to you by now."
"Yes."
"Come to see me off to the down-deep then?"
"No."
Lyric tried to squint, to flex her jaw, anything that might be construed as a thoughtful motion. But, in truth, she felt nothing. No pain, no heat or cold, just constriction. An inability to take in her surroundings in any meaningful way.
"I'm…. not dead, am I?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"Thou walkst with death, child of the Tempest. But thou hast not yet realized the full nature of the inconstant seas before thee. That Munsa hath no Trial to offer, nor Undine a prayer to refuse, that thou hast not already answered. Death at sea has already come…and gone."
A sliver of pain stole into her, a throbbing ache at her side.
"Withers, what are you talking about? If I'm alive then why am I here? Oh, wait…is this a resurrection? Did I die back there? At Cazador's stupid dinner party turned Olivet's last dance? Is that what happened?"
"Yes." The wispy voice fluttered into her consciousness. "I regret to inform you that Témalíre Áinandiant Llyr of Eroth has passed forever from this world. She holds now to her last moment of joy, there as you can see, in the wilderness by the fire. But I shall see her into the Fugue, where all such souls must await their final judgement."
"Oh. Ok. So, I guess…. I guess they never found me then. Can you…can you tell Astarion that…I mean…if I'm never going to see him again, I'd want him to know that…"
"It is not necessary. For thou wilst tell him in thine own words."
"But you just said that Témalíre is dead."
"She is."
"But then how am I going to tell Astarion…"
"I have heard thine counsel and I know thy face. You are not Témalíre."
"I don't understand…"
"Lyric!"
Her eyes snapped open.
It was all blurry at first. A strangely melodic din of sound surrounded by the smell of polished wood and the feel of sunlight warming old rugs and damp, sheer, curtains. For a moment, she was sure that she was back aboard the Bellewether; having just awoken from an incredible, if weirdly detailed, dream. But as the ceiling came into focus, Lyric couldn't quite make sense of the ornate panels above her nor the soft mattress and clean sheets carefully tucked around her. From somewhere outside, she could hear the occasional shout of voices on the street and all of the other creaking, snapping sounds of a city in midmorning rush.
Glancing around in growing alarm, she saw then that she was lying in some kind of bed box; a rather upscale tavern accommodation that had a thick, plush mattress set on a raised platform with carved wooden walls on three sides for privacy. Walls that, irritatingly, also meant that she could only see out her left side, which apparently opened out into a lounging room containing several more such boxes along the far wall. Those, it seemed, were currently empty.
It was then however, that Lyric noticed she wasn't alone. The clean, cozy set-up she found herself in was also inhabited by another. Slowly, she raised her eyes and tried not to move, fearful of who exactly she was about to find keeping watch over her in such elegant lodgings.
Astarion. To her actual surprise, she was looking up at Astarion. He was sitting with his back leaning up against the upper corner of the compartment, one leg tossed forward to kick over the edge of the bed. Her head then, was actually resting on his lap and his right hand was absently sifting through her hair as he chewed on the thumbnail of his left, gazing out lost in his thoughts towards the conversations she could hear somewhere far away.
It also didn't escape her that he looked freshly washed and was dressed in clean clothes. A loose black shirt that teasingly revealed just a bit of his chest and comfortable leather pants completely devoid of blood or dirt. How long had she been out?
When she finally squirmed in discomfort, unsure as to why her normal range of motion didn't seem to be working right, he turned to her with a gentle smile.
"Look who's decided to finally rejoin the land of the living. Well, so to speak."
"Astarion?" It came out snarlier than she meant it to, but her mouth was so dry her teeth stuck together. "Where are we?"
"The Elfsong Tavern." He stated. "It's a bit of a story in how we got here but suffice to say, thanks to Shadowheart and Jaheira, of all people, we have something of a temporary hideout for the foreseeable future. Better than camping in the wilderness in any case and, well, we needed something more defensible until you were back with us again."
She groaned. "How long have I been out?"
He chuffed lightly and allowed her to sit up a little. "Three days."
Lyric sputtered. "Three days?! For Divine's sake, why didn't you shove a potion down my throat or something! We don't HAVE three days!"
With a soft hand to her back, he did his best to calm her. "We did everything we could. It's thanks to Shadowheart and Halsin that you're alive at all. When you didn't wake right away, Withers uhm…explained that we needed to wait for you to come around in your own time."
She whipped around to look at him. "Gods, Astarion, Cazador…"
"He's dead."
She paused, then finally noting her lover's oddly calm demeanor. "Dead. Are you sure?"
"Very sure." He almost laughed.
"And the others? What about all those other spawn and…"
"Shhh. You need to rest. You're not fully healed yet. But to your question, I sent them all into the Underdark. I mean, it wasn't my first choice, mind, but after some argument I decided to give them something of the same opportunity I have had. What they do, what they become, is up to them now. The mansion is empty. There's nothing left in that place but dust and rot."
"I…I…" She blinked. "But there's more. I saw…"
Again, he laid a hand against her cheek. "We know. There's a lot left we all need to discuss but now is not the time. Lae'zel and Gale have gone into the city to tie up a few loose ends while Karlach and Halsin finish resupplying. Shadowheart is here in case you need anything medically, though I believe she is taking a bath at present and Wyll is downstairs seeing to dinner."
Lyric finally chanced a sardonic smile in return. "And you?"
"Looking after you, of course."
Sighing, though sore, she leaned back into him, allowing Astarion to wrap his arms around her so that they could share in a rare moment of quiet contentment. Just the two of them, holding on to one another in the pale light of an otherwise unremarkable day.
But then the wrappings started to itch. Lyric looked down at her own body, only to see her entire torso and chest completely swathed in bandages from her neck to her waist. They even came down to her elbows with stray ends pinned around her hands. She looked like a mummy. A really well braided mummy.
"What's all this?"
Astarion took a slow, deep breath. "That's, well, something I have been sitting here for the last three days, wondering what I was going to tell you."
She glared at him reflexively. "Wondering what you were going to tell me?" The sarcasm crept into her voice unwittingly. "How about you just tell me what's going on."
"I take it that you don't remember." He replied evasively. "You don't remember the ballroom, or the dungeon."
"I…" Lyric clawed at her own memory, trying to dig up more than just a few fleeting images. She remembered the dinner party; she remembered the hilarity of Cazador's tantrums as she made an utter mockery of etiquette and propriety by flinging most of the delicately plated food directly at him. She remembered Olivet arriving later, after the spawn had rushed their master out in terrified haste. She remembered a dance, or something like it. They had been in a grand ballroom filled with treasures, gold, and bloodless corpses. She hadn't wanted to dance, that she knew. She had fought him, every step of the way. But then, he'd held up a crooked knife in his hand. She remembered fear, a sick sinking terror that had turned her stomach green. But then?
She looked down at the bandages covering nearly her entire body. "He…he did something to me, didn't he?"
"Yes." Astarion replied, his tone soft but direct.
"I guess it's pretty unrecognizable under there then. I mean, this isn't exactly the first time I've woken up to find that he…that he…"
Tears dripped down her cheeks as she lost the ability to form words. Olivet had finished what he'd started so many years ago. He'd finally taken everything he wanted. She could already feel the new scars crisscrossing her chest, drawing lines down her ribs and stomach all the way to her hip. She could feel the empty spaces where each of her breasts should have been, the right now just as carved clean as the left. Her flat chest shifted beneath the bindings, muscles untouched, but skin a modernist's sketch of a great star floating high above the marked lines of a life lived in the wilds.
"That's…that's it then…" She stuttered, a sob rolling unstoppable up her throat. "He's taken…all of me."
Lyric was suddenly held tighter than she's ever been; almost tight enough it seemed to melt all the broken pieces of her back together by the sheer heat of the pressure. His arms wrapped around her back; his hand cradled her head as her face fell into his neck. Astarion then even hauled her up fully into his lap where the protective vibrations that rumbled in his chest became fiercer.
"No." He growled. "He has taken nothing. Nothing."
Lyric was confused. She felt numb, as if her body didn't exist. But if it didn't exist, if, in fact, Olivet had succeeded in completely taking her apart, then what was Astarion holding on to so tightly? What, or who, had actually come back from that dark place?
The words he said to her then couldn't have been more unexpected. No, this couldn't be real. She had to still be dreaming.
"You are everything, Lyric. I love you."