Chapter 2

The Aftertaste of Sangreál

Fuck.

Resilient though Shadowheart was, and for all her gifts and abilities as a divine cleric of Shar, an aspiring Dark Justiciar, and the "composer of the Nightsinger's greatest symphony" (as Volo once called her before nearly losing his tongue), she was afraid. While not a stranger to fear, it was an emotion she was used to being able to overcome, whether with a sword, a spell, or a sly word. But this was a new type, a new flavor of fear. And it tasted like old leather and Sangreál.

Shadowheart woke to the smell of pine sap. As her eyes fluttered open, she squinted. The early morning sun peeked through her tent's canvas door, illuminating the small space with a warmth contrasted by the cold fear she felt in her belly.

Fuck, she thought again, the intensity of the word cutting through her hazy, muddled mind. She turned onto her other side, away from the sun's rays, asleep to the world.

What the hells was last night? It wasn't right. It wasn't right. It wasn't right… She closed her eyes again, a tear threatening. She had felt her devotion to Shar waver, if only for a few moments at a time. The fool she had been, allowing herself to indulge in petty fantasy. Nothing transcends my loyalty to the Dark Lady, she assured herself. Nothing. Not even the basest desires of my flesh will corrupt me.

In her mind's eye, Shadowheart saw herself kneeling in front of the Mother Superior, the Mother with her hand outstretched to Shadowheart's forehead, blessing her with a mission so secretive and so important that Shadowheart herself couldn't know about it–and so her mind was wiped, the only hope of regaining it coming from completing the task given: Get to Baldur's Gate.

She remembered that moment fondly–how her chest had swelled upon hearing "This is your task," the proud prickle in her eyes as she saw the Mother select her above all other clerics–Shar's chosen, she thought–and the extra energy in her feet as she began her journey to Baldur's Gate. She could see the moment, feel it, hear it, smell it–the incense she burned nightly came from her former temple. Home. Or was it? As her grip on the memory faded, a new image replaced it. No. Not again.

She impulsively covered her right hand with her left. It still stung from last night, when, after Tav had left, she had felt Shar's searing fury ignite her hand in divine judgment. Shadowheart had known what she had done and said with Tav was wrong, and Shar knew she had done it. Shar always knew. But–this time–she was spared from the sting.

"Thank you, Lady Shar," she breathed. And yet…in the peripheral of her mind she could still see Tav–the Selûnite, she tried to correct herself–as she opened her eyes, holding her as he carried her back to their camp. She could still see the way his eyes lit up when he made her laugh. She could still feel his arms around her neck and legs, holding her gently. She even remembered pretending to fall asleep, keeping her eyelids just ajar enough to watch him for a moment. He had looked at her, searching her face–for what she couldn't say, but there had been a curiosity and a warmth she'd seen in his eyes before sleep took her. She could still see–

"Oh shit!" Shadowheart half-yelled as her hand started burning. It felt as if her hand had made a deal with a devil and broken it–the heat of a white-hot fire lit by kindling of promises made and broken. She sat up quickly, holding her knees and hand close to her chest. Her braid cut the air as she threw her head back, mouth opened in a silent, pleading cry as the pain throbbed, throbbed, then faded. Her cheeks blazed in shame, made all the more potent by the cold, black void she felt in her stomach. I serve the Dark Lady, she thought. I do not serve myself or the lies of my mind. Shar knows what is best for me. She does. I know she does.

She threw off her blankets and took a deep breath, hiding a scowl of shame with her perfected frown. They can't know. He can't know. She slipped on her sandals, then stood and exited her tent in one smooth motion, nearly bumping into–Oh, hells.

"You have something of mine?" Tav prompted. His deep brown eyes held a quizzical look, as if they harbored a secret known only to him.

"I do?" she questioned. Idiot, she thought, then smiled at Tav. "Oh. Yes. Your jacket." She took it off–she had forgotten that, during the night, she had slipped her arms into the fuzzy sleeves and almost became a part of it, losing herself in his–its–warmth. "Thanks again for letting me use it–it kept me very warm last night." A blush began to creep into her cheeks, fighting against her common sense, and her heart started to pound. "If you'll excuse me, I need to…to do something. I'll see you soon. When we break camp. Yes. Ok. See you soon, Tav."

She managed to turn before Tav could see the blush win out. Once we're on the road again, it'll be just like it's always been. Maybe Karlach's right. Maybe battle could clear my mind. She held her head a little higher. Shadowheart ducked back into her tent, changed into her armor, and armed herself. She looked longingly at her mace, lying beside her shield in the corner of her tent. She closed her eyes. May Shar grant a swift death to my enemies, and may she grant me discernment. Her eyes started to sting. Her heart fluttered. Once more she felt that cold pit in her stomach–a yawning void. Her breath hitched. I don't know what to do. I don't know. I don't know. I don't– She opened her eyes in revelation. No. I know.

There were many things Shadowheart learned under the tutelage of the Mother Superior, not the least of which was the inevitability of loss. However, there was one thing she learned personally from Shar, the Dark Lady, the Nightsinger and Goddess of Darkness and Loss. A way to retain control of fear while simultaneously banishing it. A way out of this silly, childish predicament that would simply not leave her alone. Something she had been forced to do, as well as something she had worked hard to do.

I will forget.