Hi everyone,
Whether or not you're celebrating Christmas, I hope the end of the year gives you the chance to take a well-deserved rest and break. This chapter is about Nymuë's past, so we'll meet up with our companions in the next one. I hope you enjoy it!
Music recommendation: The Last of Us - All Gone (No Escape), by Gustavo Santaolalla.
I wish you all a good reading.
"I think I'd love to go to Waterdeep," Elyon whispered.
Nymuë opened one lazy eye. In this part of the Sword Coast, the air was still heavy despite the end of summer. The chirping of the locusts was so shrill that it overtook the din of the workers, putting up the marquee. Soon, the audience would arrive.
"Neverwinter isn't bad either," the dark elf said.
"I've never seen the sea. When we leave, it will be the first thing you show me."
"Baldur's Gate is closer, and they have beaches too, you know!"
The young woman straightened up; Elyon's wings reflected multicoloured lights with each of her movements. She was making a crown of flowers, her little nose scrunched up in concentration. Nymuë sighed:
"You know it's not for now, Elyon. If it's ever possible."
"She said next month, according to the finances."
"That's what she promised last month. And the one before. There will never be any 'good' finances, even if the circus is full every night."
"Then we could just leave. Take money, and horses."
"I've already told you no," Nymuë said. "We wouldn't go further than the first village."
"You haven't gone further than the first village," the teenarger murmured.
She gave her a resentful look, but stopped arguing. At thirteen, Elyon's heart was full of hopes and dreams for the future. There was a world beyond the tent that she longed to explore; but Nymuë knew. She knew that the rest of Faerun was just as odious as The Shining Star. That outside, she and her little fairy would be hunted down, even killed. The circus was not the worst of prisons.
In recent months, many travellers and small villages had been attacked, and the general atmosphere was desesperate. Most of the provinces had reluctantly opened their doors to them. Lady Seri had even raised the possibility of retreating to the city, until the looting had calmed down.
The two women headed towards the main caravan. Elyon had withdrawn into a morose silence, as usual. Nymuë feared that one day, she would have gone who knows where, lost on the moor or worse. The moment would soon come for the crowd to reveal itself in all its horror, without the protection of the marquee. In time, the teenager would understand that she had acted for her own good.
Brindille and Aktas had already put on their costumes for the evening. The Kobold was carefully tying a scarf around his neck, while the orc was choosing the hats for each of his two heads. Elyon grabbed her dress, a beautiful pink lace outfit, and left to change with a furious step.
Nymuë sat down at her dressing table, just as the caravan opened to Lady Seri. She wore a pinched expression, fiddling with the precious jewel hanging from her left ear. She was always keen to prepare herself 'according to her rank,' and that was the main use of The Shining Star's income. At her side, Tim - her handyman – looked very uncomfortable. His eyes fell nervously on the dark elf.
"You should reconsider your decision, ma'am." he murmured. "It would be better if she kept a low profile for today. You've always got the other three to take the fall."
"Do you want to explain to me, Tim, why I'm bothering to pay your mercenaries if they can't provide security for the performances?"
"My boys won't be here tonight," the interpellant grumbled.
The artists ceased all activity to witness this unexpected entertainment. Even Elyon discreetly leaned back from her screen.
"With the recent attacks, the towns need all the swords they can get," the henchman continued. "The burgomaster of Beregost had agreed to let us set up in exchange for extra protection. There was a drow raid the week before."
All eyes turned to Nymuë, who did her best to remain impassive. Dark elves expeditions to the surface weren't frequent, but always deadly. All they left behind were blood and ashes.
"So," Lady Seri summed up, "You financed our temporary accommodation with the men in charge of our protection?"
"I wanted to talk to you about it, ma'am," Tim objected, "but you told me you wouldn't be cancelling any performances."
"Don't put this off on me! I hope for your sake that the tent will be full tonight. If your incompetence ruins my profits, I'll remember it when I pay you your wages."
"Don't let the girl go on stage!" the flunky insisted. "The fairy, the lizard and the other ugly one will make the people laugh. But her? Ma'am, you're going to make them angry if they see a dark elf. They're at the end of their tether and have lost many of their own. They won't know the difference with our Nymuë."
"Angry, you say?" the matriarch thought slowly.
"Very, ma'am!"
"And is that what's worrying you? A bunch of peasants throwing tomatoes at my sweethearts? They're tougher than that. Nymuë knows that her role is essential for keeping morale up, don't you, my angel? By taking it upon herself, she's helping these people. They need us, Tim, those poor souls who have no one to turn to."
Paying no further attention to her valet, she walked over to the dark elf.
"I want you to look stunning tonight, my Nymuë," she purred. "I'll put you in the spotlight, and you can even play the violin. You'd like that, wouldn't you, darling? I'd be proud of you."
The young woman watched their reflection silently, not a sound escaping her lips. Her hands clenched on the edges of her stool.
The number of visitors exceeded Lady Seri's expectations; almost the entire village turned out. Despite their recent losses, the inhabitants of Beregost were determined to consume the few crumbs of joy within their reach. Nymuë was already in place, violin in hand. Around her, the matriarch was making last-minute alterations, pulling a crease here, smoothing a lock there. At the back of the stage, Elyon had positioned herself next to her trapeze. Brindille kept the audience waiting, while Aktas finished dressing his double figures.
"The spectators might be a bit vindictive," Lady Seri told the dark elf, "but you're used to that. If they ever get too agitated, make way for Elyon."
"I can't do my act without Nymuë," the teenager protested.
"You're a fairy, my dear. It's time to stop fearing emptiness."
"Music helps me," the young girl insisted. "You always said we are a duo."
"Well tonight, think of a solo. It's not that complicated!"
Elyon's eyes met hers, and the young woman smiled. Laughter and polite applause rang out from the stands, as Brindille's show was coming to an end. The matriarch disappeared backstage:
"And now, ladies and gentlemen... The Shining Star!"
The curtain rose, and for a split of second, Nymuë was dazzled. The clamour of cheers, Brindille's enchanted lights... She was in a suspended moment. This was probably why she didn't notice the abrupt end of the ovations. Around fifty souls filled the marquee, but just one had been enough for a deadly silence to reign.
The dark elf was used to arousing anger. Never before however, had she been confronted with such calm. She saw the same rage flowing through the heart of the audience, a frenzy that spoke for itself. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, her muscles stiffened; her instinct ordered her to flee at full speed. Far, far from this icy cold, from this hum that would soon become a scream. Instead, she held up her bow and began to play. She began a joyful ballad to accompany the antics of Aktas and Brindille ; Elyon graciously spread her wings.
The first cry came from the back of the room:
"Murderer!"
She couldn't see who it was. From backstage, Lady Seri beckoned her to continue, but the shouting resumed:
"Demon!"
"Children' cutthroats!"
The tumult surpassed the sound of her instrument. A few villagers had risen from the platform. She was grapped by the shoulder:
"Time to make way for the others," Tim whispered in her ear. "Leave the stage, miss."
The dark elf followed him, looking for Elyon. The little fairy was about to jump on her trapeze, but her face was racked with anxiety. The young woman walked towards her. Some spectators were trying to climb onto the boards.
"Ladies and gentlemen, stay calm," Brindille tempered. "No need to be violent, she's only our violinist! Please remain seated and..."
A stone hit him in the face. Roars now filled the tent, a hostile and furious mess. Nymuë groaned as a sharp pain struck her arm; one of the projectiles had grazed it. To her horror, she realised that it wasn't a rock, but a blade.
"We must go," she said, lifting Elyon up. "If we gallop all night, we'll reach Baldur's Gate by morning."
The fairy complied obediently, resting her head against her neck. Nymuë tried to make her way backstage, but all in vain. Two armed men were already advancing towards her. She soon spotted the trapdoor that Brindille used for his illusion acts.
"Elyon," she growled, "give me a hand!"
The teenager was heavy in her arms, and didn't move in the slightest to make her task easier. Two huge hands surrounded them, and Aktas took over.
"We'll have to be quick!" his two heads yelled. "On my mark!"
The orc flexed his muscles and the two women rushed into the mouth. Aktas jumped in after them, locking the exit. Darkness replaced the angry crowd.
"Down there!" someone cried. "They went that way!"
"That won't hold them for long," Aktas hissed. "Come, we have to go to the plains. I've spotted some caves near the caravans, we'll hide there."
Nymuë followed him blindly, one hand stretched forward, the other supporting Elyon. The trapdoor ended near the trailers. It was a practical passage for discreetly moving equipment during performances, or sometimes even exotic animals. For the moment, the riot seemed to be confined to the marquee. Taking care not to leave any trace of their passing, the small troop threaded their way between the caravans. Aktas guided them, his step alert and confident, his two figures watching both their right and left. After a few meters, he pointed out a rocky ridge hidden by trees:
"I discovered this place shortly after the first rumours of looting. I memorised its location, thinking it might come in handy in a crisis. I did well, I think."
The orc invited them forward, revealing an entrance behind wooden planks. He wasn't joking about a crisis, as the cave already contained supplies, blankets, and a few lamps hanging from the ceiling.
"Tim," Nymuë understood. "He helped you prepare for retreat."
"Yes. I told him about the cave, and he gave me what I needed to last a few days, if it came to that. Brindille is supposed to warn Lady Seri. We would have told her sooner, but... you know her."
The dak elf nodded as he switched on one lamp. She cast a worried glance outwards.
"Don't worry Nymuë, it's deep enough that the light won't alert anyone. We'll limit ourselves to a single candle."
"I should have taken Tim's side," the young woman murmured. "Or I should have disguised. I'm sorry, Aktas."
"No, little one. You don't have to apologise for other people's bad decisions."
He paused for a moment, and his eyes fell on Elyon. The teenager had said nothing throughout their escape. Nymuë followed her friend's gaze and saw a crimson spot between the fairy's wings.
"No," she whispered. "Aktas, bring me some clean linen. Medicinal herbs, quickly!"
She laid Elyon on one of the straw mattresses, staring in horror at the knife half-hidden by her leotard. The girl's breathing was laboured, while her eyes darted about without settling anywhere. The dark elf relived the scene in slow motion: the wound on her arm, the jet having narrowly missed her. Was this dagger intended for her?
"Elyon," she whispered, "look at me. It's going to be okay. I'll remove the blade from you, make you a bandage and then we'll find a healer. You must keep your eyes open a little longer."
"Shall we go and see the sea?" Elyon breathed.
"Yes. We'll even take the boat. And when we've explored everything, we'll find an airship and visit the sky. You'll be able to fly next to it."
"Will you play the violin?"
"All your favourite songs. As many times as you want. But Elyon, I beg you, stay with me."
Aktas didn't move, a pained expression on his face. His many eyes searched Nymuë's, but she refused to read what she already knew. That the blade had sunk too deep. That the heart had been struck. That the victim had already lost too much blood.
"I didn't want to do the trapeze without your music," Elyon said. "Seri refused to listen."
"But I didn't leave you, did I? I came to get you. So don't abandon me either."
"I can protect you too," the teenager murmured. "I dreamt about it: I saw a setting sun and a river on fire. I saw a sky full of rocks and stars. And there was a city, a big one; some people were laughing, others were crying."
"We'll see them," the dark elf pleaded. "You'll see it all. But you must stay awake."
"I'm glad... that you found me."
Her trembling subsided; a single tear rolled down her cheek. She had once told Nymuë that her journey to Faerun had been both very short and infinitely long. In the eyes of the fairies, time was malleable, sometimes even 'frozen'. It was only on the Material Plane that the hourglass flowed continuously. Her passage had been completed in the blink of an eye; she had started it at the first ring of the bell and finished at the second.
She had come into this world and into Nymuë's life as suddenly as a breath of wind; and so she left.
The journey to Berdusk, the Jewel of the Vale, took four days. From the window of her caravan, Nymuë could see nothing but a succession of bleak fields. In normal circumstances, such a trip would have been childishly simple. But the roads weren't safe, so the members of The Shining Star had been forced to take many detours.
The dark elf tugged mechanically at the chains on her wrists. Since Beregost's accident, Lady Seri had locked her up in one of the trailers to avoid 'any further disaster'. In reality, she feared that the young woman would attack her again.
Brindille, Tim, and the matriarch had joined them in their hideout a few hours after Elyon's death. The Kobold had closed the little fairy's green eyes tenderly.
Lady Seri was beside herself. She had started by accusing Tim of not having warned her enough about the danger. Then, she had blamed Brindille for his lack of reaction. Finally, she had turned to Nymuë:
"And you, couldn't you disappear from the stage when you were asked to, instead of strutting around? I'm left with one less artist, and it's all your fault, my dear. You can be sure that when it comes to your salary…"
The dark elf had lost control. Grabbing the knife next to Elyon, she had rushed towards the matriarch. It had taken the combined strength of Aktas and Tim to prevent her from leaping at her throat.
"Beast," Seri had whispered. "There may be some truth in what they say about the drows!"
Nymuë had struggled on until she received a powerful blow to the back of her skull. When she woke up, the sun was high in the sky, and she was handcuffed inside a trailer. She hadn't come out since, refusing to eat or talk to anyone, except for Brindille:
"What have you done with Elyon?" she asked him.
The Kobold gently touched her arm:
"She disintegrated in the early morning. Hundreds of particles in every colour of the rainbow. I got it all before Seri saw it; fairy dust is valuable on the market... It's all there. I think she would have wanted you to get them. Throw them in the ocean, or something."
He placed a purple satin purse beside her, which she hadn't glanced at. He then cleared his throat:
"It's little consolation, I know, but I found this too."
She recognised her violin, in good condition despite a few scratches. Nymuë clutched the bow in her hands until it hurt.
She remembered her last conversation with Elyon, the afternoon before the performance. She had believed that the little fairy would understand her reluctance to leave once confronted with the true nature of the outside world. Tears of rage burned her eyes:
"Congratulations Nymuë," she thought. "You're a damned prophet." A damned prophet who had done nothing. Who had sat back, and watched the world become a vast chaos. A collection of screams and obscure gestures. And now, every time she tried to sleep, she heard the voices. "Murderer," they accused. "Deep down, all those people were right to be angry with you."
"I didn't want that," the dark elf replied. "I never wanted that."
"Oh, you've never wanted much, Nymuë, and that's the problem. You don't aspire to anything, you don't say anything, you keep your head down and you wait."
"It's Lady Seri's fault. It's this bloody circus's fault!"
"And you were the best clown."
The caravans stopped as a rider approached. The matriarch's voice reached her:
"We can't settle inside the city," she said. "Those damned Guild brigands are everywhere."
"I would have thought them in Baldur's Gate..." Tim reflected.
"It seems they're sending their lackeys into every town now! Just to 'collect debts', they say. I did business with their boss a few years ago... And they refuse to let us through until I've paid them their dues! Thieving bastards!"
"Couldn't you, exceptionally…"
Lady Seri's shout cut Aktas off:
"There's no way I'm paying these criminals a single coin. Let them go back to their cursed sewers and rot! Tomorrow, I'll sell Nymuë. That'll give us a bit of money to spare, enough to attract the highest bidder."
A silence greeted her announcement:
"Sell... Nymuë?" Brindille repeated.
"You saw her. The poor girl's been half-mad since Elyon died. A drow's head is worth a lot at a time like this."
No one in the group protested. Ah! How beautiful their family was... Even Aktas and Brindille had chosen to abandon her to save their skins. Never matter; she didn't care what happened to her.
As evening began to fall, they set up camp. Lady Seri chose Aktas and Tim to accompany her to negotiate rations, while Brindille kept an eye on the caravans.
The dark elf let herself slide against the wall of her prison. She didn't feel frightened. Not serene, either. Strangely, she was indifferent to the idea of her imminent demise. Like a problem to be dealt with by someone else.
It was a pity. It was for the best. Who cared?
"Frankly, you're the most depressing chickadee I've ever seen."
Nymuë gasped; a man was watching her from the window. He must have been in his thirties, a human if she was to believe his features. His hood partially concealed his face, but the young woman could clearly see two brown eyes looking at her mockingly:
"Since when does a circus carry a drow, tell me?"
"Who are you?" she asked.
"The one who asks the questions. So, chickadee, what did you do to end up here?
At her puzzled expression, he showed off her yellow and black lace parade dress:
"And you have blue skin," he said as if that were obvious. "A chickadee, in other words."
"Are you a poet?" she quipped. "Because you've clearly failed in your career."
"And you're not a mercenary, so spare me the kingpin routine. What are you doing here, kid?"
"I'm a drow. Doesn't that explain the chains?"
"But not the violin."
She stared at him, noting his leather clothes and the daggers at his belt:
"And you, you have all the paraphernalia of a thief."
"Depressing but clever," he smiled. "You know what I think, chickadee? You're a musician in this gang of degenerates. And you did something that Seri didn't like, which is why you're in irons. Which means that you and I can get along."
"I don't give a damn about your business. Get out of here, or I'll alert Brindille."
"Your friend Kobold has gone for a nap."
"Brindille would never go to sleep while he's on watch."
"He's gone for a nap, with the help of my mace."
"And he's the one calling the others degenerates," she thought.
The man took out a pipe from under his cloak, which he lit nonchalantly:
"It seems that Seri wants to sell a drow on the black market. Apparently, the guy who'll buy her will make her wish she'd never been born."
"How do you know?" Nymuë asked.
"Sweetheart, I'm the black market. Me, and my little comrades."
Their eyes met through the bars of the caravan. He continued:
"Your lack of reaction tells me that you already knew. Hence the depression, I guess."
"You're part of the Guild," the young woman realised. "Seri is up to her neck in debt, but you know that she'll categorically refuse to pay you. So you came to steal from her."
"I could search these trailers until dawn," the stranger agreed, "But it would be a waste of time. Besides, I don't know when your friends will be back. I can also call on someone who knows exactly where what I'm looking for is; and release this person at the same time."
"Not interested," she replied.
Nymuë turned her attention back to the wall in front of her. Contrary to what she had hoped, the man didn't interpret this as a dismissal. Instead, he examined her:
"In this world, chickadee, we have two choices."
"Survive or die," the dark elf retorted. "Thank you poet."
"You can't dodge every blow. You can't avoid injuries. Whatever you do, you'll end up in the arena. The only decision you have left is whether or not to take up arms."
The young woman continued to stare straight ahead, but her head was slightly tilted: she was listening. The thief slid one of his daggers inside the caravan.
"I don't know what you've been through, and I have no doubt that a part of you most certainly wants to die. I too wanted it, long ago. But my experience tells me that you don't handcuff someone who has completely stopped fighting."
"I can stab you with this knife," she said in a conversational tone.
"You're funny."
Nymuë thought for a moment. Was she seriously considering the words of this stranger? Why should she 'take up arms' exactly?
"Why?" she finally breathed.
"Why, what?"
"Why did you wish to die in the past?"
The thief took a puff from his pipe. His answer was a whisper:
"My wife and daughter. They got sick. We didn't have enough money for a healer."
"No one agreed to help you?" Nymuë asked.
"All the fucking priests in Baldur's Gate sent me away. I promised my services to anyone who would listen to me, but in this life, if you don't have power or money it's like being dumb. They died after a week of agony."
"And why did you stay in the arena?" she wondered. "Why did you choose to continue?"
"That, chickadee, is my business alone."
The dark elf reached out and grabbed his dagger. A clicking sound told her that was the signal the stranger was waiting for to open the door:
"Good choice, kid. I'm Revan."
"I don't care."
"It's not gratitude that's choking you!"
"I'll only help you on one condition," Nymuë said. "The Guild is based in Baldur's Gate. After your little robbery, you take me there. Safely."
"Did you take me for a fucking field guard?"
"I take you for someone who doesn't have many options."
"Ah! Even more of a pain than the Zentharim. And here I thought I'd negotiated with every brat in the world..."
He undid her cuffs, and Nymuë joined him with hesitant steps. When Revan removed his hood, it revealed a huge smile:
"You're a hell of a find, chickadee."
END NOTES
Here it is... I've made no secret of Elyon's fate in the previous chapters, so I don't think the circus scene will come as a surprise. It was still important, however, to show you the circumstances of her death. This chapter also allowed me to introduce you to Revan, Nymuë's mentor at Baldur's Gate. I hope you enjoyed this character, because we'll be meeting him again in the future.
In my chapter segmentation, I decided to finish my Act I earlier than the game. Officially, Act II starts when we reach the land of the shadow curse. From a narrative point of view, I thought it more appropriate to cut it off just after the tiefling party, so the next chapter will be the last of this first part. To celebrate, I'll be adding a few extras.
Thank you for reading and have a great week!