Chapter Text
Up the hill there is a man. An elf? It's hard to tell from such an angle. What sticks out is the stark white of his hair, like her own, and the finery he wears. That of a courtier or noble. “You there!” He yells across the way. “Over here, help me!”
Zelda looks at Shadowheart for a second opinion. It’d become apparent that Shadowheart is, between the two of them, more knowledgeable, at least in the worldly way. Zelda can recall vague pictures of plants and mushrooms from books in her childhood that were then deemed unnecessary for her curriculum. It wasn’t as though she’d ever be leaving the townhouse anyway. Aside from that, she flounders. Shadowheart doesn’t know much about flora, but she knows how to get by, and is aware of the space around them. Together they’d gathered up a small stock of scavenged breads and cheeses to make camp that night. And Zelda certainly didn’t know how to pitch a tent.
Shadowheart is also not one for conversation. “We don’t have the luxury to ignore possible resources right now. He may know the area better than we do.” That and the call for help seemed genuine enough. So too do the worried shine of the man’s eyes as they make the trek to the top of the slope.
“Thank goodness,” He says once they're near him, voice lowered, hand waving them closer still. “I saw you,” Blood red eyes turn to Zelda, “with your fire. I’ve cornered another one of those brain things. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.” There is indeed a slight rustle in the brush of the shallow drop-off they overlook.
“He’s not of any use to us if he can’t wield his own weapon,” Shadowheart comments, arms folding over her chest, the hope she’d expressed waning just as it came.
But it feels like a given that Zelda will help. Like it did to free Shadowheart back on the nautiloid. There’s a contentment Zelda finds in it. It isn’t that she expects to be rewarded, but that she’s making this choice on her own, and that it is right. Like her parents kissing her skinned knees or Miss Bartram sneaking her strawberries before lunchtime. Not as soft, but just as kind. Zelda wants to be kind.
She nods and steps closer with light feet. The man’s hand settles briefly on her arm as she passes him by, tight with what must be thanks. She tries her best to look assuring and kneels before the bush. Another rustle, louder this time. She summons the embers of her first flame.
Out in the opposite direction speeds a small boar.
She sighs, not only in relief, but because the creature is a strange sort of cute. She’s never seen one in person. Birds and small mammals on the sides of the streets were scenic from the height of her balcony and had been about as tangible as the landscape portraits in the townhouse. She hopes soon she’ll be able to manifest speaking to animals. Assuming that is within the capabilities of a sorcerer, of course.
“No!” That’s Shadowheart. But why—
Zelda is breathless for a moment. Azure blue now fills her vision. How pretty the sky is on such a day.
What she feels is less pleasant. The point of something sharp mere moments from slicing through her throat. Its length presses into her jugular so that she may feel it bob along with her when she swallows. In an instinctual bid for protection, she presses the arm that holds the knife away from her, though it becomes an uneven grapple when taken by surprise. Her world narrows to the treacherous point of the blade.
She opens her mouth to speak. “Shh sh sh,” the voice in her ear warns. It is his, smoother and more vicious. It makes the knife at her neck appear a viper poised to bite. “Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that lovely neck.”
“I need her!” Shadowheart says through gritted teeth. She sounds angry, but she could flee unscathed. Zelda wishes she could say as much. “Stow your blade, or I’ll show you just how messy things can get.”
“You’ll have to get in line,” he laughs. “Now,” he redirects his attention back to her, “I saw you on the ship, didn’t I? One nod will do.” When she complies he continues on. “That’s right. Now tell me what you and those tentacled freaks have done to me.”
Nothing, she tries to say, though the words feel as though they’re coming from someone else. There’s a throbbing ache in her temple and then the vision of a dank alleyway. She steps soft alongside dilapidated walls, a hunger making itself known in her gut before all of it goes away.
The man is talking again. He is difficult to hear. His voice is audible but muffled as if drowned out, the words unclear. She is acutely aware of his other arm around her torso, one of his knees pressing her own flat against the dirt. She remembers the sound of him shushing her.
She needs to breathe. Right now.
The flame comes with a startling ease, singeing the man’s sleeve. As soon as he takes a quick, telltale breath in through his teeth, Zelda pushes and rolls away. She runs to stand back beside Shadowheart. She hopes she is hiding that her shoulders shake. How unsightly.
The white noise subsides while Shadowheart answers for her. Those were the tadpoles. Yes, they’re connecting us. The man is smiling now, as if nothing has happened at all. “To think,” he says with a flourish, “I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”
He is waiting for an answer that she cannot give. “Accepted,” Shadowheart cuts in. “I know I would’ve done the same.”
“A kindred spirit, then. I’m glad to see we still have our wits about us. Finally he tucks that knife into a notch in his studded belt. “I’m Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”
“Shadowheart.”
A beat.“And you, darling?” Astarion stoops to catch Zelda’s hollow gaze with a smile that feels just as empty. She tells him and he says it back to her, luxuriating in it. “Zelda.” He sizes her up. Aside from that, he is stone-still. She feels very small. “From the city too, are you? I caught a glimpse of it when we connected. From above.”
“I have magic,” she reminds him. Telling him doesn’t feel right. It's a safe bet, to follow Shadowheart’s secretive lead.
“Of course.” She cannot say if he is placated by the obfuscation or is just entertaining her. “So, do either of you know anything about these worms?” He leans toward them, hands on his hips, assessing. Viper.
“They’ll turn us into mind flayers,” she says. Shadowheart steps back, having been more than ready to answer.
“Turn us into—” Astarion devolves into short, sharp laughter, breaking her gaze for what feels like the first time in hours. “Of course it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?” His brow wrinkles, his voice lowers. Zelda gets the sense that wasn’t for their ears.
“If you can handle yourself with that dagger, you might as well come along,” Shadowheart supplies. “We’re searching for a healer or scholar who can help.”
“Well, it hasn’t happened yet,” he says. “Perhaps an expert might help us to control these things.”
“Or rather to rid ourselves of them entirely.” Shadowheart’s confusion is plain enough that Zelda can read it.
“First things first,” Astarion waves her off. He straightens his spine, gives them that smile once more. “I suppose sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea. Shall we go?”
Shadowheart nods. “We were planning on looping north, back around through the ship, and then finding a place to camp. Time is of the essence but we’re a little burnt out.”
“Well I’m fresh as a daisy. Why don’t I lead the way?” He pulls not one, but two daggers out from his belt again. They’re a fine, matching set, rich wooden handles gilded with golden wirework. They’re scuffed from however Astarion made his descent from the nautiloid but polished enough that Zelda is reflected in them. “Don’t touch,” Astarion winks before starting off in the indicated direction. “They’re sharp.”
Shadowheart walks at the back. “I can handle myself with a mace alright,” she explains, “but a staff is only so useful when you’re out of magic. I’m not dismissing your power,” as Astarion slashes through a bit of brush with ease, “I’m just being practical.” And she’s right. Zelda walks flanked by the two of them with no argument.
They walk in silence for a bit before Astarion looks back at Zelda and speaks up again. “If you still have a spell or two left in you, could you make us fly?”
Zelda stares. “What?”
“You were flying above Baldur’s Gate.”
She doesn’t know any such spell and has been in touch with her magic for less than a full day since childhood. And she’d rather not show her wings just yet. After years of keeping them to herself it seems obvious to continue to do so. She eyes the shortbow on Astarion’s back warily. “I can only cast it on one person at a time.” Which is true of her other spells, anyway.
“We’d make ourselves targets if there were enemies in the area,” Shadowheart says. It’s nice to have her support, even if it doesn’t come from concern.
Astarion shrugs. “It was worth a try.”
“Do let us know if you have any more clever ideas.” There’s a bit of bite in Shadowheart’s tone. Zelda resists the impulse to smile.
Astarion stops them before they can pass through the ship’s ruined interior again. “More of those things,” he warns, pointing out a few scuttling brain-dogs with the tip of one knife.
Shadowheart straps her shield to her non-dominant arm and draws her weapon. “I’m out of magic,” she tells Zelda. “Stay at a distance and get them from afar if you’re able.” Then she and Astarion crouch down and slink into the chamber, keeping to the divots and nooks in the walls.
One of the dogs twitches, perks up. Zelda hears nothing, but all three charge Shadowheart who steps out of the shadows with a curse and takes a heavy swing at the one nearest her.
Gore explodes from the brain’s frontal lobe. It hits the ground, stunned, and Zelda calls a firebolt. It doesn’t get back up. An arrow comes zipping through the air and lodges itself in another.
Both the remaining dogs bear down on Shadowheart, one with bloodied claws and the other with a wave of force that has her stumbling. She misses her next attack.
The danger isn’t extraordinary. Still, Zelda feels a rush of warmth rise up inside her, in her blood, centering around her heart. She breathes and watches it flood forth from her scabbed fingers. It is blinding like a small sun. It is prismatic. It is beautiful.
It chars the untouched brain on impact. The brain puffs a plume of ash, but the light lingers. Unseen in the light, Astarion sinks his dagger into the last one standing with frightening speed. It is pinned to the ground on impact, dead.
They take a moment to recover, quiet but for their heavy breaths. Shadowheart rights herself while Zelda approaches. “Do you need healing?” she asks. “I have a little left.”
“I’m fine,” Shadowheart stores her mace in the strap over her shoulder. “I doubt there’s anything here to scavenge. Shall we go?”
Astarion prods the tip of Zelda’s kill with his boot. “That wasn’t fire.”
“It was holy magic,” Shadowheart says. “I wasn’t sure it could be wielded without worshiping.” She looks at Zelda with a question in her eyes. “Do you serve a god?”
“No,” Zelda looks down at her fingers. She fidgets. “I willed it and it came.”
“Well,” Shadowheart takes a few steps towards the trees and the true sun, “It’s nice to meet a kindred spirit. Very impressive.”
“Ugh, holy magic,” Astarion says with a shudder as he walks with them.
Shadowheart squints. “Do you have a problem with the gods?”
“More like they have a problem with us.”
They travel through a crumbling corridor and happen upon a dead mind flayer, which Astarion robs for the reward of a single, perfect pearl. “Wares if we need them,” he says, before holding it to the ridge of his ear. “Alternatively, an earring.” Not a bad idea. The wares, that is. Astarion and Shadowheart have some money on them, but Zelda has nothing. Regardless, it disappears into his pockets, perhaps for good.
They wander on the left fork of the path which takes them back to the nautiloid anyway. “Why don’t we go back the way we came?” Shadowheart suggests. “The cliffs where we found Astarion. There was a sort of peninsula at the docks. We can camp there.”
“That’s alright,” he says, “though our little sorceress seems distracted.”
She is, occupied with a small glimmer on the flat side of a nearby ridge. She blinks hard. Still there, an unnatural purple color. “Do you see that as well?” She points it out.
Shadowheart leans in. “I do.” They both approach.
“If we stop for every pretty color we see we’ll soon turn a pretty shade of lavender ourselves,” Astarion calls as he checks his nails. “Not to mention the tentacles. A fate I, personally, would like to avoid.”
“There’s a sigil,” Shadowheart says, “just behind it.”
Before their eyes, the spark expands, spiraling outward in a flush of royal purple magic. When it stops the center of the vortex is infinite and dark, and though it pulses and propels the air around it into a stir, it has no pull to it, aside from the shock it gives to the skin.
An arm shoots out. “A hand? Anyone?”
Before anyone can stop him, or so much as react, Astarion slaps the hand with his own. Shadowheart shoves him to the side without any real force. It is still enough to make him stagger gracelessly.
“Ow!” the voice winces, the finger pointing. “Perhaps I should’ve clarified. A helping hand, if you would.”
Despite his fumble, Astarion appears more amused than compelled to help. “You have to admit that you were tempted.” Shadowheart rolls her eyes but doesn’t dignify him with a further response.
Zelda has long stopped listening. She touches the sigil again with great care. It doesn’t hurt past the initial sting. It tingles if anything. The sensation washes over her from head to toe with the weight of wine, and she lets it. All sounds fade but for her heartbeat in her ears.
“Whatever you’re doing is working wonders! Now a quick pull should do the trick.”
It doesn’t take long before he’s free, falling forward. She presses her hands up against him to keep him from hitting the ground, and, for a brief moment, is overcome by a heady floral scent before it’s gone.
The voice—the man—rolls his wrist with a groan before smiling. “Hello. I’m Gale of Waterdeep,” he takes her hand and shakes with gusto, then opens his mouth again before she can begin to contemplate how this Gale got so far from home. “Apologies, I’m usually better at this.”
“Are you alright?”
“A bit shocked, but friend, it’s a relief and a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Again, he doesn’t wait before he speaks. More surprising still is the kindness he instantly affords them all. “Say, but I do know you, don’t I? You were on the nautiloid as well.”
“I was, yes.”
“How did you come to be stuck in that stone, in the rune?” Shadowheart interjects.
“I don’t know what transpired, exactly, but the ship broke into pieces and I suddenly found myself in freefall.” Gale goes on to explain with more words than necessary, which Astarion makes known with a loud sigh, but Zelda hangs on to every one. She has never heard someone explain magic with such expertise, or at all, for that matter. “And how did you survive?”
“We’re not sure,” Zelda says. “Something stopped or slowed our fall.”
“I suppose it’s not useful to question the how of it all,” Gale says. “But we’re not out of the woods yet. Might I assume you were also on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the, ah, ocular region?”
“That’s right,” Shadowheart says. She takes on a more desperate candor, now actively listening. “What do you know about it?”
“Well, then you are aware it will turn us, after a period of excruciating gestation, into mind flayers?” He lifts a scholarly finger again to emphasize his point. “It is a process known as ceremorphosis, and let me assure you: it is to be avoided.”
“Well, can’t one or both of these two do something about it?” Astarion offers. “They both have healing magic. Not that I’m eager to undergo optic surgery, but if I could be put right afterward…”
“I will not overstate my own capabilities,” Shadowheart says, putting an end to that train of thought. “This is beyond me, and I presume it is the same for you.” Zelda nods her confirmation.
“Well, it isn’t a common affliction. Not many know how to deal with it.” Gale takes a look around. “We’re going to need proper help. You have a nice cohort already. What say you lend me a hand once more and allow me to join you?”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Zelda says. Astarion makes a face. Apparently, now that he’s joined up no one else can.
“What’s one more?” Shadowheart says with some reluctance. “Though I’d much rather keep on, we need rest. We’re going by the docks to make camp.”
“Most excellent,” Gale beams at them with an overwhelming brightness. “A parasite shared is a parasite halved, or something to that effect. I can cook up something well enough if we pool our resources.”
After a speed round of introductions, Shadowheart takes the lead this time, having memorized the path back to the planned campsite. Zelda sticks to Gale’s side, hoping he’ll talk more about magic without her having to necessarily initiate. Astarion takes up the tail end. She isn’t sure if that’s a good idea.
“Before you think you’re about to embark on a journey with most ill-mannered a man: thank you for pulling me out of that stone.” His gratitude feels genuine, as most things with him have so far. Maybe Gale is someone she doesn’t have to stress about reading. “It was a great kindness I won’t soon forget.”
“I wouldn’t leave someone alone like that,” Zelda says.
“I can guess that such kindness is just in your nature.” Then his eyes alight and he focuses wholly on her, taking a few steps ahead so that he can face her in totality. “You soothed the rune, yes?” She nods. “What was your process like, exactly? It may be a useful reference point for us in the future.”
Her heart sinks. “Well… I couldn’t say. I willed it to calm and it did.”
Gale ponders this for a spell before asking, with confidence, “You’re not versed in magic, are you?”
The question shocks her. It makes something inside of her chest pull taut. “I,” Zelda’s breath hitches at the back of her throat, “have as much magic in me as you.”
“Oh, I do apologize,” he amends. “I meant to ask if you are studied in magic. Namely, if you are a wizard. Which, well,” he laughs at a joke she does not understand, “you are not.”
“Not all of us have the privilege to study magic.” She doesn’t know what prompted that and she doesn’t stick around to find out. She speeds her pace to walk alongside Shadowheart.
“No, I only meant—”
“Mages and their egos,” Astarion sighs from behind with some disdain.
“I don’t think that’s it,” Gale says, subdued and humbled.
“A real charmer, aren’t you, Gale of Waterdeep?”
Zelda feels very, very small. It is a wretchedly familiar feeling.
