Chapter Text
After several months left in agony, the thing that you’ve been waiting for arrives.
As these things often go, the letter arrives precisely as you reach the point that you’ve almost given up on it entirely, tucked between a pile of less important correspondences. You toss the other pieces of mail to the side, to be forgotten about until much later. That may come back to bite you. In the early days, you had hoped and prayed for the letter every day, unable to concentrate on anything else. The days since have not gotten any easier, but at some point it fell to the back of your consciousness and allowed you to go about life as normal again. You are no longer watching out the window for the mail to be delivered every day, hiding behind the curtains and holding your breath to avoid making awkward eye contact with the delivery person again.
“I’ll write as often as I’m able, I promise.”
The words have been a sour echo in your mind, but now you are able to cast aside the doubts that had been infiltrating and feeding a slow drip of poison to your heart.
The letter smells like the dying remnants of a campfire on a late summer night, mixed with sulfur, blood, and brimstone. It arrives in a yellowing envelope with an unrefined gob of black wax sticking it closed, with your name on the outside in a familiar, dancing script that doesn't suit the rest of the note. Finally, after months of silence... a letter from Avernus. A sign that your friends are okay, and alive. A sign that Wyll is okay. It is the best gift you could receive right now after being left in total darkness, to come up with your own terrible conclusions of what might have happened to them. Although you know that Wyll and Karlach are strong and you trust them to fend for themselves, the silence has left you with a rotting hole in your heart, infected with anxiety. All you can think is that if they both fell at once, you’d never know. They would be lost to the hells, and you would be cursed to wonder about their fate for the rest of your days.
Wyll.
The thought of him makes your heart ache. His touch, his kiss... your skin has stopped prickling up at the thought of it. Every day the memory fades a little more, and you have so little left to hold onto. His words might reignite that passion in your soul, so that you might remember how to hope for him again. So that you might remember what it feels like to be loved. To be known. Despite the knowledge of how difficult it might be to send letters across the planes... what has taken this letter so long? There's no doubt that you've been feeling a seed of resentment encroaching lately - a slow rising river in a season of rain.
Your hands tremble as you tear open the letter unceremoniously - you have no time to dig through his desk to find the letter opener and so instead you rip it open with your fingers. Heart beating to the pace of galloping hooves, your grip is clumsy and rushed. The envelope is a casualty of your carelessness, but you’ve never been one to save them anyway. The parchment inside is just as discolored as the shredded envelope, wrinkled and singed in several places - it seems that hellfire is no exaggeration. When you unfold it, your brow furrows in disappointment. You expect several pages worth of information from someone you haven’t seen in months - not a single measly piece of paper.
“I’ll write every night, I swear it. If I’m not able to send letters frequently, expect a heavy bundle of them by the time I can.”
A hollow promise. The letter in your hands is short. A little over a paragraph - if you can even call it that. You have to read it over dozens of times before it processes. The first time through, the words might as well be written in a long dead language, and you almost think it's coded. There must be a cipher to break. You might as well be trying to read Infernal, as the words do not come to you beyond a string of meaningless letters strung together on a beaded necklace with no pattern.
The second time, you realize the words are indeed in your familiar tongue, and they take shape on the page but hold no meaning. It takes you ages to make sense of the simple sentences he’s written.
The third, fourth, fifth.... sixteenth time, the words take meaning, but you don't understand. Although the words now form legible sentences, you cannot process them. You read it over and over and over again. It still doesn’t make sense.
No.
This can’t be real. It isn’t real. It isn’t… it isn’t . You feel dizzy. There isn’t even a greeting or proper structure to the message that must have been a bear to get to you in the first place. As many times as you try to read it in Wyll’s voice, you just can’t make it sound like him.
A dagger has just been lodged into your chest, and shimmied around for good measure to make sure that you’re good and hurt.
I am sorry. I agonized over the contents of this letter for weeks, but in the end I’ve decided it is best to keep it brief. I will not be returning to Baldur’s Gate. This is goodbye.
I have found a purpose in Avernus far greater than I was ever expecting. Karlach and I make a good team, and we have discovered much about ourselves in our time here. I know this news will hurt you. I wish you had been able to come with us… maybe things would have been different. But then, the hells are rough, and I would never wish them upon you.
May you find happiness.
You’ve just been dumped… by Wyll Ravengard.
You rip the thin gold band, a promise ring, from your finger and send it clattering across the floor. You don’t take note of its final resting place, and you don’t care. It wasn’t an engagement ring - he had made that quite clear before he left for Avernus with Karlach. But it was a symbol of his commitment to you, and he swore up and down that he intended to properly court and propose to you on his return. You believed every word, and why wouldn’t you? He was your prince. He was everything.
Every night since he left, you’ve dreamed of nothing but him and the life you would make together when he returned. You sent letters back and forth with your family gushing about him. You agreed to look after Baldur’s Gate in his absence, acting as Grand Duke by proxy for gods’ sake. You hardly knew a thing about politics or leadership, and yet you took on his entire job. You learned. You thought he would come back. The entirety of Baldur’s Gate thought he would come back, and it was the only reason they tolerated your temporary hold on the position.
Except he’s not coming back. Now what?
Why couldn’t he at least be bothered to tell you what the fuck to do about the city?
You pace his bedroom in his estate, the place that you’ve called home for the past eight months. The letter gives no further instructions. So what then - are you meant to continue to rule in his absence? Find somewhere else to live? You agreed to be Wyll’s lover, his partner, and his eventual wife. You only agreed to take on the responsibilities of Grand Duke until he returned from Avernus, a tentative arrangement so he could help Karlach and settle a score.
He’s not coming back.
You stare again at the letter, looking for any sort of sign of a code, or a forgery, but you see none. The letter is authentic, it is written in his hand, and there is no secret code that begs for help or rescue. He has left you all alone, holding his bag.
For Karlach.
Karlach.
You were so sure that Karlach was your best friend, the way that you had confided in one another on the road. You remember spending many late nights with your bedrolls pressed close together, giggling and whispering until the others begged you to shut up. You remember giving her a hug for the first time, and how she repeated tirelessly that she’d someday find a way to repay you. She didn’t know at the time that you just found joy in her exuberance. You helped her because you wanted to. You loved her almost as much as you loved Wyll, and it was why you allowed him to go with her when you couldn’t. You couldn’t stand the thought of her going to Avernus, the place she hated, all on her own with no one to support her. She swore she’d never go back there, and yet in the end the situation required it, because no one was willing to let her die prematurely on account of the infernal engine.
Wyll promised. Just a few months.
They’d be back in just a few months . He kissed you goodbye. Karlach gave you a long hug that left your shoulders aching in her memory for the days that followed.
You longed to go with them, but you couldn’t. The final fight with the netherbrain had nearly killed you, leaving you with a broken leg that was mangled beyond the healing abilities of even an experienced spellcaster. And so you were forced to watch your lover and your best friend traipse off into the hells together without you, carrying the flame of a life saving mission and a vendetta against Zariel.
And now they’ve found solace in each other’s arms.
Of course you shouldn’t be surprised. Avernus is notoriously awful, and they are likely bombarded by terrors at all hours of the day in an endless onslaught. Trauma is the very thing that brought all of you together in the first place. The thing that brought you and Wyll together in the first place. It’s hard not to get close when you walk through the same darkness together - and now they function as the other’s only comfort in the world. You should have expected this to happen, and yet you didn’t. You trusted both of them.
You shouldn’t be surprised because everyone loves Karlach. She’s impossible not to adore, and it’s maddening though not misplaced. Even now there is a tiny part of you that is relieved she found a shred of happiness after everything she’s been through. You see now how perfect the pair were for one another all along.
You fight the urge to scream aloud.
You don’t know how to break the news to the city officials, so you don’t. You convince yourself that you will when the time is right, because it isn’t like you want the power that you currently hold. It isn't possible that Wyll isn't coming back. He has to. The city will burn without his leadership - everyone is convinced of it.
However, even trapped in a state of self-pity that leads you to neglect properly caring for yourself in the weeks that follow, you find yourself hesitant to share word of Wyll’s abdication of his position. The city is still in a precarious state as it struggles to rebuild itself, and a void of power will weaken it considerably. Internal and external forces will fight tooth and nail to establish a new order if given the opportunity. And so you decide to remain quiet, burning the evidence of his letter to ash. You will tell them eventually, but first you have to write back to him, somehow. The letter didn’t include a return address, and how is one meant to send a letter to Avernus, in any case? Wyll isn’t likely to have a mailing address on the front lines. The longer you wait to share the news, the heavier the burden of the knowledge weighs on you.
He has to write again eventually. That can’t be all he has to say - surely he didn’t forget that he’s responsible for an entire city now. He can break up with you, but he can’t break up with Baldur’s Gate. He has to address his responsibilities at some point, because he can’t intend to leave the city in your hands forever. Without further guidance, you have no choice to continue business as usual, trapped by your own sense of duty.
Several more weeks pass, and decisions become easier to make, because you no longer pressure or expect yourself to be a reflection of Wyll, nor do you spend hours agonizing over what choice you believe he would make. You just choose, and so far there have been no catastrophic consequences. You don’t shoulder the entire burden anyway, still held to the existing processes of the Council of Four. You know that they grow increasingly resentful of you as Wyll remains away, although they feign politeness in your presence. It is only a matter of time now before things reach a boiling point and someone brings up Wyll Ravengard’s absence again.
You are more isolated than ever. Before, you were able to convince yourself that everything you did and every choice you made led towards a higher purpose as you planned your future life with Wyll at your side.
Now, there is only loneliness. Life in Baldur’s Gate goes on… the city starts to rebuild in earnest. You try to rebuild the broken pieces of yourself alongside it.
You continue to care for the Ravengard Estate, if only because you have to. If you move elsewhere, word will get out, and it will bring with it questions that you can’t answer without exposing the deep hole of lies that you’ve started to dig. It’s a large, lonely building in the Upper City that had been spared from much of the damage from the final battle that felled the netherbrain. Any damage it had taken was now repaired, a ‘priority’ on the city’s dime. You hadn’t protested it at the time, but now you wish you had. Lately, the financial matters of Baldur’s Gate are looking rather grim, and it doesn’t sit well in your gut to have used its money for rebuilding private estates of government officials. But it was decided upon by all of the Councilors in a meeting soon after Wyll left to Avernus - and of course it was. They all benefited from it.
Without a Ravengard to make decisions for the estate - the repair choices came down to you, and the home now feels, at least partly, yours. You’ve selected a new bedroom for yourself in a refurbished part of the manor - one that Wyll has never touched or slept in. It helps distance you from him, no longer able to smell his cologne in the air or in his old clothing. Still you spend your nights awake, staring at the ceiling. You torment yourself by reliving every interaction between yourself, Wyll, and Karlach - wondering just for how long and how deep the feelings ran. There’s evidence that something more was budding between them even while he courted you - inside jokes, stolen glances, and private moments that would leave both of them smiling. They have always been good people at heart though, and you know that it never went further than a wistful longing or a comment that could easily be written off as something between close friends. You suspect that the emotional chasm started in earnest after Karlach could be touched again. Before that, she never would have considered the possibility of romance - a means to guard her heart and the heart of another. To protect them from the cruel reality that they might never touch.
Was it Wyll she was looking at over your shoulder as she hugged you the first time?
By the time the first anniversary of the battle comes up on the calendar, you have released most of the servants that care for the home from their contracts, save for two. You would release them too, if only they had anywhere to go. Barnabus Shackleford and Gretta Forsyth have served the Ravengards for decades, live on the estate, and don’t have many years left by the looks of them. Casting them out would be a cruelty. They’ve earned their retirement sum by now according to the accounting books you taught yourself to read, but it isn’t enough to afford a place to live on their own for whatever years remain for them. You don’t ask much of them, choosing to take on much of the home’s workload yourself. It keeps your mind clear, and there’s little else to do in the life of a politician. You have nothing but time.
Neither of them appreciate having their duties relaxed, and both hold strong opinions about your way of doing things. When she isn’t asking you when Wyll is coming back and fantasizing about helping to rear another generation of Ravengards, Gretta is hovering over your shoulder trying to coach you on housework. All you can do is grin and bear it, doing things her way if only for the reason that you don’t want her to push you away and take things over herself.
You are surprised when Barnabus comes to get you in the ballroom, where you’re scrubbing the marble floors for the fourth time this month. No one comes in here, and they are just as spotless as they were last time, but having your hands idle for too long is a torment. There are some days you clean until your hands are red and raw, the skin around your nails peeling and dry.
He sneaks up on you as he always does, giving you a dusty cough as a warning of his approach. He is still alive and yet he already haunts the manor, well practiced in the art of navigating it without disturbing the family he serves. His wrinkled face peers down at you in concern and disapproval. You know he hates that you perform household duties now, but he gave up protesting it months ago. Gretta is a much more stubborn creature.
“There are guests calling at the door to see you, My Lady,” He says with a bow.
You freeze where you are. Guests? You’ve never had guests at the estate. Not for you, anyway. In the beginning, people had come in search of Wyll, but soon word got out that he had gone away, and the callers stopped not long after.
“To see me?” You clarify, pointing at yourself in disbelief.
He nods, hobbling over to take the sponge from your hand. “Yes.”
“Who?” You presently don’t have a social life. Your longest interactions are with Barnabus, Gretta, and the Council - all who interact with you out of unwilling responsibility.
“Friends of yours, they said.” The frustrated fog of age passes over his face as he tries to recall information. “It seems I’ve already lost the names.”
You look down at yourself, considering whether it would be more impolite to greet them like this, or to make them wait while you change. You never use the personal budget you are allotted for nice clothes, and you currently wear a shirt you wore in your days of adventuring, and an old pair of servants’ pants that are rolled up to your knees. The clothes are good for cleaning, but not so acceptable for taking guests in. You wipe your wet hands on your thighs and stand up. You carefully exit the ballroom, taking great care not to slip. Your bare feet leave damp footprints down the hall.
When you open the door, you’re greeted by several familiar faces. Shadowheart, Gale, and Jaheira.
“Oh,” you say in surprise. It doesn't feel like you're here and awake. “I wasn’t expecting you all.” You can’t help but look down at your clothing again, uncurling the length of your pants with your opposite foot. You don’t feel decent.
“That’s certainly an underwhelming hello,” Shadowheart crosses her arms. At her side is a large leather satchel.
“Ah, right. I’m sorry,” you give them the warmest smile you can manage, trying to feign a more polite welcome. “It’s good to see you. It’s been... a while.”
You stand aside to let them in. Jaheira is carrying a large wicker basket in her arms, and Gale’s bag seems to be clinking with the fervor of someone who has just robbed a winery.
“A while?” Shadowheart asks unhappily. “You never bothered to answer any of our correspondence - and from what Gale tells me I’m not the only one. Surely being the Grand Duke's proxy doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to ever go out. And even if it did, you couldn’t even be bothered to write us back?”
“Well…” You follow them into your sitting room, a warmth rising to your face. She has a right to be angry... but why? Your time apart has been much longer now than the few weeks you spent together. “Things have gotten away from me. It’s true.” There’s still a pile of unanswered mail that sits on the table by the door that you struggle to acknowledge. They had walked right by it.
“We decided to pay you a visit, given the occasion.”
“The occasion?” You don’t know what they mean.
“The anniversary!” Gale exclaims, giving you an unexpected pat on the back like he would a close friend. As if you aren’t strangers now. “Of the day we went down in history. No longer just ordinary men.”
He earns the judging glares of three women and quickly corrects his error.
You wonder how different their lives have been as established heroes. All of your names made the Gazette in the beginning - but soon your existence was overshadowed by the duties you performed in Wyll’s name. Wyll Ravengard was the celebrity and household name. You were the accessory. In the heart of the Lower City stands a mural commemorating the battle with the Absolute. Wyll is front and center of a group of five, his face taking up the largest amount of real estate. Immediately to his left and right are Shadowheart and Gale respectively, and then Astarion and Jaheira at the back. The rest of you only earned your names on the plaque below. You've been reduced to Wyll's proxy - no longer a hero in your own right. Few even acknowledge you as his lover - he ran off so quickly that it wasn't ever established as common knowledge. Most days, a stranger on the street wouldn't recognize you.
“Oh. Has it been that long already?” You’re vaguely aware of the date. Time moves differently for you now.
“Have you heard from Wyll?” Shadowheart asks.
A tick in your jaw. Things are suddenly much more personal. You have been able to handle the questions from total outsiders, because they had never seen your relationship with him. But these people know. The only other witnesses, and the only other proof he ever loved you at all and it wasn’t just a part of one long fever dream. The fact that they’re here and asking sends shockwaves down your spine.
“No,” you lie. It comes effortlessly now, after so many months. That’s all anyone can ask about now. Wyll.
Where’s Wyll? Have you heard from Wyll? How’s Wyll?
No one ever asks about you. “But I can’t imagine that sending word from Avernus is easy.”
The same lie you told yourself, repeated over and over in your head - now repeated aloud.
Your companions appear mildly concerned. Jaheira throat quivers as she swallows a lump.
“No… but It’s a wonder that you’re still able to keep the faith after all this time,” Shadowheart runs her hand along the bottom of a portrait of the Ravengard family. Wyll and his parents. Although his mother died in childbirth and he had never known her, someone had taken great care to paint her into the treasured picture. A collage of people who never stood together. An impossibly young woman, frozen in time beside the aged face of her widowed husband. “Though I suppose if anyone is capable of it, it’s you. Wyll is lucky to have someone so devoted.”
The loyalty feels more like a curse.
You shudder, suddenly nauseous and unsure if you’re going to be able to keep this lie up with them for much longer. Every bone in your body screams at you to come clean. But instead, you drag up a weak shadow of a smile. You hardly know these people anymore - there's no telling what they might do if they find out Wyll is gone for good. An empty seat of power is a dangerous instability that Baldur's Gate cannot afford as it continues rebuilding efforts. “Thank you.”
“I’m a little surprised you didn’t run off after them as soon as your injury healed,” Gale says.
You almost did. You imagine how that would have gone - fighting your way through the creatures of hell only to catch your lover and best friend in the act.
You play it off. “They’re in Avernus . How would I ever hope to find them on my own? I doubt I’d last five minutes. And anyways, I have a job to do here.”
Several jobs really. Juggling the position and the household. A heavy load meant only to be temporary.
“I don’t know how you wait for him. Lae’zel - she at least writes to me,” Shadowheart says wistfully. “Don’t you worry that he might be-”
Jaheira jams an elbow into her ribs before she can finish. “Sorry,” she grumbles.
Dead. She was going to say dead - but in some ways the truth is more tragic. At least there would be honor in death.
If you still held anything but bitter resentment towards Wyll and Karlach, Shadowheart’s tactlessness might have inspired anger. Instead you feel almost nothing. She's only doing her best to relate to you. “It’s okay. And no… I don’t worry. Karlach and Wyll are capable fighters. They know what they’re doing.”
In more ways than one. You bite your lip.
“So... Lae’zel, huh?” You raise an eyebrow at Shadowheart and hope to change the subject.
She tucks her chin, trying to mask the shy smile that creeps to her lips.
“Oh please,” Jaheira rolls her eyes, finally breaking her silence. “You might be thankful that you haven’t answered her correspondence - The gith is all she ever speaks of.”
You chew on that information for a few minutes while Jaheira and Gale begin laying out a generous spread of food and drink on the table of your parlor. Your mouth waters at the sight - you haven’t been eating all that much lately since you dismissed the other kitchen staff and stopped allowing Gretta to cook for you. When you made yourself responsible for your own meals, it came with the consequence of skipping more of them and opting to sustain yourself with scraps of ingredients scavenged from the cupboards that didn’t require preparation. You eat a lot of deconstructed sandwiches these days.
“Where is Lae’zel now?” You ask. If you were still with Wyll, you and Shadowheart would be kindred spirits. Instead you’re forced to pretend.
“She’s been entrenched in a gith civil war,” Shadowheart sighs. “Speaking out against Vlaakith brought her no shortage of enemies to fight.”
“Why didn’t you go with her?”
Shadowheart fidgets with her silver braid. “It isn’t my fight. This one belongs to the gith alone. If I went I’d be just as likely to be struck down by someone on our side than an enemy. Lae’zel needs to focus right now.”
“Shadowheart also has failed to share with her paramour the critical fact that she cares for her at all,” Gale says, beginning to pour several glasses of wine for your party.
“As I said, Gale,” Shadowheart glares at the wizard, but she can’t hide the rosiness of her cheeks. “Lae’zel can’t afford to be distracted right now. She talks of returning soon - some matters are best left face to face.”
A confession of love through a letter is less cowardly than breaking off a relationship through a letter.
“What about Halsin, then?” You ask. “Has anyone spoken to him?”
You certainly haven’t, and it feels a bit disingenuous to ask about him now. Your question is met with shrugs and silence. It isn’t too surprising. In all likelihood he snuck back off to nature, back to his grove. It would have been a cruelty to expect him to go anywhere else. He was someone you would have written back to, if he’d written you first. He always radiated with worldly experience and acceptance - his fairness in judgment a welcome boon. But much like Wyll and Karlach, you have no address for him. If you address a letter to the grove, would it be delivered? There are magical channels for sending letters long distance, but the postage is expensive. Without a very specific location for it to come out on the other side, such spells are known for failure. Physical deliveries are still the preferred option to prevent important correspondence from inadvertently drifting through the Astral Plane or Feywilds.
Thinking about it now, you might have luck sending a messenger bird to him - but what would you say at this point? You have missed your window.
No one dares bring up Astarion. The Vampire Ascendant is still in Baldur’s Gate, lording over the Crimson Palace as he has since the fall of the Absolute. He so far hasn’t tried to meddle much in political affairs, but he has forever. He can afford to be patient. You suppose he’ll stay out of it until just before you and Wyll die, as a courtesy to the brief friendship you had and the power you helped him achieve. You hear of him occasionally holding galas or parties, but you’ve so far rejected every invitation. Now several are ignored in your growing stack of mail, the unique black envelopes with silvery adornments standing out against the rest of it. You know he only invites you now because of your status - not out of any friendship fostered.
With just the four of you here to celebrate, the affair feels hollow. The absence of your other companions hangs in the air, a void so obvious and large that it is nearly palpable. Early in the day, it becomes obvious that the only thing the four of you ever had in common was your circumstance. In a traditional setting, you never would have kept the company of one another.
Still, life-altering catastrophes have a way of bringing people together. You admit that it’s nicer than you thought not to be alone, and your reservations fade over the course of the hour together again. The tension of the room eases as the wine continues to flow, and soon you are all talking like old friends again. It does more to raise your spirits than anything else in the past four months has.
After several hours of merry-making, you head to the washroom. As you look in the mirror and splash water on your face, you are aware of the buzz of wine that burns in your veins, warming you. You aren’t drunk, but it is enough to make you a little more sociable. It’s been ages since you’ve talked so much…
When you go to leave and return to your guests, Shadowheart is waiting outside of the door in the dim hallway, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, a goblet of wine in hand. The candles in this hallway are enchanted, and at this hour they burn low. It's enough to guide you down the hall, but not enough to be intrusive.
“It’s all yours,” you say, thinking that she’s waiting her turn.
But instead she approaches you, walking up close enough that your noses could touch. Her eyes look you up and down several times, like a guard deciding whether or not to allow you entry.
So you’ve misread her then. Is she angry about something? You smell the alcohol on her breath. “Oh… yes?” You gulp. She hasn’t stared at you like this since after you left her behind on the nautiloid. Since then, your relationship has improved.
“You aren’t fooling me.” She takes another sip of her cup and wrinkles her nose. Her voice is accusatory, but it lacks the heat of anger. Instead she keeps it low, like the light of the enchanted candles. You catch her eyes fall to your hand. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?” You ask carefully. You won’t accidentally give anything away.
She snorts, and you can tell she’s tipsy. She grabs your hand and holds it in hers before you can tuck it behind your back. “I mean Wyll. You aren’t wearing your ring.”
How had she noticed such a silly detail? You brush some of your hair behind your ear, pulling your hand away from her and placing your other hand over the empty one. “I don’t have to wear it all of the time.”
“It would be customary to. That is sort of the point.”
Your heart is pounding in your chest as your throat squeezes, caught in a vice. You think you might choke. “I’ve lost a bit of weight is all - it doesn’t fit right anymore. I haven’t had the opportunity to get it resized to fit. It isn’t like it was an engagement ring.”
Just a promise ring. An empty promise ring. A pretty little gold-plated lie with a gaping hole in the middle
The alcohol hasn't dulled her wit. She isn’t falling for it. It’s little more than a desperate lie. Her calculating eyes analyze you, trying to discern your game. “You aren’t being honest. It’s all over your face.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” With the alcohol lowering your inhibitions, you must not be keeping your tells in check. You're stumbling around your words, and the wine is not to blame.
“Well you’d better start. You live in his house. You hold down his job. So what happened?” She demands that you answer, but whether she is accusing you of something or just concerned, you can’t gather.
“I just… I don’t think he’s coming back.” You flinch. It doesn’t give everything away. It is a partial truth.
He isn't coming back.
Shadowheart softens, and she abruptly reaches out to hug you, wrapping her arms around you while she balances her goblet in hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She gently pats your back. “You should keep your faith though. It’s as you said - Wyll is strong. You don’t have to try and forget him.”
The hug catches you off guard. The last person to hug you was Karlach. She mistakes your words and writes everything off as the actions of someone drowning in grief. She pities you. It stops the line of questioning in its tracks.
There’s a sour taste in your mouth as you curse your own lies. It isn’t safe for anyone to know the truth. Not yet. “I know. Thank you.”
She doesn’t know that you do have to try and forget him. Because even months later, he’s all you can think about. Your lifestyle requires it. Your entire existence is dedicated to him in one way or another - you aren’t sure you’ll ever be free now from the Blade of Frontiers. Grand Duke Ravengard.
Once a month, you hold audiences at Wyrm’s Rock Fortress for anyone who wishes to speak with the Duke or the Council of Four. It is probably your least favorite part of the entire job, and today is worse than ever. It’s the day after your reunion, and you slouch on the throne as your mind buzzes quietly from a whisper of a hangover. A nest of slightly agitated bees making a home in your mind. After your confrontation in the hallway with Shadowheart, you had tried to clear everything away with the sweet empty bliss of more alcohol. It hadn’t been strong enough to crush every painful thought, but it had made the rest of the evening more tolerable.
The audience chamber feels especially tedious today, and your teeth clench. The lights are brighter today, and the voices louder. It pushes you to the edge of your sanity. You want it to be over with. You want to call a recess early. But the Council is here with you, observing, and you’re determined not to make a misstep under their critical eyes. It's best not to give them any more reason to doubt you.
With every month that passes, those that would come to bow before the Grand Duke grow more frustrated with Wyll’s absence. Where is he? Why does his woman continue to speak for him after so many months? Valid questions that you can’t answer. It’s exhausting to keep up the lie, and more exhausting to face countless people who are disappointed or even angry to see your face instead of Wyll’s. You can’t keep up with it much longer. The rage is slow to bubble up inside of you, but it does as the minutes tick by, and as you are confronted with dozens of meaningless interactions.
Anyone could show up on audience days. It might be someone who wishes to bless the birth of their baby. It might be two disputing neighbors. It might be a foreign official beseeching aid. It might be someone simply dropping off overdue taxes. Today, it is all of the pointless drivel you could possibly imagine, and then some. You yearn to leave. More than ever before you want to stand up and scream at the Council “Wyll is gone. He isn’t coming back!” So that you might finally be done dealing with his messes. To abandon you with the whole of Baldur’s Gate is worse than if he abandoned you with child. Thank the gods you had never gotten the opportunity to lay together, or you might have been cursed with both. This never should have been your responsibility.
Every time you come close to snapping, you swallow a piece of ice from your cup of water, pressing it against the roof of your mouth. The sensation grounds you, and forces you to keep your mouth closed instead of screaming.
I’m sorry I’m not Wyll. He’s not coming back. I don’t like this any more than you do.
Right when you think that you’re about to lose yourself entirely and give up on the farce, a familiar face walks in. It immediately sets the other voices in the room to a sea of soft murmurs and whispers. He hasn’t ever shown up for an audience, but everyone has been speculating that it was only a matter of time due to the murmurs of recent political movements he’s been making. He’s finally here. You stand from your chair still gripping the armrest when you see him walk through the door, unable to believe your eyes. When you feel the collective stares of the room on you, you immediately throw yourself down again, rubbing your sweating palms against your thighs.
“Astarion,” you choke. “Or… are you going by Lord Ancunin, now?”
He smirks. “No need to be so formal, dear. After everything we’ve been through? Though... I’m never opposed to titles.”
You tense at the word dear while Astarion straightens himself, sure to let the entire room take in and appreciate his full form. His casual tone with you doesn't lend itself to the reputation that you've been trying and failing to build for yourself. He makes a purposeful slow twirl as he approaches you, letting everyone see him at every angle. Of course none of them are aware of his vampirism aside from you, but he has certainly been responsible for his fair share of rumors regardless. It’s no surprise that unkind words spread like wildfire when one lives in a large and foreboding palace and makes few appearances in public.
“It’s good to see you again,” you say, not entirely truthfully. You never trusted him after he chose to ascend, even if you did play a part in it. “What have you come to ask of the Council?”
“Not of the Council,” he waves a hand dismissively towards where they sit, leaving them to murmur words you don't quite hear. You don't need to - their expressions say enough. “Of you.”
“Of the Grand Duke?” You ask in an attempt to clarify. You have to separate yourself from the role you carry. No one sees you as you anymore.
“No. Of you.”
He means the words that come out of his mouth. You, specifically. Not the Council, or the Grand Duke whose behalf you work on. Of you.
“This isn’t the venue for personal affairs,” Councillor Florrick snaps. “Right now she works on behalf of the Grand Duke. Your private matters can wait until the open session has concluded.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” Astarion says with a distinct pout. “I simply could find no other opportunity to speak with my old companion.”
“What do you want, Astarion?” You ask through gritted teeth. He had sworn to never ask anything of you ever again. You helped him get his revenge. You helped him get his power. That is as far as your relationship would ever go. He had already pushed you to participate in choices well beyond the guidance of your moral compass.
You thought that helping him take back his life would save him. But you were horribly misguided.
You can’t believe he would come back now to push you even farther.
“Your friends don’t seem too inclined to let me speak right now,” he laughs. He’s trying to play it cool, but you sense the faintest trace of unease radiating from him. “But perhaps you might finally consider speaking with me elsewhere?”
“Where?” You ask. You can hardly believe that you’re even entertaining the idea.
“I’ll leave a carriage,” he says cryptically. “For whenever you finish playing Duke for the day.”