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Your heart is full-to-bursting. You’d never imagined that you would live to experience anything beyond misery, gore, and death at your own hands. It’s been well over a year– maybe almost two– since you shed the foul voices that once filled your mind. The darkened whisper. That sickened Muse that drove you to KILL! MAIM! END!
Always hungry. Always threatening to wrest control from you.
It’s gone.
You’re free.
Even better, the loneliness that plagued you was banished alongside it. Loneliness you once feared as much as those murderous urges no longer scares you. Because you’ll never be alone again.
Not as long as you live.
The beautiful elf cradling your head against his shoulder has done his best to fulfill that. As you have for him. You glance up at him and smile, thinking back to your first encounter. Then your memory wanders back to the first time you met your other friends. Friends, you’re now on the way to visit.
Memories of all of the times you nearly died so many tendays ago flicker behind your eyes. You smile again.
What has you so amused, darling? Astarion’s voice trickles in.
Oh, just how many times we almost died out here, and everywhere else, you think towards him.
He looks down at you, eye crinkled, smiling. Subtle crows’ feet and fangs on full display. Yes, we did a lot of that back then- almost dying. It’s somewhat amusing now.
“Only somewhat,” you respond verbally, planting a kiss on his cheek. He barks a laugh. You love that sound, especially now that it’s genuine.
“Yes, it can be hilarious at times,” he grins. “But mostly, it’s relieving. Can you believe we used to sleep in that?! Me! Of all people!” He sneers and gestures dramatically to the woodlands, bushes, and wildlands passing by outside.
“Yes, you were quite annoyed at the concept once.” You bump your shoulder into his, and wink, “but that feeling soon passed, I think.”
“Only once a certain berry-pink-tiefling agreed to share her evenings with me,” he grins again.
“And my blood,” you squeeze his hand.
“Yes, you were so kind to keep me so well-fed,” he hums. “And still are.”
Somehow, your lovely band of chucklefucks made it through not only your tadpole infections, but also managed to defeat so many horrid entities along the road to each of your freedoms. So many things could have killed you, kept you captive, or left you to a much more miserable fate. But the Gods sought to provide you with another set of destinies.
One in particular, in your case, Jergal. Or as you now know him, Withers.
The carriage rumbles over a pothole in the cobblestone bridge, leading to Moonhaven - what you and your companions once referred to as ‘The Blighted Village’. You glance out to see the woodlands you spent so many long, arduous days in.
No longer do gnoll corpses, overturned carts, goblin bodies, or spilled rations litter the path. Francesca and the other druids have worked hard to restore the area surrounding The Emerald Grove.
And it’s worked, it seems. As your hired ride passes through the village, you notice that slowly, people have moved back into Moonhaven. Buildings, in the process of being restored, no longer exist as empty husks. Many of the once-abandoned homes now have candles in the windows and garden beds outside.
Everything is bursting with life.
You hum and rest your head against Astarion’s shoulder once more, eyes drifting closed, you let yourself fall into a brief nap.
What seems like only moments later, Astarion is shaking you awake. You’ve arrived at your destination: Ethel’s teahouse.
Well, it used to be hers. Now, Withers – so near to where you first dug up his old bones – resides there with his charge, Arabella. The swamp, once acrid, twisted, and foul, shines verdant under warm afternoon sun. Sheep, real sheep, along with other free-ranging critters, graze upon young shoots sprouting throughout the glade.
It seems that balance truly has been restored in Eltugard.
You step out of the carriage and stretch, glad to be back on your feet and off your haunches. “Wow, Withers and Francesca have done wonders to this place,” you breathe, taking in the clean earthen and floral scents of the land.
“And me!” Shouts a sweet, young voice. Arabella sprints down the mossy stairs and launches herself into your arms. “Kalliope, Astarion, you’re here!”
“Hello, little idol-thief,” Astarion says, ruffling the girl’s hair. “Have the others arrived yet?”
“Yes,” she says, beaming. “They’re all inside already. Gale, his magic cat, and Shadowheart are helping Bone-man cook.” Your stomach growls at the mention of Gale’s cooking. The man is a wizard, literally, but his greatest magic might just be conjured in the kitchen. Having to consume so many magic items in the past seems to have honed his zest for a savoury meal.
Arabella leaps from your embrace and skips along ahead of you. You and the vampire take one another’s hands and stride into the teahouse.
“Welcome, honored friends,” Withers says, eyes sparkling. “It appears thoust hast all arrived intact.” The revenant gestures around the room, and you see Wyll, Karlach, Gale, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel - corporeal this time - spread throughout the home. Jaheira and Minsc, along with Halsin, Alfira, and Lakrissa, have shown up too.
Gale looks up from the large cast iron skillet he stands over, and grins before striding quickly to embrace you. The tressym fluttering beside him, Tara, follows. “Kalliope, how wonderful it is to see you again. You look beautiful as ever.”
“Yes, how wonderful to see the one who helped Mr. Dekarios to save the world still in one piece,” croons Tara.
“Thank you, Gale,” you say, hugging him back. “It’s good to see you as well, Tara.”
“Astarion!” Gale greets your partner as he pulls away from your arms. “That ‘Daywalker’s Ward’ seems to be preserving you quite well! Not one silken strand singed on your pompously curly head!” Astarion, utterly antithetical to his once-bitter self, grips Gale’s forearm affectionately.
“And your stabilized orb seems to have left you over-enthusiastic as ever,” Astarion jests.
Gale chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Were it one of our earlier days together, Astarion, I wouldn’t know whether to be offended or flattered.”
“Well, dear wizard,” the vampire sighs pleasantly, “life is strikingly less terrible than it once was. In all my years, I’d have never imagined myself so… grossly unburdened.”
“Ew,” Shadowheart scoffs from beside the hearth, “someone make him grumpy again. Pleasant Astarion is downright jarring.”
To Shadowheart's right, Lae’zel’s amber eyes shine with delight. She glances between her enemy-turned-lover and Astarion.
“Isn’t he just?” You pull a face at Astarion. He rolls his eyes and throws an arm behind you, hand resting temptingly above your backside.
“Wonderful to see you too, Selunite,” the elf jabs playfully. “And you as well, Lae’zel. Glad to see you’re here in the flesh this time, and not just a projection.”
“Yes, Astarion, my campaign against my former Queen’s numbers continues. But Orpheus and Voss have it well in hand long enough for me to enjoy a respite now and again.”
You rush forward quickly, kissing each of the women warmly on the cheek. They each hug you in turn. Then, returning to Astarion’s side, you take him by the hand, pulling him along after you.
You move through the crowded Teahouse, hugging the gathered guests one by one. When you get to Jaheira and Minsc, the druid studies you carefully. Playfully. It reminds you of the first time you met her, in the Shadowlands, so long ago, when she’d Entangled you in wild vines.
“Hello, cub,” she rumbles in her thick accent, “I trust you won’t try to offer any of us as an entree today, eh?”
“Not, today, thankfully,” you giggle. “Not ever again, actually . Those dark days are long since passed.” You cast a look around the room. “Thanks to all of you,” you say.
“Cheers to that, Soldier!” Karlach grins at you before moving forward to shove a flagon of ale into your grasp. Bringing the cup to your lips, you swallow, surprised at how not shitty it is. Not having to scrounge for half-spoiled supplies still catches you off guard from time to time.
Wyll smiles beside the larger tiefling, “When you first rejected your father, I promised you a bottle of Dragondew. How is it?”
“It’s splendid. Thank you, Wyll. Karlach, how’s your engine?” You ask the broad woman.
Her ale sloshes over the edge of her cup as she jogs excitedly in place. “Oi! Oh yea! Remember how at Withers’ first party, Wyll and I told you we’d found the blueprints to fix it?! Well, guess what!”
“Really?!” You gasp, entirely pleased for your friend.
“Mhm,” she bangs on her chest for emphasis. “We’re all good. Wyll and I no longer have to worry ourselves when we come back to Faerun to visit. Dammon and Gale have both read up on and examined it post-fix several times. They assure me, everything is as it should be. So far, it’s stable and calm.”
“She still runs a little warm, though,” Wyll winks. It’s at this moment that you notice a fiery-red gem adorning a band on Karlach’s finger.
“Oh, you,” Karlach plants a kiss on Wyll’s cheek.
“Wait– you-you’re finally together?!” You gasp. Karlach squeals and nods, giddy. Wyll blushes and runs a hand down his neck.
“What do you mean, finally? ” The hero asks, narrowing his kind eyes in jest.
“Oh, please, hero,” Astarion scoffs from beside you. “You two have been waltzing around one another since the evening you decided not to remove our dear barbarian’s head from her shoulders. Literally and figuratively, I might add.”
“Astarion—,” you start. He glances down at you and squeezes your hand.
“What I mean by that is,” he glances between the two of them, “it’s nice to see the two of you finally admitting and moving along with what we’ve all been expecting for so long. Congratulations, truly.”
“So, will the two of you remain in the Hells hunting devils and fiends, or return here?” Gale questions, sidling up beside you before conjuring a glass of wine from thin air.
“Why not both?!” Karlach beams. “Someone’s gotta keep the pests in check. Plus, we’ve yet to repay Zariel for her crimes against me and all of Elturel. They lost a lot of people when she tried to suck them down into Avernus—.”
“Ahh, repaying crimes against one's former jailer? Our favorite pastime,” Astarion hums lightly. “Speaking of which, Darling, we’re not just here for fun– pleasant as you all are,” the vampire winks at Karlach and Wyll. “Do you know what day it is?” he smirks coyly, arching one perfect, silver brow.
“Wait—” you start. “That’s today?!”
“Mhm,” he purrs. “Two years ago today, your ghastly father thought he could steal you away from m– I mean– all of us ,” he coughs before continuing. “But, our charming ‘Bone Man’, as Arabella likes to call him, saw the tragedy in that and graciously intervened. It was the single most terrifying, frustrating, and exhilarating moment I’ve ever experienced. And that’s coming from someone who suffered nearly two centuries under a sadistic, psychopathic Vampire Lord.”
You smile at him, throat heating as tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes.
“That day, you did die– true. But you were also given back to us. To all of us,” He glances around before continuing. “Most importantly, to yourself , Darling.”
You fight the trembling of your lips as your memories throw you back to that last, terrifying moment.
“Your life is mine,” Bhaal’s voice reverberated through your bones. “Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.” The words of your father had shaken the very stone beneath your feet.
But you were not stone. You could not be shaken so guilelessly. You were resolute.
You had become the love of a scarred, stubbornly fierce, and ethereally beautiful elf.
The kindness of a tiefling whose heart, though made of metal, was soft as any flesh.
The loyalty of a grumpy, stalwart warrior from the stars.
The bravery of a man who’d sold his soul for little more than a single city.
The surety of a misled, foolishly optimistic wizard.
The faith of a child, bowed but never broken to someone else’s desires.
The wisdom of a druid who’d stood against more corruption than any single person should have to.
The goodness of a man who was ‘more cover than book’.
The feral, ursine devotion of a soul brighter than the deepest shadows.
Something more had grown within you. You could feel your companions surrounding you, their bated breath– the stillness enveloping you. It steeled you.
You had made your decision.
“No. I don’t need any of this,” you cleared your throat, summoning the courage you’d seen each of your friends gather at their darkest moments. Summoning the words of your lover. “I am so much more than what you made me. The only family I know are those who fight by my side. Not those who shove and manipulate from behind and within.”
As soon as the words of denial had left your lips, blood had begun to trickle from your nose.
Slowly at first.
You’d reached up to touch it, shock coloring your features. You didn’t remember taking a wound to the face in the duel with your sadistic, ill-fated bloodkin.
Then, the air in your lungs rushed out, collapsing them within your chest. Your frame tried to cough as immediate suffocation set in. Then your insides roiled, feeling as if they were being twisted and knotted within you.
Your legs weakened. You stumbled. Fell. Catching yourself with one hand, wrist cracking, while darkness claimed the edges of your vision.
You tried to scream, terror filling your gaze as Astarion rushed to your side, crimson eyes flickering over you. Petrified. Horrified. Helpless to aid you.
“No!” He’d screamed, tears leaking from his beautiful, ruby eyes. “NO! Not now– c-come on, Darling. You’ve got this, a-and I’ve got you. Remember?!” He pulled you closer to his chest, rocking subtly.
Your heart began to ache— sadness or the foul trickery of your father washed over you in those last moments.
Which one? You’re still uncertain.
“Astar–,” you’d gasped, lips forming his name, but air failing to fill them with sound.
“No. No, no, NO!” He’d wailed.
You remember weakly reaching out to stroke his hair back from his face. Your hand trembling as oxygen, life, and strength spilled from your form. You smiled, tears pouring from your eyes. Followed soon thereafter by blood. “I love you,” you mouthed.
“Somebody, do SOMETHING!” He’d begged, voice breaking again, eyes darting frantically from healer to healer. “Shadowheart, Halsin– Jaheira! PLEASE!” Their voices– you don’t recall their responses– just that no aid came from their healing hands. No respite of healing magic caressed your skin as it had so many times before.
You’d had no idea that they’d tried. Failed. Yet their magicks were nothing against the sickening power of your father. In the end, his petty malice won out.
That was the last thing you’d seen. Experienced. Your beautiful, tragic lover, clinging to your form. Weeping. Begging. Pleading for some force to intervene. Before your soul and consciousness flitted away to the Fugue Plane.
Endless, featureless grey. Everywhere. Swirling clouds of bland nothingness. Disembodied wailing, swallowed by the silence of the void. You felt …nothing. No pain. No more fear. No more sick, slaughterous voices clouding your mind.
You felt shockingly… at ease.
Anyone else in their right mind would’ve been terrified. But for the first time in your wretched existence, your mind was right.
And you weren’t afraid— you were relieved.
Over. It was all, finally, blessedly, OVER. No more murderous thoughts. No more pleading with whatever haunted you to leave you alone. No more nightmares. No more wrestling for control of your own mind. Your own form.
No more twitching limbs, growling stomach, or cannibalistic desires filled you.
Astarion was safe. Your friends were safe. The world— all of them safe— from you.
You felt— you felt… empty.
And it felt… right.
Your formless ki ‘breathed’ its first sigh of relief. The first it had ever experienced.
You could let go. Finally, just be.
Moments and centuries. Eons and seconds passed. Or maybe, time didn’t exist there. Maybe no time passed.
It didn’t matter. After decades and decades, because GODS, it had been so long since your creation. Your unholy unbirth, borne from the treacherous blood of your ‘father’, Bhaal. Your farce of an ‘upbringing’ in that monastery with The Gate.
You’d lived for so much longer than you’d realized. Orin’s mind-breaking, physical treachery and the arcane fiddling of her priests with your memories only serving to convolute things further. Your divine blood and being healing, over and over. Endlessly regenerating, only to be broken when you failed, until you’d moved past such weaknesses.
Murderous perfection is what you’d become. Just continuing to exist, and exist. And exist. As you ruined and wrecked, and murdered for your father.
‘In Bhaal’s name.’ The phrase you’d intoned before each bloody, brutal sacrifice. The words carved into your corrupted, foul grey matter.
A mantra. A way of life. A sole purpose.
Rulers ascended and died. Generations born in front of your eyes were murdered at your hands. Gifts bestowed upon you after every death, every rending of life. Bones and joints and organs broken, snapped, and torn to bits by your filthy, bloodied claws.
It was endless. Never-relenting torture fed to you as pleasure and satisfaction. Contorted and disguised as joy and ecstasy.
But those desires had never truly been yours, had they?
No. You decided. No. Because when it mattered, when you’d finally had a choice— a chance. You’d realized you didn’t want a single iota of that accursed heritage. Even if, apparently, refusing it meant your destruction.
You’d rather cease to exist than spend one more moment as a pawn to your fucked-up, bloodthirsty father.
Your formless ki ‘breathed’ another sigh of relief as you continued to float, to be buoyed by the endless, shapeless waves of nothing all around you.
You let yourself exist like that, thoughtless and at peace. Time passed– or didn’t. It mattered not to you.
Then, a voice, familiar and wizened, interrupted your reverie.
“Thou hast defied Bhaal,” it rang out. “Thy liege and father, and in doing so hast earned a place among champions and heroes. But alas, thy courage was in opposition to the divine cosmology that bound thee to the Lord of Murder. Thou art now faithless – godless - and doomed to wander the Fugue Plane for eternity.”
“The Fugue Plane,” you breathed, “i-is that where I am?”
“Yes,” came the voice again, a bit clearer that time. “However, I will not permit that. Though all the powers of life and death dictate that it should be so.”
Recognition careened through your consciousness. Withers.
Maybe now, I’ll finally learn who - what - they are.
“Why,” you whispered formlessly, “They’re finally all safe. Safe from me. I deserved to die - for all the evil that has come at my hands.”
“And yet,” Withers’ voice continued, “were you truly evil, would thoust have refused your father’s gifts? No. I, too, still hold some power, and I invest a portion of it in thee, who hath challenged the gods and now liveth to tell of it.”
A speck of disappointment had inspired your next words. “But, I just want to rest - death, nonexistence - is so peaceful. I’m so tired.”
“Thy fight is not over,” Withers had argued, “and it is thy fight, for one who can look upon Bhaal and oppose him can survive any crisis. Would thoust leave your friends and allies - your beloved Astarion - to fight it alone?”
Your awareness snapped to attention at that. At his name. Astarion. You couldn’t leave him, not after all you’d grown to be. All he’d been through and conquered. If he could stand against his personal horrors, then you would too. “No,” your voice was resolute. “I shouldn’t. I can’t.”
A buzzing, tingling sensation overcame your awareness at Withers’ next declaration.
“So rise, Challenger of Gods, and prepare for battle once more. Death will not claim thee whilst I endure.”
A cold, rushing feeling overtook your senses. Everything was hot and cold at once. Each fiber of your being tingled with overstimulation. Discomfort, as your soul filled your mortal husk once more.
Breath rushed into your lungs. Sharp and painful. Your eyes opened to see Astarion bent over you, still muttering and weeping. Clutching you to his breast. As you coughed and stirred, he snapped out of his despair. “Hello, beautiful,” you coughed, mimicking his familiar greeting.
His garnet eyes flew wide, shock drowning his features. Then, he was kissing you. Fervent, desperate - full of wild lips and delectable tongue. Ripe with love and desire and passion.
“Oh, thank the Gods,” he’d sobbed pridelessly into your hair.
“Not the Gods,” you’d smiled, coughing again. “Just, just them.” Your eyes moved weakly in the direction of Withers’ physical form.
Confusion washed over your lover’s features. “T-them?!”
You ignored Astarion’s question, sitting up a bit to meet Withers’ eyes. “Who-who are you?” You asked them. Repeating the same question that you’d once asked. Long ago, when they’d wandered into your camp by the river.
“A scribe, a seneschal - a keeper of records,” came the answer. The same as before. But they continued, “and now, thine advocate. Both here and in the City of the Dead.”
A name tickled at the back of your memory then. Jergal. You remembered Gale uttering it back in that crypt along the beach, when Gale had read the base of the statue outside of Withers’ crypt.
Your eyes flew wide, “Thank you for giving me a second chance.”
“I can only give what thou hast earned. Bhaal tried to extinguish thee, but his wrath is imprecise. He only succeeded in killing the part of thee he knew. The Urge that drove thee to terrible acts. The spark of brutality that made thee his. But there is a new part of you that hath grown during thy travels. That part, Bhaal could not extinguish. And so instead of destroying thee, he hath made thee anew.”
Astarion ran a gloved hand roughly across his cheeks, smearing the tears away, then cleared his throat. “He’s right, you’re no monster.” Sobering a bit, he’d continued, “You’ve saved me more times than I can count. You get to start over. To be the person you want to be, not what someone else made you to be.”
You gazed up at the vampire, disbelief stealing any response. Start over? You’d thought.
The prospect was thrilling and terrifying.
“The heart of a saviour hath overshadowed the mind of a murderer,” Withers declared, a smile playing in his gentle, undead eyes. “Thou hast vanquished thine Urge.”
“Y-you knew of my nature,” you breathed, “ All this time?”
“I told you once that I know all. But to state truths is to interfere, for the minds of mortals are too easily swayed. My place, for the most part, is to observe.” The God of Death smiled, “This intervention, the reclamation of thy soul, is beyond mine ordinary remit. But thou art extraordinary, and so are these times. For this, He hath allowed this intervention. Today thou art born anew.”
A sob of relief pushed past your lips. Your gaze locked with Astarion’s, and both of your chins trembled once more.
“Greet the bloodless dawn, Child of None,” the Scribe said.
“Thank you,” you’d breathed, eyes still locked with the vampire’s.
“Do not thank me - trust in thy courage, and,” a smile snuck its way into the entity’s tone, “the conviction of thy companions. As it was, so it is again. A hero has risen from a legacy of death.”
The memories fade, and your attention returns to the present. The crisp, sweet smell of the forest outside. Astarion’s rosemary, bergamot, and brandy scented cologne. The ale sloshing within your flagon.
“So today,” Astarion continues his speech. “Today, two - dare I say it - wonderful years later, we celebrate you, Darling. You and everything that you mean to us,” the vampire smiles. Bright, stunning. Resplendent.
“Hear, hear!” The room erupts into whistles and cheers.
Then, as your found family whoops and hollers around you, Astarion pulls you into a kiss.
Warm, familiar. Home.
You realize, not for the first time, that with these people here, you are home. And there’s not a soul outside of this once-cursed Teahouse you’d rather celebrate your second shot at life with.