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Lae'zel had learned the Githyanki's 10,000 protocols by heart; she wore them like her own skin. Vlaakith's will be done, as she used to say. But none of those 10,000 protocols had prepared her (or anyone else) for the day Gale would fail miserably on his kitchen duties. In his desperate attempt to salvage their spoiling rations, the wizard made something abominable.
“It smells like a cambion’s feet! What in Zariel’s arse is in this bread?” Karlach winces as she tears the bread into small pieces that singe easily in her hands.
“Perhaps the most important question,” Gale says, “is why are you sniffing Cambion’s feet?”
“No, I don’t! They just stank real bad when they flew over my head.”
Gale just rolls his eyes in defeat. He’s not gonna win this argument this time. In his defense, the wizard has used everything he knows about this so-called "Culinary Arts," but it is not enough to make something edible out of the limited assortments they have.
The lack of resources in this shadow-cursed land is proving to be a bigger problem than they had anticipated. They need to reach the Moonrise Tower as soon as possible. If not to strike Ketheric Thorm once and for all, then at least to seize the enemy's resources.
Karlach quickly taps Gale’s shoulder, “Don’t take this too hard, soldier.”
“We are all in the same situation.” Wyll says, smiling at them while he hands a cup of beer to Karlach and a blue bottle to Gale, “To help get the bread down.”
When it's Lae’zel’s turn, he gives her a shiny purple bottle, “Don’t worry, it won’t knock you out.”
Lae’zel stares silently as she grabs the bottle from Wyll’s hand. She’s not going to thank him for giving what essentially is a ration, but a nod would do. Finally, the warlock smiles before walking toward Karlach. And before three blinks, they’re already dancing happily around the campfire.
She rubs her thumb over the label of Baldur's Grapes, wincing at the sound of the popping cork before taking a sip. The first taste made her pucker her mouth; it's sweet, tangy, surprisingly pleasant for something that could make a helpless yanki out of anyone.
The liquid starts to set her thoughts swimming, and the campfire hugs her skin a little warmer. Still, she remains aware of her surroundings (the warlock is right, it seems.) Before she knows it, the bottle in one hand and the bread in the other are halfway gone.
Weeks ago, Lae'zel would never have agreed to a dinner like this. Alcohol dulls the mind and senses; it reduces a soldier into a helpless yanki who will die easily in a goblin camp.
Trust the istiks of this Feyroon to drink themselves senseless with danger at their door. That would never be her. She pauses, then drinks anyway. It is the first time alcohol feels like indulgence on her tongue; it was never like this when she had her first cup.
Lae’zel never liked Githyanki Alcohol.
Arak, as they call it at the cre’che, is more bitter than any liquor she had ever tasted. A single sip could put ten grown istiks to sleep…and a cup could kill a weaker being. It is a symbol of strength and honor. Only those who have the power to take what they deserve can have it, whether it be victories, achievements, recognition, or someone else’s life...
The price of her first cup had been high. Bartek paid for it with his life.
To this day, Lae’zel can still remember the sound Bartek made when she pushed the knife into his stomach. How the blood felt as it trickled into her fingers, while the older boy looked at her with burning hatred. And how the varsh looked at her approvingly when he finally fell.
It was not her fault that he was weak, foolish, and unworthy. He would’ve known better than to sneak liquor he did not deserve. And when a yanki a few years younger caught him in the act, all he said was something pathetic, “Don’t tell anyone, or I will kill you.”
She would never be like that. She would’ve cut down a threat in her life immediately. But he let her live, and she was given the power to punish his weakness. Her loyalty earned her the cup.
Bartek looked foolish then, losing his life to something that seems so trivial now. To the same thing that she now drowns herself in to forget the guilt of slaughtering Crèche Y'llek. What had become of the best student in Cre’che K’liir? What would the varsh say if he could see her now?
You should be killing these istiks and taking the artifact.
A cold shiver runs down her spine. Is she hearing things again? Is this real? Are they in danger? She looks up to scan the surroundings and freezes when suddenly, she finds herself staring eye to eye with her varsh across the campfire. And just like that, her instinct activated.
Don’t move, just observe. Don’t let the varsh have a reason to punish you. Let him assess; you have no weakness to show.
The forest warps into the cold training halls of the cre’che, back when Lae’zel was commanded to stab Bartek’s guts. Bartek is on the ground, choking as he tries to take another breath of life. Just like she remembers, the varsh looks at her intently.
He is not disappointed. Instead, he is elated to finally get the chance to make a Bartek out of her. And so, he takes the bloodied knife from Bartek’s body and gestures it toward her.
“Take it. Your redemption.” She hears the varsh say as he continues to offer the knife.
Then it wasn’t Bartek’s body anymore, but Shadowheart’s. Her green eyes are wide open, guts leaking, lips open like how Bartek did when he took his last breath. Her blood mixed with Gale’s as he lay beside her in a dark pool coming from his neck.
Astarion stands nearby, only standing up because the stake in his heart keeps his body from falling down. A few steps away, Wyll’s newfound horns gore into Karlach as they burn together like a second campfire.
And Lae’zel is standing in the middle of it all with her hair singed and blood decorating her armor, holding the artifact in her hand. It pulses with light and heat, and she drops it into the ground when she realizes what she is holding. The impact lands on her boot with a clang. She jolts at the sensation, as if her lungs remembered they need to breathe.
When she looks down, she is staring at a purple bottle of Baldur’s Grapes.
Her hallucinations are gone as fast as they arrived. The varsh, or the image of him, disappeared when figures of Karlach and Wyll, who are drunkenly dancing around, have stolen the space he was supposed to be in. Astarion quietly watches Wyll as the blade tries to guide Karlach into a full pirouette. Gale is clapping along to Tav's song while stealing glances at the vampire spawn. And even Shadowheart, who had been distant since they reached her Goddess' lair, fails to hold a snicker when Wyll accidentally steps on Karlach's tail.
She is back in the camp with everyone acting as if nothing happened, as was the case when her hallucinations haunted her. And like after each episode, she will be swimming in her own sweat, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles have gone white.
It is only when she sees the silent Qua'nith detector from her pocket that a slow sigh of relief leaves her. Right. That undeserving varsh wouldn't be in Faerun. He is more useful culling the weak among the Githyanki youth than watching her drink her guilt tonight.
And if her kin are indeed nearby, then somebody like Astarion would’ve picked up their presence already. If Voss had lied, they wouldn't even be having this cursed dinner. She stares at the Qua’nith device, making sure it stays silent, before tucking it back into her pocket.
When her eyes found the campfire again, Shadowheart's were already on her.
And Lae’zel stares back without thinking. It is an instinct at this point to forego every feeling and thought to see what the half-elf would do next. Previously a precaution, now a habit that she didn’t even notice forming. Her mind is clearing up with the familiar.
Shadowheart is the first to break away, as she always does. She takes a slow sip from her bottle and stares at the campfire like it is the most interesting thing in the world. Lae’zel knows the half-elf will eventually look back with a more determined look in her eyes. And she did.
When the cleric stood up from her seat, Lae'zel knew instantly she would have company shortly. She couldn’t fully trust her memories or thoughts since she dipped her head into the Zaith’isk, but she could always trust Shadowheart and her eternal mission to piss her off.
Shadowheart silently slips into the space beside her. She is so close that Lae’zel can smell the incense and something floral from her neck. It reminds her of those nights inside the cleric’s tent when healing magic poured into her damaged mind.
They remain silent, which she is secretly grateful for. It gives her time to wipe the beads of sweat that formed on her forehead and put her bottle down to hide her shaky hands. She stares instead, waiting for the cleric to start the conversation after avoiding them for days.
“I suppose the bread is bad enough that you needed that to finish your meal,” Shadowheart points at the half-empty bottle beside Lae’zel’s boots. Her eyes dart between everything else except for the gith’s face.
“Gale prepared sufficiently, given our circumstances.“ Lae’zel chews on the last of her bread, pausing only to check the back of her palms. Steady, good. "His efforts deserve no mockery."
This time, Shadowheart looks her straight in the eyes. Her teeth clench before she gives a tight smile. "Didn't think you were that fond of our chatty wizard."
“Gale is a capable ally, regardless of how annoying he can be when his mouth starts to move.” And this is true. Lae’zel knows how this party is better off when Gale’s mouth stays shut, but would be doomed without his vast knowledge.
“Gale... huh? Tired of calling him ‘the Wizard’ or something?”
“Chk. If I knew any better, I would say you are jealous.”
A few seconds passed before Shadowheart leaned close to the fire and finally answered, "Oh, good. You're not losing it like I thought you were a moment ago. But I won’t stop you smacking that bottle into Tav’s face if she plays that song again.”
Never denying but never confirming, a classic Sharran behavior. But Lae’zel has no right to say anything, not when she would’ve done the same. "She is a bard, what is wrong with that?"
"Well, nothing." Shadowheart tips her bottle toward Tav. "But by the Gods, I'd be hearing that song in my sleep and for hours tomorrow if she won’t play a different one right now."
Lae'zel frowns. "How so? Will she not sleep just to play that gee-tahr?"
"You've never experienced an earworm before?"
Lae'zel's ears flick back protectively, and Shadowheart snorted, "Don't worry, we're not getting another tadpole. Your mind just plays the last song you heard repeatedly until it gets tired of it."
She has never encountered an earworm before, but Lae’zel knows all too well how distractions can be dangerous. “Hearing something that doesn’t exist. This ailment is formidable.”
Shadowheart's laughter came and went so quickly that Lae'zel thought she had imagined it. “Very formidable, I’ll have you know. Don’t you have music in…where you came from?”
Lae’zel pauses. “What you call music serves a different function for the githyanki. The drums are struck to communicate commands, and the hymns are sung to raise the troop’s morale.”
It is very different from how the istiks use it in Toril. Even now, the notion of people dedicating their lives to make pleasant sounds for entertainment feels alien to her. But apparently, people like Tav exist. And if the istiks use music to indulge in their emotions, then…
“Using your terms, this…” she grabs Shadowheart’s hand and puts it in her heart, “is the only music I’ve known. The beating of the heart, the rhythm of life. It paces you. It reminds you that you’re still alive. And if you can still breathe, then you can still fight.”
They locked eyes while listening to her heartbeat. Badump, badump, badump.
Lae’zel watches the flame dance in Shadowheart’s green eyes. It reminds her of how the Tears of Selune twinkled and how they calmed her after a day of fighting for her life. There was no warmth in the floor she slept on at the creche, but Shadowheart’s hand in hers feels like it could burn her forever. Hallucination or not, Lae’zel cannot bear the thought of watching that warmth vanish from the world.
It was too late when she noticed how she was gripping it desperately. She let it go and watched as Shadowheart reluctantly withdrew her hand. “That’s one creative way to say you can’t sing.”
For a Sharran, Shadowheart is bad at being mean. Her training is inadequate, yet it feels like a kind of mercy that keeps them from acknowledging the thing neither of them is ready to face.
Lae’zel picks up her Baldur’s Grapes, “If I am to be a bard, at the very least I’ll aim to be competent and learn more than four songs.”
"You're not supposed to say that out loud, but it's true." They share a look, and just like that, they are back to their preferred normal. By then, Tav had just finished performing the same song. Karlach is looking in their direction in one of her playful grins.
"Oi Tav, Shads here says she is tired of your songs. Do something about it." Shadowheart rolls her eyes at the name, and Lae'zel smirks. She knows exactly how much the half-elf hates it.
"Oh, and Lae Lae too." The smirk dies on her lips. Now it is Shadowheart's turn to look at her smugly while she shoots the daggers.
Tav looks at them curiously, and Lae’zel thinks she will take that comment to heart. Instead, the bard adjusts the pegs on the head of her guitar. “Alright, this next song is something no one has ever heard before. Not in Faerun, not even the Astral.”
“Finally…” Lae’zel hears Astarion say it in one of his exaggerated speeches. Karlach starts tapping her feet in anticipation for yet another dance. Even Lae’zel curiously watches as Tav strums her fingers and adjusts the knobs on the instrument, string by string.
But the opening notes are slow and hang in the air longer than they should. And the voice that came after that is softer than anyone anticipated. Tav’s right, it is not something Lae’zel had heard before. Not in Feyroon, and absolutely not in the repository of githyanki battle hymns.
♬
Talking away
I don’t know what I’m to say
I’ll say it anyway
Today’s another day to find you
Shying away
The lines are no more than scattered words with no purpose. So senseless that putting it into a melody for all istiks to hear is a ridiculous idea even on Feyroonian standards. Still, she can’t just throw it into the background, unlike any of Tav’s other songs.
There is a part of her that wants to continue listening, and that part is stronger now that the alcohol from her system seems to have fizzled out. Maybe a few more gulps of the wine would make this experience a bit bearable.
Lae’zel picks her Baldur’s Grape from the ground and brings it to her lips, only to taste the last few drops of alcohol on her tongue. After a brief glance, she sets it aside and digs it back into the loose sand where it stood before.
As if on cue, suddenly Shadowheart holds out her bottle for her to take. The half-elf is not even looking at her, but watching nonetheless.
♬
I’ll be coming for your love, okay?
The reddish-purple liquid sways gently inside the bottle. There are also white streaks of dust all around, showing that Shadowheart at least tried to clean it before drinking. The Purple Dragon Blush label is barely readable. Lae’zel stares at it, unsure of what to do. It doesn’t make it better that Tav’s song seems to be mocking the moment.
♬
Take on me
Is this a trap? No, they are way beyond that… A test? Most likely, but the timing could’ve been more curious. A prank or a bait? That would be strange, considering what had transpired before. Shadowheart is not the type to share what’s hers, especially her expensive stash of vintages. There shouldn’t be a reason for her to do it now.
A few seconds of these and Shadowheart finally looks at her, gesturing for her to take the bottle. Lae’zel thought there was a glimmer of hopefulness in her eyes, but for all that it's worth, it might be a trick of light.
♬
Take me on
Does she deserve it? Her instinct tells her not to accept it. There’s no glory to be had, a foe to vanquish, or a fight to be won. No way to prove that she earned the liquor being offered.
♬
So needless to say
I'm odds and ends
But I’ll be stumbling away
Slowly learning that life is okay
But Shadowheart is no varsh, and this camp is not the crèche. This moment does not have the same hue as taking the cup of Arak from her varsh, or the bottle of Baldur’s Grape from Wyll’s hand. It is a different kind of taking, one where the only pre-requisite is trust.
She can’t help but to feel that this is more for Shadowheart’s sake, not hers. And besides, if Shadowheart believes that she deserves this bottle, then who is she to argue?
♬
Say after me
It’s not better to be safe than sorry
Lae’zel takes the bottle and drinks. Her face scrunches when the first taste of the wine reaches her tongue. It is sour, bitter, and so strongly sharp that it grates against the sides of her cheeks and sets her taste buds on fire.
The dryness alone makes it far less appealing than the Baldur’s Grapes. For whatever reason, she takes another gulp. She waits for the whiplash of unpleasantness that never comes. Instead, a certain sweetness reveals itself. It lingers on her tongue longer than any other flavor.
She looks at the bottle again when she realizes it is the sharpness that makes the sweetness all the more pleasant. And then to Shadowheart, who now has a small smile she thought she hid so well, as she watches Tav’s performance.
♬
Take on me
Take me on
I’ll be gone in a day or two
They could be gone in a day or two, if not killed by their enemies, then maybe from the tadpoles in their heads. Her kin is searching for them and will definitely kill them on the spot.
Lae’zel doesn’t know when she’ll get the chance to have this wine again. To feel the warmth of the campfire, to hear Tav’s rotation of four songs, to see Scratch receiving pats from everyone… to smell the familiar mix of incense and wildflowers in the air.
So she takes it all, takes what she can, greedily, as she always does.
This fic is inspired specifically by this cover: