Chapter Text
Clinging to her mother’s arm, she followed her parents up the rocky slope. She playfully swung her legs as she walked, and pebbles skittered down the hill where her feet dislodged them.
A few minutes of hiking later, tall grass scraping her bare ankles, and they’d reached the edge of the cliff. A playful breeze threw her braided hair back, smelling of salt and her mother’s flowery perfume. She held on tighter to her mother, afraid any more wind would send her flying. Behind Mother, she was safe, even if the view was obscured.
Her father wouldn’t have that. From his place a few paces behind them, he called out, “Jen, dear! It’s perfectly safe here, nothing scary. Truly.”
Though she’d felt at ease on the walk up, Jenevelle suddenly felt horribly nervous. She knew what was ahead; Father must’ve described it about a hundred times, a beautiful overlook of the Sea of Swords. Now, all she could think of was the drop leading down, down, down into churning waves. There was a storybook on her bookshelf, about a pirate captain who sailed the coasts off Baldur’s Gate. She’d fought sea serpents and weird, clawed fish-people when she sailed. Did they lurk in these waters too?
Her mother ran her hands through her hair, tousling the twin braids she’d done for her that morning. “Go on,” she soothed, “Look at the view.”
Slowly, she began to let go of her mother’s arm. One hand, then the other. Right away, she missed the softness of her skin, replaced by coursing wind that was impossible to grasp. With careful steps, her eyes not leaving the rocky ground, she made her way forward. She didn’t dare look up even for a second.
“Jenevelle,” her mother chided, her voice singsongy as usual, “We didn’t bring you here to look at a bunch of pebbles, you know.”
She didn’t budge. The thought of the crashing water below, more than strong enough to carry her away and filled with monsters, was a discouraging one.
“Mum? Dad? Can you come with me?” She really, really wanted to be brave. Like the older kids in who’d already ventured into the woods and came back taller, prouder. But then she thought of the sea again, the wind throwing her into salty water to drown, and her courage melted.
And suddenly they were by her side again, supporting her at her left and right. The howl of the wind died down, and she no longer felt like she was about to drift away. Her father bent down, took her face in his hands.
His smile was partially veiled by the strands of dark hair that crossed his face, but Jenevelle knew it was there all the same. Pointed features, eyebrows that were always furrowed—which she thought were cool, even if he didn’t like being teased about it—all complimented by that lopsided grin. She wished she’d inherited it, since it was so striking, but she’d gotten her mother’s more serene face instead. Maybe the trade-off wasn’t bad, since everyone always said that her mother had been the most beautiful girl in the village.
“Listen to me, Jen,” Father told her, “Mum and Dad are right here, alright? You can look at us if you need to.”
She felt Mother squeeze her hand, and she took a deep breath, letting it out to be with the wind. She was brave, just like those other kids. And her parents were right by her side.
Without thinking, she thrust her head upwards, blinking in the sunlight. The sun was blinding, unlike the dullness of rocks and grasses. Squinting, she looked past the brightness, her eyes landing on the blue line stretching to the horizon: The Sea of Swords, moving to the tune of the ocean breeze. Though the curls of white on the crests of nearby waves screamed danger, there was a mesmerizing beauty to them, like the wolves in the woods. Look, but don’t get too near, they seemed to say. Gazing below the cliff, she could spy a rocky beach, made of the same gray, smooth stone as the cliff. Bits and pieces of some dark green plant littered the beach, washed ashore by pounding waves.
“It’s amazing,” she gasped, wide-eyed, “Why don’t we have a place like this back home?”
Her mother chuckled warmly. “Because we couldn’t appreciate places like this as much if we saw them every day.”
“Yes,” her father agreed, “It is by the Moonmaiden’s grace that we can venture into nature like this; that we can see so much beauty in our lives.”
“Thank you, Moonmaiden,” Jenevelle echoed his words, “For pretty places.”
They stood at the cliff top for a while longer, watching the waves rise and fall with their own steady rhythm.
“Let’s come back here again someday,” her Mother promised, “Once you’ve grown in the teachings of Our Lady of Silver. You’ve been so brave today—you’re almost ready.”
A flicker of enthusiasm raced through her. ‘Ready.’ That could only mean one thing, couldn’t it?
As they turned back, starting down the rocky trail that led back to the carriage they’d rented, Jenevelle caught one more glimpse of the shining sea.
“I’ll be back soon,” she promised it. The moon influenced the tides, she recalled from her teachings. Surely, that was a good omen.
-
Shadowheart awoke facedown, freezing, in a bed of straw, with bits of dried grass in her hair and face. Groaning, she sat up, gazing through the barn’s open window. The full moon hung in the sky, still a ways off from the horizon.
Standing, she yawned, beginning to pace to warm herself up. The fact that the innkeeper had thought it fair to relegate her out here was nothing short of ridiculous—he must’ve known she very well could’ve frozen in this weather. All because she’d been one copper short of the most basic room for the night. She’d just started to pick the hay out of her mostly-undone braid when a gust of wind blew through the window. It tickled her nose, bringing with it sharp scent of salt. Familiar, somehow. Nostalgic.
Salt? Why could that possibly be of any significance– Oh.
At once, her dream came rushing back to her: rocky hills, windswept grasses sprouting between the cracks. Holding onto her mother’s arm for dear life. Walking to the edge of a cliff, wind nearly toppling her adolescent body over. Her father’s kind words. Finally seeing the ocean in all its terrifying beauty. Being with her family for longer than a few pained moments.
She glanced back at the window. The pale full moon now seemed to taunt her with a callous glow.
Memories of her past had never fully returned after she’d followed the wishes of Selûne and ended her parents’ forty years of suffering. And she’d never expected them to—that was part of the deal. Forgetting everything, the good and the bad, but leaving all the guilt; the calluses on hands once used to torture and main, the numbness in her right hand where Shar had once reminded her of her wrath. The sensations remained, even if remembrance didn’t often come with them. When it did, memories came back in shattered fragments in dreams. There was no point in putting the bits back together, like pottery shattered to the point of being useless rubble.
Even so, the dream stuck with her. How could it not? Her parents had chosen well with such a view; that she could still see it so vividly several decades and multiple memory wipes later was a testament to its memorability. Shadowheart wondered if they’d liked nature as much as the rest of the Selûnites she’d met. Most of them seemed the type.
A pang of longing struck her, and she kicked at a barrel in the corner in response. It landed on its side, ricocheting off the wall and rolling to her feet. Rancid liquid began to slowly drain from a hole in the lid, and she backed away, cursing.
You made your choice—time to live with it, she reminded herself.
At the time, it hadn’t felt like her choice, letting her parents go. Though she’d claimed to be free of gods, she had still been the scared little girl she’d always been, too cowardly to do anything but what she’d been told the Moonmaiden wanted: let them be free in death. She’d believed in her parents then when they’d pleaded with her, and she now fully believed in Selûne as well, but that did not erase the hurt she felt over that day. Nothing would. Seldom did the dreams make her feel any better, either. Joyous childhood moments only reminded her what she’d been all too ready to throw away.
Shadowheart had been promised the night in this ramshackle barn, but there was no way she’d be getting back to sleep in this sorry state. Not to mention the smell of mildew and cattle that pervaded the air even with the open window. Accepting her lot, she headed for the door, yawning as she did so. She pushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ears. Only the ends were silver these days; she hadn’t bothered to re-dye her roots.
The inn she’d been denied entry to, named Shandalar’s Rest after a wizard that once lived nearby, was no paradise. In retrospect, it was only marginally better than the barn, with holes in the walls and a layer of mold on every surface. This filth was perhaps most prominent at the inn, but it extended to some degree across the rest of the town of Ulgoth’s Beard as well. Most of the business came from traders stopping by on their way to the Gate, giving the place a feeling of impermanence; the tiny village couldn’t have a population of more than a few hundred. The surrounding land had been stubbornly worked to the point of stripping the life from the soil. Shadowheart assumed the economy was mostly in fishing, as the hamlet was situated on a good stretch of coastline.
From Shandalar’s Rest, Shadowheart made her way down a gravel road and towards the town proper. In the distance, difficult to see against the dark sky, was the warning beacon used against pirate ships. She made her way towards it, being the only recognizable landmark aside from the sea. She’d get her bearings, and then she’d leave to continue her wandering. There was a Selûnite shrine not far from here that Dame Aylin had told her of; perhaps she’d go there.
It was by the sea, wasn’t it? About a mile off, she recalled. The thought made her stomach twist in knots. Stupid nightmare, stupid memories.
The buildings she walked by, silent and lightless behind old and cracked windows, grew closer together as she approached the town square. Not a soul was around, save for rats and gulls that fled at the site of her. Wind, smelling of sea air and dirt, blew through the empty square, sending up dead leaves and a few papers that had fallen from the square’s bulletin board. One of them flipped through the air, animated by the breeze, before falling limply to a stop at her feet when it died down. Curious, she picked it up, unfolding the crumpled paper.
Wanted, it read in block letters at the top., Bounties of up to 100 GP on capture. See Flaming Fist if you have any information pertaining to the whereabouts of these individuals. Following the text were a series of twelve sketches, contained in a grid of rectangles. A few scowling humans with Zhentarim pins—presumably artistic liberties were taken there, since no smart criminal would identify their guild, even one as obviously wicked as the Zhentarim—a couple of half-orcs, one of them in a nobleman’s attire, and an elf. None of them were familiar to her, so she stuffed the poster into her satchel. While it was out, she dug around in her bag, checking to make sure she had everything.
“Strange,” she muttered, “It’s a lot lighter than usual.”
And then she realized it: Her pouch of offerings for shrines was gone. She must’ve left it at the barn. Shit.
Turning on her heel, she sprinted back to the tavern, burdened by the rest of her belongings. After a few minutes of combing the grass, she diverted from the path and headed towards the barn. One of the tall, splinter-covered double doors was cracked open, providing a peek into the shadowed room within. The moonlight and her darkvision only did so much, and as she pulled open the door with an unpleasant creak, she had to blink to adjust her eyes.
Her eyes instinctively began to search the floor, and she was surprised as a silhouette flashed in the corner of her vision. It was followed by the receding sound of footsteps on straw. Someone else was here, gone before she could process what had happened. Yet as she looked up, turning about the barn’s interior, she saw neither her bag nor the figure. Had she been imagining things? No: Both doors were open now, and someone was running down the road, away from the barn and Shandalar’s Rest. Scowling, she broke into a run, weighed down by her things and the chainmail under her clothes.
Shadowheart burst out of the barn, twenty paces behind the shadowy figure as wind raced in her ears. The thief, as it seemed they were, was quick despite their bulky frame, and they widened the gap between them with little effort.
“Wait!” she called out, “Get back here, you–“
She wasn’t sure what to say, so she cut herself off and kept running. Yet her words stopped the thief for a second, and they paused, like a shocked deer. They glanced around, as if looking for an escape, before turning sharply into some nearby brush.
You can’t hide from a Sharran, Former Sharran, she reminded herself. She picked up her pace, switching directions to take her in the direction of the thief. Bracing herself with her arms, she flew through a clump of ferns and into the tangle of the undergrowth. Behind the wall of trees blocking most of her vision, she spotted movement. A muscular humanoid. Got them.
Wait. They were standing perfectly still. There was no reason for them to–
Before she could finish that thought, her foot was being ensnared by a thorny vine, sharply yanking her to the ground. The air was knocked from her lungs as first her body broke her fall, her hands pricked by brambles as she scrambled for purchase on the forest floor. Shadowheart gritted her teeth, dragged herself to her feet. The figure was still just standing there. No, not just standing. They’d leaned themself up casually against a tree, as if to mock her. Even as she was fully on her feet, they didn’t move, and Shadowheart finally got a good look at them:
Gray skin, with small tusks jutting out from their mouth, bent into a wry smile. His dark hair was tied back into a neat braid, swept over his shoulder. It was his clothes that caught her off guard; his rich leather tunic and ruffled shirt were more befitting a patriar than a lowly criminal.
“You’re one of the criminals on the bounty poster,” Shadowheart accused him, drawing her mace from the belt at her hip, “It’s not exactly subtle.”
The half-orc finally stepped forward, dangling the offerings pouch just out of reach. He hopped back the second she reached out, leaving her grasping at air.
“Oh no, I’m afraid you’ll have to be faster than that,” he mocked. His voice was pitched higher than she would’ve expected, and his accent was that of an aristocrat’s. Beyond that, though… it was familiar, almost hilariously so.
Moonmaiden, you’re not above pettiness, are you?
In a second, she’d lunged forward, pushed him to the ground, her mace raised. The thief yelped, and in a swirl of magic, the guise of a half-orc was gone. In its wake; a lithe elven man, white-haired and with piercing red eyes.
“Ow!” Astarion complained, “Hells, Shadowheart, darling, what’s gotten into you?”
Satisfied, she tucked the mace away, standing up again. She offered an arm to Astarion, and he took it, leaning on her as he stood.
“Just wanted to see how far you’d take the whole ‘robbing me blind’ charade. It doesn’t hurt to check,” she replied smugly.
Sighing, Astarion tossed her the pouch. “If I’d known that it was you who left their valuables unattended, I would’ve left them to some other criminal and robbed the inn instead. Happy?”
“You haven’t changed since we last saw each other,” Shadowheart remarked.
“Desperate times, desperate measures; I’m sure you understand,” Astarion said. He tossed her a spool of cloth from a pouch. For bandaging her hands, she assumed.
“Thanks.” Her palms were raw and bloodied, with dirt and pebbles embedded into them. Wincing, she managed to clean and wrap her hands. Astarion perched up on a tree stump, watching her diligently.
“I didn’t know it was you I’d stolen from until you yelled, just so you know,” he clarified.
“And then you still ran into the woods,” Shadowheart added.
“What was I supposed to do? I had to hide, there’s a fucking bounty on my head!” he exclaimed. “Well, Jonathan’s head. That’s my alias.”
Shadowheart chuckled. “Fair point. I would’ve done the same. I wouldn’t have picked that name though. It’s a little pedestrian, don’t you think?.”
“Oh? Well, I’m glad you’re still able to have a little fun,” Astarion teased, elbowing her.
“Fun.” The word sat heavily on her tongue. It didn’t feel quite right. Was this fun? Was traveling all alone, disturbed only by nightmares fun? It wasn’t, but it was enough, for the solace she’d found in her faith. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Astarion eyed her, his expression darkening. “So we’re in similar situations, then. Me robbing and killing just to survive—“ he put a special emphasis on that last word, “—and you, with your aimless wandering.”
“It’s not aimless,” she insisted, “There’s a shrine not far off. Dame Aylin told me about it.” She began to walk back towards Ulgoth’s beard, retracing her steps through the moonlight woods. Astarion followed wordlessly.
“Why the disguise spell?” Shadowheart asked, “You’re plenty stealthy on your own.”
Astarion shrugged. “My face is memorable.” He grinned to show his fangs. Shadowheart supposed he was right: Unlike her, whose great shame of ‘formerly Sharran’ would take a great deal of guesswork to figure out, Astarion’s tells were far more obvious.
“You drive home a fair point,” Shadowheart observed, “Ah, point. Like your teeth—pointy.”
She giggled, though the joke was admittedly scraping the bottom of the barrel. Shadowheart peeked out of the bushes, making sure no one was around, before motioning that they could rejoin the main road.
“Oh, ha ha, very funny,” Astarion quipped dryly, “If I was Gale after downing five shots, I might laugh.”
“And then you’d go on to repeatedly recite an obnoxious soliloquy to anybody who would listen, before finally passing out in somebody’s dinner. I’d pay to see that.”
They found solace in reminiscing about the ‘old days’ of last year, during their travels together. It might’ve made her feel ancient, like some battle-hardened once-warrior telling their grandchildren about the glory of days past, but it was sweet nonetheless. And between memories, Shadowheart could’ve sworn she spotted a look of sorrow in Astarion’s scarlet eyes, faraway and misty. A part of her wanted to ask, but that would be hypocritical of her: It wasn’t like she wanted to talk about her issues. So, old stories it was.
Astarion agreed to accompany her to the shrine: If they walked fast, they’d have more than enough time to reach the location before daybreak. Outside the village, the road became patchy in places, overwhelmed by weeds and tall grass for stretches of several yards at a time. Trees thinned out, as did the admittedly faint traces of civilization from Ulgoth’s Beard; only the occasional ruined cart by the roadside served as proof that people lived here. In the distance, she could see a strip of glimmering sea, sparkling coldly in the moonlight.
The same sea you saw with your parents, a tiny voice in her head reminded her, Back before everything went wrong.
Shadowheart opted to focus on the road after that. Most of the time, her recovered memories didn’t have quite so many connections to real life. They were simple: tea with her father, fishing with her mother. Nothing of note, really.
“How far have you been from Baldur’s Gate since we last met?” she asked. They’d been silent for a while, and she itched for conversation.
“Since Withers’ party? Gods, I have no idea. I almost reached Candlekeep a few months ago, only to be ambushed by a couple of monster hunters. They’d heard a vampire was roaming the land, and there I was.”
“Hence the disguises,” she said, “Smart. You’d make a wonderful Sharran, only one of them wouldn’t be caught in the first place.”
“I wouldn’t be caught up in a cult,” he corrected her, “Your attachment to the gods is utterly foreign to my kind.”
She recalled an overheard conversation between him and Gale: “I tried them all. None of them answered.” With a twinge of guilt, she dropped the subject.
At least the shrine was easy to spot, saving them any trouble. Formed of a pillar jutting out from the flat roadside, it was about a head taller than Shadowheart was. Engraved at the top was Selûne’s circle, a pair of eyes encircled by seven stars. Offerings were laid out in the surrounding dirt: incense, moonstones, gold, and food. She wasn’t sure if the food was offered for Selûne or for pilgrims, but she wasn’t hungry, so it didn’t matter. All it did was serve as a reminder of how woefully uneducated she was, compared to the other disciples her age that she’d met. Rather than approaching with her, Astarion kept his distance, milling about aimlessly nearby.
Things could’ve been different, if only her parents were here. They might’ve taught her the teachings of the Lady of Silver, just as they’d taught her a little bit of bravery. Just not in this lifetime.
Sighing and pushing the thoughts away, she opened her bag of offerings. She laid a few moonstones and a few gold pieces at the base of the shrine, nestled amongst flowers and candles. Summoning a flame, she lit the candles, casting a subtle orange glow across the area. The warmth, though slight, felt like a blessing, and she remembered how cold it was outside.
“Time to pray,” she murmured to herself, kneeling and closing her eyes. If she focused, she could feel the silver moon’s rays shining down on her. They were comforting, even if ethereal.
Selûne, she began, thank you for ensuring me safe passage here. I’m grateful I met Astarion on the way here. Company is appreciated.
When she prayed to Selûne, she tried to keep herself conversational; in part because she hadn’t yet unlearned all the Sharran prayers she once performed and in part because she found it easier. Even so, she found herself at a loss for words.
You told me my parents would be close to me, as moon motes. That they would watch over me. But I look out to the sea and all I can think of– she faltered, cursing quietly to herself, All I can think of are the memories I can’t ever get back. Of the new ones that can never be formed.
These musings had came to her before, after every single scrap of childhood that returned to her. But never before had they felt quite as strong. The sea was so near, salt on the wind a bitter reminder.
I want to go back there.
There; that was it, her fleeting wish laid bare before the Moonmaiden’s altar. Shadowheart stewed with the thought a while longer, before opening her eyes. She didn’t want to keep Astarion waiting for too long, lest he find some poor traveler to drain dry.
“Astarion!” she called out across the field, “I’m ready to go.”
He jogged over, and she realized there were tears in her eyes. She hastily wiped them away, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“That was quick,” he replied matter-of-factly, “Lady problems?”
She laughed, maybe a little too forcefully, because the tears came right back. Before she knew it, she’d brought her sleeve to her face, a measly attempt at hiding it.
“It’s not…” she trailed off into quiet sobs, “I had a nightmare about my parents. When they were alive. I didn’t think I’d remember anything about them again; and maybe that would make it easier.”
Shadowheart didn’t expect any comfort, but Astarion stepped closer, putting one arm around her shoulder.
“We visited the ocean together, when I was a little girl,” she explained, “I remembered it last night; it’s why I left the barn in a rush.”
“And?” Astarion looked at her expectantly.
She still saw it in her minds’s eye, the crashing waves and grass cliffs. Could the scenery have changed that much, in forty-odd years? It wasn’t exactly a major population center.
Shadowheart realized she was staring into space, and rushed to make sure her things were in order.
“And? I suppose I’ll try to find the place in my dreams. Moonmaiden willing, of course,” she replied.
Pouting, Astarion crossed his arms, turning away from her and towards the road to Ulgoth’s Beard. “Oh, and leave me here, alone? Darling, I’m hurt.”
“I don’t want to disturb your… business ventures,” Shadowheart told him. She honestly wasn’t sure if he would even want to join her, if this was going to be something.
Astarion scoffed, looking back towards her. “I really have nothing better to do at the moment.”
She cocked her head. “You’re certain?”
He nodded a quick reply. “Now, do you have everything? I’d hate for you to run back to the shrine and realize all your things were stolen by some horrible knave.”
“Yes, there are thieves afoot,” she snarked.
They rejoined the road, continuing away from the village, mostly because they had no idea which way to go. She’d been hoping for something from Selûne; something tangible. But in her distress, she’d been in no place to pray.
“Let’s come back here again someday,” her Mother had promised her, all those years ago, “Once you’ve grown in the teachings of Our Lady of Silver. You’ve been so brave today—you’re almost ready.”
“Please, please let me be ready now,” she whispered to herself.