Chapter 1
Their little band of misfits was certainly a sight to take in. What had once been one — quickly amended to two with the introduction of that cold-blooded cleric — had grown into a true adventuring party. There was some deep-seeded familiarity to the thought, one that the Knight did well to ignore. Rather, she watched her companions from afar; the lot of them remained seated around the dying campfire, getting cozy amongst one another. She should join them. Should because she’d already decided that she won’t. Should because she’d been placed on a pedestal and given the title of de facto leader and she should really try to play the part.
She won’t. Admitted as much to herself the first night they fell into company with one another. So it was she who performed nightly patrols around their camp. She who strayed too far from the trail. She who sat alone under the moonlight. Her helmet rested beside her, sword poised beside it. The Knight would know if someone snuck up from behind. Still, she allowed her mind to dawdle. She fell back into rhythm with the person she was… before all of this.
The Knight frowned. The skin of her right cheek pulled taut and she touched a hand to her face to find the raised scar tissue, red and angry. She dropped her hand, just as quick as if she’d been burned, and reclaimed her discarded glove.
“I was beginning to wonder where you wandered off to.”
The Knight stilled. She didn’t need to turn around to know that the cleric stood some distance behind her. Shadowheart, her name was. Fitting, the Knight supposed. She sighed, retrieved the helmet sat beside her, and donned it with that freakish familiarity. “When one seeks solitude, is it not not wrong to assume they are better left alone?”
There was not a response for some time. Perhaps for the best. The Knight moved to stand but found a presence at her side. Shadowheart lowered beside her, attention forward on the dark, wooded expanse that laid before them. “Perhaps,” she mused, “but I don’t recall having checked you for wounds.” Something divine cloaked Shadowheart’s hands then. The Knight saw it in her peripheral; something dark but certainly divine. It snaked around the woman’s palm and danced across the back of her hand in unsteady rhythms.
“I’m well enough,” the Knight said, uncertain if even she believed herself. “The others do not carry themselves so well in battle.”
“You would know, wouldn’t you?”
Perhaps she was caught off guard. Perhaps she wasn’t. Her rebuttal was stuck in her throat nonetheless. It was a challenge, she knew. Some attempt to raise her hackles. Shadowheart was well-trained in the way of mind games. She knew that. She’d vowed to herself not to succumb to the woman’s tricks but why does it feel so freeing?
“I don’t follow.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you if that was your concern. My only intent is to question why you sequester yourself away from the people who so desperately vie for your approval.”
“Yourself included?”
“Perish the thought.”
“They fight well enough,” the Knight said, uncertain whether or not she fully agreed with the statement. The githyanki and the human, Lae’zel and Wyll, fought well enough. The two obviously had formal training and the time to practice it in the field. Karlach too, she supposed, only when the barbarian wasn’t swinging her great axe wide enough to cleave the Knight in two. She wasn’t so sure about the wizard or the rogue though. The two often fell back from the conflict, nursing wounds that fell into Shadowheart’s realm of understanding. “We play the part of a band of mercenaries better than we do a proper party.”
“You worry that their inexperience will get us killed?”
“That is one aspect of it, isn’t it?”
“And the other?”
The Knight didn’t speak for a time. Silence was a weapon and she wielded it without grace. She inclined her head to the moonlit sky. Half a dozen constellations blanketed the eternal black, dozens of stories hidden away between them. How many times had she studied the night sky on quiet nights such as this, she wondered. Only a handful of days stood between now and an illithid transformation. Their fate was sealed.
“I have little faith that we will see this madness through,” the Knight said, shrugging as if the admission were any bit normal. “I see no reason to grow familiar when death is imminent. If I am wrong, then so be it. But if I am right, I have nothing to lose.”
“Yet, here we sit and talk.”
“Yet, a Sharran cleric sees fit to intrude on my nightly patrols,” the Knight corrected. There was no malice to her tone. No rudeness or annoyance. Just a certain bluntness she always carried. “You’ll find no entertainment here, do you understand that? I am not a spectacle to be observed.”
“You’re dreadfully dull tonight.”
The Knight stood suddenly and Shadowheart mirrored her, an odd look crossing her face. The cleric tilted her head to the side, watching, curious, when the Knight bent at the waist to retrieve her discarded blade. “If you’ve the need for conversation, I’m sure the vampire will be more than happy to oblige you.”
“My point stands, still.”
“And that is?”
“I haven’t checked you for wounds.”
There was a dangerous glint to Shadowheart’s eyes. One the Knight found impossible to miss. Some unknowable emotion that she made no attempt to place. She scoffed. “I stand and I walk — you’ve looked me over, good night to you, cleric.”
The Knight turned on her heel and walked a handful of steps but found a presence at her side. A hand at her bicep. She frowned. “Leave me.”
“I see the stutter in your gait—”
“The wise Shadowheart discovers an old wound? Color me surprised.” The Knight’s voice was unkind. Unwavering too. Yet, unlike their other companions, Shadowheart did not scare so easily. She remained stalwart against the storm. There was some familiarity to this. Something rehearsed to this shared conflict. The Knight felt it in her bones. Her shoulders slackened some and she inclined her head to the sky once more, debating. When she spoke next, her tone was calmer, albeit sharper than a double-edged blade but calmer still. “Consider your words; they carry a meaning you may not intend.”
“I see the stutter in your gait,” Shadowheart repeated, albeit tone firm. “It’s obviously bothering you. Should your leg fail you in battle, it may very well come at the cost of your life.”
There would be no weaseling her way out of this one, the Knight understood the fact well enough. So she conceded, a soundless laugh. She shook her head. “You won’t let this be, I suppose? Another time. The hour grows late and I’ve still more land to patrol. I’m sure you can be patient.”
_____
There remained something yet to be seen about their fearless leader. It wasn’t just her face — although they had yet to glimpse the woman’s true features in the days since they first began their travels together — but there was something strange about her. Some forsaken truth, it seemed, that she cradled close to her heart. Shadowheart saw it in passing. Those desperate few moments after a conflict wherein the Knight’s shoulders rise and fall erratically and she scans her surroundings, doting on each of their companions without ever saying a word. It wasn’t kindness but it was certainly something adjacent to it.
So Shadowheart waited. Long into the early hours of the morning, she waited for the Knight to return to her tent that night. The one furthest from their camp, positioned between a handful of trees and a particularly rueful boulder. To no avail, it seemed, because the Knight did not return until dawn. She walked with a limp. The same one Shadowheart had grown accustomed to in only a handful of days. Once, she stopped, reached a hand down to the back of her knee, and a soft light emitted from her hand.
A paladin perhaps, Shadowheart mused, watching from afar.
It was unsurprising, the way the Knight went out of her way to help those in need if only to ignore their pressing tadpole-sized issue.
She watched as the woman slipped into her tent for a time, appearing again only once most of their camp had awakened. The Knight spoke not a word, opting for the company of that white hound, Scratch. It had become increasingly clear that, much like them choosing her to be their leader, the hound had chosen her to be his master. He followed closely at her heels wherever she allowed him.
She watched. Longer than she meant to, it seemed, because she felt a presence on the log beside her. Shadowheart turned to see Astarion, bowls in either of his hands, complaining about Wyll’s breakfast concoction. Even so, the elf offered her a bowl, followed her gaze to the wayward knight, and flashed a devilish smile; a burning realization. “Such an enigma, isn’t she?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh darling,” he said. The man, this terrible, terrible man, drew a hand up to his heart as if he’d been struck by a stray arrow, feigning offense. “Don’t think for one moment that I didn’t notice you sneaking off after her last night. You’re quite loud when you try.”
“I only went to ensure she wasn’t nursing an injury comparable to your own.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. That’s the only reason. No other sparkling inclination to go tromping around in search for our resident insomniac.”
Shadowheart might die.
Perhaps she’ll take Astarion with her.
Turn her mind to mush and take on a much more… aquatic appearance?
Without warning, the mark on her hand flared to life. Shadowheart recoiled, drawing her hand close to her chest for observation. She turned her hand over. Shar’s boone radiated pain. The kind that lapped at her skin. Unforgivable. A reminder. A gift. Do not dawdle. She heard the voice in the furthest reaches of her mind. Do not open the mind to distractions, it meant.
She had a mission.
She snapped her gaze up to meet Astarion but the elf merely averted his attention elsewhere, opting to turn Wyll’s meal into the most awe-inspiring, interesting thing in the camp, loudly proclaiming so. Shadowheart tucked her hand uselessly against her thigh, curling the extremity into a fist.
Forgive me, Lady Shar.
The words on her mind were sharp. Concise even. It was a thinly veiled line of communication. One she seldom expected to receive response. So Shadowheart remained unsurprised when she received none. Disappointed, sure. But unsurprised, still.
“Do you ever wonder why she refuses to show her face?” It was her turn for odd looks now. She raised a brow, imploring the elf to further explain himself. He did so, eloquently: “It’s only that a person has two reasons to hide their face. The first being that they’re terribly grotesque and disfigured.”
“And the second?”
“A criminal worse than you or I, of course.”
She excused herself from Astarion’s company soon after that, carefully dancing around the topic of her current… infatuation — and she will admit it is such because what else could it be? Shadowheart only made it a handful of steps away before coming face to helm — she’s still workshopping that one — with the Knight. She understood Astarion’s word choice then: enigma.
This mountain of a woman rivaled Karlach in height and musculature alone. Or, Shadowheart assumed. It was hard to gauge when she’d not once seen the woman discard her armor. Even so, the Knight wielded her long sword with a prowess Shadowheart had seldom seen but could appreciate nonetheless.
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
The Knight nodded, if only to herself. “Neither did you, it seems, Sharran.”
“Must you call me that?”
“You worship her, do you not?”
“Yes, but I happen to have a name.”
“As do I.”
“Then why not use it?”
Shadowheart did not receive a response. Not in the tangible sense at least. The Knight stood there for a long while, taking up less space than she had any right. Shadowheart did not understand how this woman, the one who towered over her and trudged around in heavy armor, could possibly appear so small — if only momentarily. “In time.”
The Knight was impossible, Shadowheart concluded.
_____
As it turned out, they did not die.
Neither did they turn into illithid freaks.
They simply continued on as they had before, albeit a new trinket to be beholden, much to the Sharran’s dismay. The Knight wanted no part in the artifact; had made numerous attempts to return it to Shadowheart to no avail. She loathed the very idea of carrying an artifact that did not belong to her. So it seemed, did Lae’zel. The woman, in very few words, had described what would be done to her should she lose the artifact. Namely carving her head to toe, despite the armor.
The Knight had made a quick departure after that. Merely stated her understanding and disappeared into the nearby woods to begin her nightly patrol. Nightly was a generous word because the sun was still up, though the sky was a radiant orange. She’d only made it so far, to the bank of the nearby river before she sat down for a short rest. She’d set her helmet aside, unfastened her gauntlets, and cupped a handful of water to her face. The Knight relished when the cold water ran in rivulets down her skin. It was almost numbing.
Almost.
The pain in her face did not subside but it was near enough so. She worked her jaw in an odd motion; open and close, left and right. Blew air and spoke in psalm. Her words were slurred, her voice wrong from disuse. She repeated the ancient rite to herself under the moonlight now. Turned over the back of her hands and allowed divinity to bleed into her skin where it really didn’t belong. The back of her hands was a sprawling map of scar tissue where her skin was impossibly twisted. She closed her hand into a fist and the skin above her knuckles turned pallid in response.
The Knight sighed.
“You’re quite peculiar, do you know that?”
Her heart plunged in her chest and she scrambled to regain her bearings. The helm was first. She put it on so fast that she hadn’t accounted for her ears. The Knight winced, and released a noise that sounded suspiciously pained. In a vain attempt to avoid the profanities that threatened to spill, the Knight wrung her hands out. Only so many moments later, she realized she’d foregone her gauntlets and cursed herself, scrambling to retrieve them.
“What do you want?”
If Shadowheart had taken any bit of offense to the pointed question, she didn’t show it. No, the woman, this strange woman, merely shrugged — and in this singular moment, the Knight wanted to know why her pauldrons were the way they were — and allowed the Knight an additional moment to refasten her gauntlets. “I want to know why you’re out here alone but I’ll settle if you allow me to look over your leg.”
The Knight rose to her full height, a head or so over Shadowheart. She should’ve looked something imposing under the moonlight but she hardly played the part well enough on a good day. Now, she had the darkness for her boone. The faceless knight, she was. A lawless individual, she would remain. A criminal. Or a face so grotesque, a mother would scream at the very sight of her. Those were the words. The ones Astarion had once uttered.
“Must you keep sneaking up on me?”
“Must you always sit with your back facing the way you came? Forgive me, or not — it’s becoming increasingly apparent that you do this often.”
The Knight shot her a glare. “Under normal circumstances, I travel alone.”
“Don’t worry, I can tell. You’re terrible company.”
“I must be forgetting myself. Have I died and gone to the Hells? Or perhaps it’s your personal ambition to torture me? Your Lady Shar would appreciate that, I’m certain.”
The words were unkind, as was the tone. The Knight was unkind but Shadowheart seemed hardly fazed. She pushed forward a handful of steps, careful to keep a purposeful distance between them. “It is my Lady Shar who would give me her divine hand to heal you.”
“This, you cannot heal.”
The Knight swallowed, treading the line that would no doubt devolve into something terrible should it slip away from her. She folded her hands behind her back and bowed her head for a moment before returning her gaze to the woman standing before her. “I’ve told you once, I will tell you again if you must force my hand; save your energy for those who can be healed. Don’t be foolish. If you are, I’m not so certain even our egotistical wizard could save you.”
“You are the fool, Knight.”
“The greatest, I presume?”
The cleric stared at her with uncouth disdain. If she weren't wearing her helm, she would’ve chanced a smile, perhaps taunted Shadowheart into another bout of spiteful jabs. But the Knight was growing tired and the route of her patrol stretched on before her. “Will you leave me alone if I let you look me over?”
Shadowheart shrugged and, for that, the Knight had to respect her. This woman did not care what her companion said, nor the intensity of the Knight’s hatred. Only that she would not have her companions falling in battle over sheer stubbornness. The Knight’s respect was earned, not given. But here, under the moonlight beside the river, it felt more like it’d been traded; respect for respect.
“You’re persistent, you know that?”
“It is one of my finer qualities,” said Shadowheart, “I’m glad you finally noticed.”
“Fuck off.”