Chapter 2
The Knight, this utter beast of a woman, was not to be contended with on the battlefield. She was a bloody brute with a blade and a stone wall with a shield. Where Shadowheart faltered, her companion was there, a stalwart presence at her side. Shield raised to protect her from an oncoming blow or sword at the ready to strike down her would-be foe. So, sure, the Knight was a powerhouse of a woman.
Yet, sat beside the river, she was anything but. It would be easier once she finally resigned herself to the simple fact that Shadowheart wouldn’t let these sleeping dogs lie. So she’d perched herself on a rock, careful when she unfastened the straps that held her left boot in place. She sighed relief and set the boot down beside her, moving onto the cuisses that protected her thighs.
How often did she remove her armor?
The thought had crossed Shadowheart’s mind far more often than she would ever care to admit. For how often their leader retreated into the woods under the guise of a patrol, only to sit, uninhibited, under the cover of moonlight. Once or twice, only on the evenings where the moon shown brightest, Shadowheart caught the rare glimpse of her features; a sharp jawline, a protruding nose, and a white mop of hair sheared near to her scalp. Above all, a map of overlapping scars. Nothing she could study in depth, not before their leader noticed her presence.
The Knight, this bothersome thing, was taking too long unfastening her cuisses — Shadowheart would know. “Do you enjoy playing the part of a temperamental child?” This drew her gaze upward. Even if Shadowheart couldn’t see the woman’s eyes, the armor wasn’t doing anything, if not dramatizing the woman’s movements. “I could find you a toy if you’d like? Might help you self-soothe.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said the Knight, her tone was grounded, low. She found the final buckle and unbound it, allowing the armor to fall, lamely, to the ground at her feet. “Happy? Or would you have me try again? Perhaps my right will be more favorable.”
Shadowheart didn’t respond, not in the conversational sense at the very least. She fell into a crouch beside the woman, trailing the material of her leg, following the seam with that hollow glow. She paused when she got to the Knight’s knee. Even though she hadn’t — couldn’t have — glimpsed it, there was surely something there. Divinity bled from her fingers, yet not a drop found her companion.
Her Lady Shar was… refusing?
Shadowheart did not know what to think, so she did not. She rolled up the remainder of the cloth material and found the sight before her to be an unsettling one. The Knight’s leg was a myriad of scars, each crossing over the last. Not the kind wrought by a blade, Shadowheart suspected, but a terrible burn. She did not need to look up to know that her companion was watching her through the slits in her helm, studying her, judging her perhaps.
The woman, this knight, said not a fickle thing. She merely sat there, back rigid. A soldier once, Shadowheart hypothesized, but where were her banners, what lord did she follow; what oath had she once bound herself to. None of these questions Shadowheart had the mind to bring into question beyond her menial observations.
So she settled:
“Did you mean what you said back there?”
“I say a lot of things and only mean half of them,” said the Knight. “Be specific.”
“In the grove, to that woman.”
This is a bottle of wyvern poison. Swear to me you’ll swallow it if you feel any symptoms.
I swear.
“Sure.”
“You swore an oath.”
Her companion appeared indifferent, flippant. She shrugged. “I swear many oaths.”
“But this one. Would you do it?”
“Do what?”
This woman would bring Shadowheart to her wits end, she swore it. “Drink the poison?”
“If it comes to it,” said the Knight, “which I'm more than certain it will, I will brew us both the finest of brews.”
“How poetic,” said Shadowheart, bitter.
“Romantic, I'd call it. Like those fancy plays they put on in the big cities.” A pause, wherein the Knight had come to regret her words. “Not with you though, don't worry your little head about that.”
“Too kind, Knight.”
“Soren.”
That was cause for a pause, an indecent one at that. She snapped her gaze up to meet the armored woman, and, perhaps, gaped openly for but a moment. “I was once called Soren, if it pleases you. Don't let the others hear it. I don’t imagine I would hear the end of it.”
“You’ve an odd name, Knight Soren.”
“People who live in glass houses really shouldn't be throwing stones.”
Shadowheart, against all expectations, held her tongue. Her hand ached, warily so, yet even so… She humored Soren. Perhaps her Lady Shar would spit upon the mere notion that she'd even consider wasting her energy on a Selunite. Shadowheart may have been foolish but she was not dumb. “The wound may be of the lasting kind, but most ailments can be alleviated.” As if to punctuate the sentence, a hazy blue bled from her hands. The effect on her companion was near immediate: her shoulders slackened and the muscled in her leg relented some. “Do you not even attempt to treat the pain?”
“I've not much skill in the way of spells and magicks.”
“You lie.”
“I lie?”
“I've seen the light of divinity in your hands. You may waste yourself, healing your own wounds but there's certainly enough skill there.”
Soren made a noise that, without seeing her face, sounded like a cross between a cough and a choke, but sounded suspiciously close to amusement. She raised her hand before them and a fickle gold danced across her fingertips and weaved around the back of her hand. There was warmth there, the kind Shadowheart was unaccustomed to. After a few seconds, the light sputtered out and Soren sighed, audibly, beneath her helm.
“My god hardly favors me these days.”
There was this snaking feeling in Shadowheart's chest then. Her Lady Shar. Not words. Never clarity enough. Just a push. An emphasis. Where Shadowheart saw her companion, her Lady Shar saw a mind most apt for molding.
_____
Soren crossed her arms. She was a stalwart force. Or the man stood before her seemed to think so at the very least. This man, a vampire hunter as he'd put it, wandered into their camp, rambling about a vampire he'd been tracking some distance. Astarion, ever the wiser, had made himself scarce.
This was the type of man that Soren loathed.
One that did not take no for an answer.
“If you think I'm the type to allow a vampire into my company, you're sorely mistaken.” Her sword was in arms reach, leaned against a nearby tree trunk where she'd left it with the intent of cleaning it. There, it was a warning; an omen of what was to come if that man did not heed her words.
“I wouldn’t make assumptions—”
“—then don’t. Leave. I’m not interested in humoring you. Must you make me repeat myself?”
“But—”
“—but what? Thought you could stroll into my camp and accuse my companions of vampirism?” The words were bitter. Soren was worse. She was an impossible force, one never to be trifled with. Yet here they were. “Leave. If I see you again, I will kill you.”
One of Selune’s own.
A vicious dog with a bite.
The man faltered. Glanced between Soren and the handful of companions that stood behind her. Nobody jumped to his defense. Their leader may have been a stalwart force but her companions, those who followed her into the frenzy of battle, were her rampart defense. Although he hadn’t a tail — but Soren wished he did — the man turned around and shuffled away with his tail tucked between his legs. Soren said not a word, and only watched as he disappeared into the treeline.
In one, smooth movement, she retrieved her sword and started toward the treeline. She made it only a handful of steps before a snaking hand found its way to her shoulder. Soren turned to meet the daring fool but found only Shadowheart. The cleric stared at her, intensely, worry writ upon her brow. Soren, ever the fool, shrugged away from her and trudged forward.
Her companions, the ones that still held onto a shred of intellect, remained at camp; only a fool would follow her into the fray. So it would be Shadowheart who trailed her, some generous distance behind, of course. A fool, certainly, but the woman still had her wits about her. At times Soren spied her in her peripheral, side by side, an arms length away. Other times she lagged behind, watching.
Whatever the reason, Soren wasn't actually going to kill the man. She just wanted to make sure he left the vicinity of their camp before they packed and left.
Whether he met the unruly end of her blade… that would be his error.
“I think he's left — scary paladin with a blade and all that.”
Soren did not respond.
“Or perhaps there's another reason you enjoy traipsing through the forest?”
Soren, again, did not respond.
“You're in a foul mood.”
She stopped, suddenly.
“What do you want?”
Her tone was unfriendly; it often was. If Shadowheart was any bit deterred, she didn't show it. Only turned her hand over to observe the dirt beneath her nails. “To be a thorn in your side?” Shadowheart chanced and Soren rolled her eyes. “I'd rather like to see you gut the man, but I suspect you won't.”
“How lovely you are for conversation.”
“Eccentric, you mean. Fear not, Knight Soren, your ignorance will not be punished, only this once.”
“Why must you speak in tongues?”
“Why must you not? Most Selunites I've met are devout in their craft.”
“Most Selunites you've killed, you mean?”
“Quivering in their boots, yet reciting prayer, certainly. Not you though.”
“I don't question your worship, why are you suddenly on one about mine?”
This was not a topic to be broached, yet here Shadowheart was. Soren did not like the direction this was going.
“I only wonder, should your faith change, would your god favor you?”
“Tread carefully, cleric.”
They were at supposed odds with each other. Soren was a force but Shadowheart was an unmovable object. Even so… The half-elf’s intensity lessened. Soren could see as much in her shoulders. So she, in response, mirrored the woman. Soren cast aside her blade, leaning it, with some care, against the trunk of a nearby tree.
“You confound me,” said Soren.
“Likewise, Knight.”
This time, Soren could not stifle the budding laughter.
It isn’t wasn’t loud. Not quiet either. Muffled, if only by a slight, by her helmet.
It was the sound of a woman at the end of her wits. Callous, yet calm. Insane, yet utterly reserved.
The both of them, truly.
“Why did you follow me out here, really?”
“To be a thorn in your side, must you doubt me?”
“Apparently.”
Shadowheart looked upon her in ways the others did not. She saw the falsities in their de facto leader. Soren preferred that over blind admiration.
“How fares your leg?”
“It fares.” An odd look crossed Shadowheart’s face then. Some uncertainty that was rather a certainty. Her gaze dropped to scrutinize the offending leg; Soren walked without a limp a little less than half of the time and she had yet to falter in battle again. She raised a brow and Soren, ever the fool, obliged her. “Honest.”
“You would swear it?”
“The Sharran princess is asking a Selunite to swear her an oath?”
“You are a paladin, are you not?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
For the second time that day, Soren retrieved her blade. This time however, it wasn’t with the intent of fruitless violence. Instead, she unsheathed it and kneeled upon the soft ground. Soren laid the blade between them and, when she glanced up at her companion, did not miss the strangled look that had overtaken her expression.
“What are you doing?”
“You asked for an oath, I’m swearing you an oath.”
“Do you need to be on your knees?”
“Would you prefer me on my back instead?”
“Don’t be a fool.”
Soren returned her attention to the sword cutting a line between them. A series of words were inscribed upon the blade. An oath. Her oath. My heart will not know peace until the great evils of this world are vanquished. The field of battle, under her light, will be my temple. The blade will be my relic. Her sweet song will pave my march and steady my hand. I will save my wrath for the wicked, those responsible for unrepentant evil. This burden is mine, and mine alone, to carry.
A reminder of something lost.
Her heart was stagnant in her chest.
“To you, my allegiance shall henceforth lie. I will tell you no falsehoods and impart only my certainty upon you. My blade, should you ask of it, will be yours to strike true; my shield too. I will provide you counsel, though I hardly believe you are in need of it—”
“—what are you doing?”
“Swearing you an oath.”
If Shadowheart wanted to say anything more on the matter, she chose not to. Rather, she merely stared at the woman bowed below her, face unreadable. So when Soren offered up her blade, balanced flat on her palms, Shadowheart accepted it for what it was. “—I will provide you counsel, though I hardly believe you are in need of it, and my devotion will be unquestionable.”
The inscription on her blade, the oath wrought in blood, began to warp and change into something that no longer resembled the words she’d carried for so long. The words, once a declaration in common speech, now more closely resembled languid Elvish script.
It was beautiful.
Soren rose to her full height and Shadowheart returned the blade. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
Shadowheart was nearing her wits end. Soren could see it now. The woman was glaring, point-blank, at her. She backpedaled a handful of steps to retrieve the blade’s sheath and slipped the blade down its throat. When she turned around, Shadowheart was still staring at her.
“That.”
“What?”
“Swear an oath you certainly don’t mean.”
“What gives you the impression that I didn’t mean what I said?”
Curious.
“You say many things and swear many oaths but only mean half of them.”
Soren shrugged. “I tell no lie,” she said, flippantly. “If we’re to die in the coming days — which I still believe we will — I’d rather enjoy my last few poison-free.”
“By swearing an oath to me?”
“Who else? You don’t seriously think I’d swear my devotion to our other companions? Allies, perhaps, but fools, the lot of them. They would sooner get me killed without you.”
Devotion.
“A Selunite swearing an oath to a Sharran — that sounds like an awful joke.”
“Perhaps you may even sway my faith.”
_____
Shadowheart smelled it before she saw it. Smoke. She saw it when they rounded the bend; great black plumes of it billowing out from a building caught ablaze. Her companions, the two with hearts of gold, Karlach and Wyll, took off toward the source. Their fearless leader, Soren, halted entirely in her gait.
Something was wrong.
Her companion was entirely too still.
“Are you well?”
Soren did not respond. She merely stood, statue-like, staring down the length of the winding road. Shadowheart could not see the woman’s face but she knew fear well enough. She knew how to read a person’s body language. Knew in her heart of hearts what true fear appeared to be. She saw it now in this paragon of a woman.
She wanted to reach for Soren but a vile pain ensnared her hand in a vice grip. It was momentary. A mere reminder of her standing; of her mission. Shadowheart clutched her aching hand to her chest, cradling the offending appendage. Beside her, Soren had not yet regained her senses, instead staring into the flame.
Before Shadowheart could repeat the question, Wyll returned, barrelling down the pathway, yelling something about needing another body and Karlach being unable to best the door. Whatever the words, he needed their leader to forge the path forward: “We need you.”
Three words alone shouldn't have been capable of spurring the woman forward. For, she was fear-stricken. But Soren was strange. Boundlessly strange. In so many ways Shadowheart couldn't even begin to understand.
This lump of armor fell — first into a stumble then — into a run. It was a dead sprint but Soren didn't sound the slightest bit winded. Shadowheart trailed after her and Wyll behind the both of them. Shadowheart had the ultimate displeasure of watching that crazed paladin stomp through the flame on her warpath to find Karlach. Armor be damned, she couldn't imagine it was any bit pleasant.
Wyll ushered her away from the worst of the fray to a huddle of injured soldiers and Shadowheart fell into step with a well-practiced ease. Healing incantations and spells the like; they slipped from her lips as easily as swapping secrets. She glanced up, a momentary lapse, and found Soren and Karlach, the two of them together through brute force, run at the door like a battering ram. Shadowheart winced once, twice, thrice, watching as the flame-eaten wood finally gave in. Her companions made it only a handful of steps inside before the whole front of the building collapsed in on itself.
Shadowheart was poised to move in an instant but found Wyll beside her, an unreadable look in his eyes. Something caught between despair and panic. He shook his head but his attention remained on the inferno. “I’ll go, you stay — tend to those you can.”