Chapter Text
Ketheric Thorm’s journal was all dark ink and crinkled pages, a chewed-through cover inlaid with an arc of seven stars, coated in dust. It was the last vestige of a man who had lived and died and lived again, a rebirth most unholy.
Foxglove ran her fingers over a page that was once wet. It had dried hard, stiffened from residual salt.
It had been wet with tears. The ink had bled some, and his hand had been shaky, but Foxglove could make out the words scribbled along the bottom of the page.
It makes no sense. It makes no sense. I won't survive it. That much I know.
Gods above, Foxglove knew those words. She knew the grief behind them and the unending pain that caused them. She knew the deep spiral of sadness and the anger, the fear, the wish to cease existence, as if that might bring them back or at least - at least - make the pain fade.
She knew those words were a lie, a falsehood he told himself, the same way she had.
He would survive it. She had survived it. Forever changed, the way the death of someone’s North Star would do.
Ketheric Thorm and Foxglove both sought solace in emptiness, in the wrath and warmth of a god. Halsin had sought it in mead, in a fuzzy interstitial space, never breaking the surface of that blurry-edged reality.
They were all the same, the three of them, and so different. Without her Temple’s heavy-handed direction, without Ilmater’s warmth and presence and reminder of what she could be, what would Foxglove have become? Without Silvanus’ favor and Halsin’s own stone-steady determination to right the Curse, would Halsin have returned to the earth as dust, or otherwise embodied the destructive ferocity of nature?
Without Selune’s grace, without a path forward, Ketheric Thorm had turned his face to shadow and betrayed the remainder of what had once brought him joy.
Foxglove could not help but think of those dead Selunite novices whose bodies had lain ruined and forgotten in the shattered sanctum where Foxglove and her companions entered the Underdark. Selune’s faithful, who had died without a glimpse of their Lady, without even the chance to lay under cool moonlight once more. She’d wondered then if Selune had a habit of abandoning Her faithful, Her temples, and it felt like blasphemy, but Foxglove could not help but wonder again as she retraced Ketheric Thorm’s path to ruin.
Foxglove found her eyes wandering towards Shadowheart. The other cleric smiled too brightly to be a Sharran, Foxglove thought. Whatever the Sharran enclave had done to her to make her ruthless and efficient and devoted, they had not killed the radiant joy that seemed to spring from a deeper well in Shadowheart.
Shadowheart was kneeling in supplication before an enormous, mostly intact statue of the Dark Lady. The goddess’s eyes were covered by her headpiece, but Foxglove swore they were burning through her. Even with her divine sight, with how familiar she had become with the gods and their presence, Foxglove could not tell if the feeling was paranoia or something else.
Or if the paranoia was actually Shar’s presence, and Foxglove’s unease was a feast for the wicked Lady.
“You look sad,” Astarion said blandly from above her. Foxglove looked up at the elf from her seat on the stone floor of the temple. They’d just fought their way past reconstituted skeletons - a necromancer’s doing - and stumbled upon a place for Shadowheart to pray; a task she’d hurried towards with zeal.
“I am sad,” Foxglove said, smiling wryly.
Astarion sniffed as if something offensive had been aired. “How droll. Do you let everyone see your emotions so plainly?”
Foxglove snorted. “No, but I’m trying to stop hiding around my allies. Maybe you should give it a try,” she snarked at him, careful not to put any real heat or bite behind the words. The last thing Foxglove wanted to do was alienate him, not after his panic when Mol was kidnapped and the sliver of vulnerability he’d shown - purposefully or not - when Raphael stripped him bare.
Astarion laughed sarcastically, but sat next to her. He was quiet for a few moments more, rolling a pebble between three pale fingers.
“I’m going to say something rude,” he said abruptly, tone flat. Foxglove hummed her acknowledgement, curiosity piqued. “You are the least predictable Ilmatari I can imagine. All blood and anger and righteous wrath. Without your sigil, I might have pinned you for Torm, or perhaps Helm. Maybe even Talos. You’re too good for Bhaal but you have enough bloodlust,” he mused. “Why in all of the Realms would the god of mercy and forgiveness favor you? I don’t get it,” he huffed.
Foxglove grimaced. It was rude, but there was a deeper thread to pull on here. She remembered his outburst in Oliver’s shack, the twisted pain and fury on his face as Astarion yelled at her.
Not all of us can be so blessed, and having it shoved in my face that they abandoned me every damned moment is insufferable.
“I cannot and would not pretend to know why,” Foxglove sighed. “Truthfully, I used to think of myself as an accessory to Wisteria’s favor. I had His attention because Wisteria did. Without her, I don’t think I would have joined the Temple,” Foxglove admitted, voice rough.
She felt Him then, the welcome weight of His presence around her. She shuddered, imagining herself wrapped in the finest cloak of fur and silk, soft against her skin.
Why do You favor me, my Lord? she asked that warmth, feeling the familiar stirrings of doubt and guilt. I do not mean to question Your wisdom, and I would not wish another life for myself. Not anymore.
There wasn’t an answer, but He stayed with her.
“I find it fruitless to ruminate on for too long,” Foxglove told Astarion. That was an honest comment, though she left out the fact that the futility of such rumination had not ever stopped her from doing it, even now. “The truth is He has claimed me, and I am blessed to be so claimed. As long as I can breathe, I will serve Him, and in my final breaths, I will serve Him, too.”
Astarion grunted, a soft sound of derision. “It’s your life to hand over to the divine, I suppose. But please wait to sacrifice yourself in holy idiocy until after you’ve finished saving us all from illithid enslavement.”
Foxglove wanted so badly to roll her eyes, but instead she smiled sharply at him, knowing it did not reach her eyes. “I’ll do my best, my friend.”
Tired of her company, Astarion left her to her thoughts again. Ketheric Thorm’s diary was still in her hands. Foxglove’s fingerprints left lightly oiled marks on the worn leather, drifting over the same spots Ketheric Thorm’s hands once loitered.
Great tragedy made him a villain, and his actions condemned him. There was no space in Foxglove’s heart or in her Lord’s arms for him.
Foxglove swallowed her unease at the thought, pushing down the doubt and anguish.
Even if all of Ketheric Thorm’s ruin was a product of his grief. Even if she knew acutely what he had felt, twice in his one lifetime. There would be no mercy for him and his ruthless and total subjugation of Reithwin, of his willingness to cast the world into darkness and despair.
…right?
Ilmater’s warmth stayed with her, steady against her anxiety and growing discomfort. But He offered no answers, no other assurance, so Foxglove grit her teeth and tried to remember the cruel arrogance of a man who was once someone’s father and someone’s husband, who had left Moonrise's luxurious comforts to spend his nights on cold flagstone, as close to his wife as he could be.
-*-
The first two trials of the Gauntlet of Shar were child’s play for Shadowheart.
The cleric laughed as she fled into the darkness, divine gratitude guiding her along her Lady’s path in the Faith-Leap trial. Shadowheart’s palm hadn’t even stopped bleeding by the time she reappeared back at the start, an umbral gem glowing purple in her other hand.
The Soft-Step trial was notably quieter, but no less simple for the half-elf, who’d long ago learned to keep to the shadows and outwit her pursuers. Shadowheart returned to them again with another umbral gem, her smile shining as brightly and radiantly as ever.
The Self-Same trial was somewhat of a different story. It was evening by the time they found their way to the door to the third trial. As with the other two, all three of them followed Shadowheart into the trial’s antechamber.
Shadowheart sliced her palm again. The other two cuts had been easily healed, but Shadowheart interrupted her healing magic before it could remove the faint pink lines that scarred her palm.
Foxglove knew Shadowheart left them there on purpose; a reminder and a treasure of this most hallowed journey. The brands on Foxglove’s wrists were similar and yet so different - bestowed upon her by her god, not an act self-inflicted. But she traced them just the same as Shadowheart would in the years to come, drawing strength from the way they symbolized her devotion.
Foxglove could feel Halsin’s frustration from across the room. They had come here to find the Nightsong, and it became clear very quickly that to reach the inner spaces of the temple, they’d need to find the umbral gems. The Faith-Leap trial they’d found by accident, but when Shadowheart emerged on the other side of it with the umbral gem, Foxglove could not deny the other cleric the opportunity to continue the trials.
But she had to wrestle with the reality of watching her friend, her godly sister, pursue a dark path towards holy but vile exaltedness; to become a Dark Justiciar, to walk the footsteps of Ketheric Thorm and his armies.
There were the trials, and then there was something more, Foxglove knew.
To become a Dark Justiciar in truth, Shadowheart would need to slay a Selunite. And the only one Foxglove knew was Isobel.
They were hurtling towards a point of no return. Foxglove recalled the way she’d steeled herself to betray Lae’zel at Rosymorn, the way she’d decided quickly despite looming dread to stand by Halsin in challenge against Shadowheart in their first minutes under the Curse’s oppressive fog.
Foxglove shifted her morningstar to her opposite hand, wiping her sweaty palm on the cloth leg of her breeches.
As Shadowheart’s blood dripped into the offering pan, Foxglove felt the thinning of the space between realms. Ilmater’s warmth left her at the door, and she’d wondered if there was a divine reason He would not follow her in here.
The door snicked shut, and they were left in darkness. Ahead, another door swung open, and cool, purple light was cast upon the space.
“The Dark Lady teaches us we are our own worst enemy, most of the time,” Shadowheart murmured. “We must shed anything that does not serve us, so we may access her cold embrace.”
“And if we have no interest in seeking Shar’s embrace?” Halsin asked, tone flat.
Shadowheart turned to stare at him, vicious purple light casting a haunting glow on her face. “Then you should have stayed outside the door, Archdruid. But what is done is done, and there is only victory or death. Shar welcomes either,” she shrugged.
Shadowheart took purposeful strides forward towards the opened chamber. Foxglove’s stomach dropped.
Meeting Halsin’s eyes, Foxglove pursed her lips before cautiously following Shadowheart into the inner chamber. It was vast and echoey inside, and Foxglove could feel eyes on her, though she could not see them.
Was this Shar, or something else? That cool paranoia from before was slowly overtaking her senses, dulling her rational assessment of the world around her and turning every shadow into an enemy, all of them dripping blood red and purple, each a ghost of her past failures-
Foxglove closed her eyes, diving into her well of magic. The Crying God did not - perhaps could not - follow her into this chamber, but His gift still empowered her, still anchored her to this world and her purpose in it.
She faintly heard Halsin behind her, his steps nearly silent despite his size.
“Te confirmo,” he whispered, laying his hand on her shoulder, his golden magic flowing from him and settling over Foxglove, a thin barrier from the world around them. She recognized this spell - it granted a small measure of protection against enemy magic. It was a welcome boon.
Foxglove gazed at him from over her shoulder, her solemn gratitude met by his thin smile. “I do not know what lies ahead, but I do not think it is friendly,” Halsin explained. “Let me help, love.”
“You’ll find no complaint from me, Halsin,” Foxglove murmured back. His affection for her bloomed into warmth in her chest, so similar and yet so different from her Lord’s presence.
A sharp shushing noise from Astarion drew both their attention. Several paces beyond them, the elf was crouched, his reddish-brown eyes nearly black in the dim light, staring ahead at the cavernous room.
“Someone waits in ambush,” he murmured, somehow killing the echo of his voice before it began. “This way, if you please.”
Foxglove saw no better route than to follow Astarion, so she fell into a stealthy crouch behind him, Shadowheart and Halsin treading at her heels.
Lady Shar’s presence was undeniable here. From the corner of her eye, Foxglove saw the same swirling darkness, reaching like withered vines or thalassic tentacles, seeking to grasp, to drown, to strangle anything bringing light or life into Her domain.
Astarion hissed, stopping abruptly no more than a pace in front of Foxglove.
“What in all the Nine Hel-?”
His words turned into a muffled cry as a bolt skimmed past Astarion's cheek, leaving a dark line of blood. Dropping into the shadows, Astarion whispered harshly to Foxglove, “Four of them - why does it look like me?”
Foxglove could not make sense of his words, but Astarion slipped adeptly into the darkness and he was lost to her. It did not matter much, anyway - their surprise lost, the four attackers Astarion identified stepped into and out of wisps of smoke, closing the distance to attack.
Foxglove blinked and suddenly she was faced with someone who looked like her. The elf had the same ash-brown, red-streaked hair pulled back in two short braids, the same blood-red runes tattooed in a line down her face. She wore the same adamantine armor and carried the same morningstar with lethal familiarity. Foxglove did not have time to see if the aberration’s wrists bore Ilmater’s gift, the elven runes and His sacred bound hands burned into its skin.
She ducked a devastating blow, clenching her teeth as it reverberated through her armor where it clipped her shoulder. Inhaling sharply, Foxglove called on her power, channeling the Broken God’s might.
Thrusting both hands towards the mirror of herself, Foxglove snapped a harsh “Incende! ” The mirror grinned meanly, standing firm against the sacred flame as it failed to take.
“Your connection to Him is built on falsehood and His power will not save you here, little one,” Foxglove’s mirror cooed, wicked and sweet and terrible. “You savage thing, why not call on a different god and see if they’ll answer? Shop around,” it taunted her. “See who else might brand you like cattle.”
Foxglove yelped as the mirror swung its morningstar at her again, the sharp points on the ball of the weapon glowing godlight-gold and plum purple.
Shar, of course it was Shar, empowering this cruel mockery of Foxglove. Gritting her teeth, Foxglove tightened her grip on her own weapon, aiming for the head of the mirror before her.
Not-Foxglove laughed, turning its shoulder into the blow. Foxglove’s morningstar skidded off the aberration’s adamantine plate. Blanching, Foxglove glimpsed the image of a broken man behind the mirror of herself.
He was gravely injured, dark blood seeping through the ruined remains of His robe. He extended a hand towards Foxglove, His crooked and red-splotched fingers pushing past Not-Foxglove in effort to reach her.
“Child mine,” He purred. Foxglove blinked again, confusion and fear slowing her own comprehension-
She did not hear His screams, but it was His body, His face she saw before her-
“Will you die for me today, child? Will you join your sister in holy death? My butcher, my blade, I have no use for you. Duller every day,” He tutted. His face turned suddenly darker, expression twisting from open kindness to furious grief. “Lay down your weapon, faithless worm. I see your doubt and revoke my favor, I will see you rot in the Fugue Plane for your transgressions,” He snarled.
Foxglove was going to vomit. Her Lord’s words were the worst wound she could have sustained, striking her to her core; a terrible validation of her worst fears and doubts. She knew it was true - she was nothing more than Ilmater’s Butcher, a false Chosen who would never ascend to that most sacred title, and His children were all the better for it.
Someone was screaming now. Foxglove could hear a thousand screams behind His voice, getting louder and louder and-
“Foxglove!” Halsin roared. His voice reverberated in the cavernous chamber, cutting through the screaming. Foxglove tasted blood, vaguely felt the blow of some kind of weapon. “Do not yield. Do not yield!”
Distantly, Foxglove heard a furious cry from Shadowheart, and Halsin’s voice again rising above the cacophony.
“Hold on, Foxglove. I am coming!”
He was closer this time. The screaming went quiet as Not-Foxglove’s morningstar made contact with Foxglove’s skull, and the image of Ilmater disappeared in purple smoke.
Nothing made sense, and the world faded.
-*-
Foxglove’s eyes fluttered open amidst daylight, and she knew something was wrong.
She was laying on soft grass. She could smell it, the earthy distinctive scent of wild plants left to thrive in nature. Above her, Foxglove saw a grand expanse of open sky, all powder blue tinted indigo at the edges.
The world turned as she sat up, vertigo causing Foxglove to gag and she rolled herself onto her side, eyes wide as she tried to assess her body and her surroundings and-
“Easy, little one,” a voice urged from above her. It was not unfamiliar, but she did not know this voice well enough to place it, in her disjointed awareness. Foxglove blinked rapidly, coughing down bile. Sucking in a deep breath, she screwed her eyes shut, focusing on the feeling of her own body, the clench of her muscles, the movement of air through her lungs.
“Give her a moment, Lathander. My child suffers, but she endures.”
That voice she knew.
The Rack-Broken Lord’s breathy, gentle voice broke through the fog Foxglove found herself in, and memories of His scorn in the Self-Same trial rushed back in. Scrambling, Foxglove contorted her body in on herself, shifting to kneel in horrified supplication.
“My Lord,” Foxglove cried, her forehead pressed to the grass. “No, no- no, I beg Your forgiveness, my Martyred Father.”
There was a beat of silence, a belabored sigh, and Foxglove let loose a sob when she felt a firm hand slip under her shoulder and press up, urging her body upright once more.
It was Lathander who knelt in front of her, His handsome face just as glorious as a summer sunrise. Only His terse frown marred the splendor of Him, and Foxglove felt a new fire spark in her; one that called to her to do anything, to do everything to replace that frosty look with one of warmth once more.
Assessing Foxglove as stable (a questionable determination, in her own opinion, if anyone would have consulted her), Lathander looked over His shoulder at Ilmater, lips pursed. “You wait any longer and the poor dear might die of grief here and now, love.”
Ilmater flashed a temperate smile at the Morninglord, approaching them with His unsteady gait.
“The girl is faithful, and I have not called her home yet. I suspect she will endure, as she has always done,” Ilmater responded blithely, bestowing Foxglove with a smile so forgiving she thought might break or simply perish, as Lathander had predicted, prepared to plead her case to Kelemvor and then to her Lord, to beg for even the lowliest of stations in His realm’s afterlife.
Cohesive language failing her, Foxglove pursed her lips, struggling to keep her cries from spilling out. The Morninglord had lifted her body like He did the sun, and she would not disrespect His actions by falling before them both again, but it took all of her energy to sit before them without crumpling. Foxglove bowed her head, tightly shutting her eyes, as if that might slow the drip of tears.
“Child mine,” He started. Foxglove flinched, recalling the way He had called her that just moments ago, in the Self-Same trial. She did not feel like His child; she was His failure. Ilmater loosed another sigh. “Open your eyes.”
She obeyed Him without thinking, the instinct so deeply ingrained to follow His word. She would have walked across burning coals if He requested it, she would lay her body down as a sacrifice if He implied it would please Him.
With just a thought from her Lord, the world around Foxglove had changed. They were still outside in Martyrdom, and the sky was still a brilliant blue. Ahead, a mountain stretched up into a thin circle of clouds. The field under her had been covered by a massive fur, stretching for several body lengths in every direction. It was soft to the touch, and she could no longer feel the prickle of grass beneath it.
The two gods were there before her. Lathander leaned back on His hands, His legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle. Foxglove could imagine Him in a beam of sunlight, as radiant as His creation. His skin was a warm, light brown, almost glittering gold in light Foxglove could not place. His hair was the color of a crimson dawn, and His eyes were the same shade of blue as the sky above them - so bright and kind Foxglove thought she might get lost in them.
He smiled cheekily at her, giving her a sly wink.
Snapping back to her awareness, Foxglove flushed. She understood now why He inspired art, how His servants devoted themselves so fully to Him. She’d heard once of a Lathanderian practice of debauchery in the night, culminating in loud, joyful expressions of devotion to the Morninglord at dawn.
“We must address your fears, child,” Ilmater said, His voice gravelly and dry. Foxglove turned her wide eyes to her Lord. His body was still broken, bruised and crooked, but He had arranged His limbs into an orderly seat on the fur. Foxglove had to remind herself He was not in pain - that He could feel no pain, no discomfort in Martyrdom.
“My fears, my Lord?” she asked, her voice small and croaky. “I beg your forgiveness - I do not mean to fear, to be so weak-”
He cut her off with a tired sigh. “Faithful girl, this is what I mean,” He said gently, frowning softly at her. “The mockery of me you faced was conjured by your own imagination, fueled by Shar’s divine will. You fear me, even after I have shown you my favor, granted you my gifts, and upheld my promise to accompany you on the quest I have laid before you. Do I not inspire faith?”
His tone was mild, but the words cut as deep into Foxglove as any blade ever had.
Lathander looked on with interest, eyebrows raising, but He kept silent and still.
“I don’t understand,” Foxglove murmured, and truly, she did not. “You are the most blessed grace I have ever known, but I continue to stray from you - from your teachings. I have,” Foxglove shuddered, but forged ahead, determined to confess to Him her inadequacy. “I have become partial, and selfish, and even my companions question why you continue to bless me. I fear I will lose your favor, even now. I fear the return to the silence and the cold that came after Wisteria’s death, without your presence,” she choked, hands clenched at her own sides. “So I pray, and I beg your forgiveness, knowing I cannot deserve it.”
Foxglove’s words hung in the air between them. Faintly, she was aware of the gentle sounds of the wild - songbirds and cricketing insects, the distant babble of a creek, the swish of air as it blew through the meadowlands. Foxglove could not bring herself to look at either of the gods before her, casting her gaze beyond them both and to the summit beyond, and the small stone pavilions that dotted the path to the great mountain.
Foxglove blinked, and Lathander was standing several paces away, face turned towards the sky.
“I was mortal once,” Ilmater said quietly. “Many of the divine were, though some were born of cosmic radiance,” He said fondly, casting his gaze towards the Morninglord. “But I am so far removed from it that I find it hard to understand the whiplash of the mortal experience - the flood of fears and doubts and emotions that can overtake you.”
He unfurled His hand, and a carafe of wine dropped to the ground between them. He lifted a finger, and the carafe hovered, pouring wine into a glass that morphed into existence where the wine fell. He tapped it, and it doubled.
He grasped one of the glasses, and sent the other floating towards her.
“My child, you have always been my servant,” He said pointedly. “Before you entered my Temple, before you ever heard my teachings. The first prayer you sent me was not for your own salvation, but for Wisteria,” He smiled wistfully. “The spitfire, a prodigy of my own spirit.”
He swirled the liquid in his glass. Foxglove held her own glass in cupped palms, letting the heat of her hands warm the red wine, content to let Him speak and to bask in the wisdom she knew He would grant her.
“Your service to me began as a sacrifice most holy,” He reminded her. Foxglove remembered the day Wisteria announced she would head to the Temple, the dangerous journey be damned. “Wisteria had my gift, that much is true. But you have always known my teachings, my call to serve others, before you ever opened a holy tome or bound your hands in devotion.”
I must go, she’d said to Foxglove. He will see me through it.
Foxglove remembered her own wry cynicism, her disbelief that Wisteria’s faith and seeming favor from the Broken God could protect her on the month-long journey.
Where you go, I go, little sister, she’d smiled, hastily shoving provisions into a pack. Foxglove remembered her mother’s disappointment at the farm losing two pairs of able hands, and her father’s quiet pride.
A sacrifice most holy, her Lord called it. Foxglove saw herself in a different light, cautiously willing to let her Lord guide her vision, to see herself in His teachings. There had been no thought, then, for the life she might have built for herself. When Wisteria had been born, whatever Foxglove was ended, and she became Wisteria’s protector and confidant, the willing sufferer if it would soothe her sister, and anything else Wisteria required of her.
And then she’d died, and everything Foxglove had been crumbled, leaving her with the shell of her faith, ruined land, and blood-stained hands.
“Your ‘partiality,’” He continued, lips twisting around the word in a rueful smile. “Brought you to my service. Have my High Clerics taught you that love and the bonds mortals build between themselves are unholy? That I do not hold them hallowed?”
Ilmater’s gaze drifted to Lathander, a softness overtaking him.
“Love is not simply a mortal pleasure, child mine,” He said fondly. “And you are stronger for experiencing it. Does your love not spur you to act with my wisdom, to endure the suffering of others so that they might be free?”
Foxglove blinked, and the Morninglord was back to His lounging on the blanket, outstretched legs brushing against Ilmater’s. She stared between them, then at that point of delicate, intimate contact.
Oh-? Oh.
Lathander snorted a laugh. “Compassion flows from the wellspring of love,” He said kindly to her. “To love oneself, to love another - these things teach mortals kindness and forgiveness. Ilmater would never deny you them.”
In the distance, thunder rolled. Both gods looked up, alarm painted across their faces. Lathander’s expression, so like the sun, darkened as if it had been blotted out by the moon. A single lightning bolt struck down towards the great mountain in the beyond.
Lathander stood, His orange and pink robes billowing around him in a phantom wind. Foxglove could feel the heat of an early sun; light and gentle, but present.
“Your time here is up, my dear. Tell the tiefling who wields my Blood I mean her no harm,” He said hastily to Foxglove. “Tell her I have enjoyed her stubborn optimism and I look over her. I will hear her prayers, if she would give me any,” He smiled mischievously.
Foxglove hardly managed a nod, still reeling in her Lord’s assurance and Lathander’s attention and the discovery of some kind of intimacy between these gods - the reality that they, too, felt the kind of fire she’d recently become reaccustomed to.
Ilmater shared a tense look with Lathander. “Go, Lathander. Where there is life-”
“There is hope,” Foxglove whispered, the words an affirmation she’d taken to whispering to herself, a reminder of His gift and her service.
Lathander grinned at them both, a lazy kind of smile that belied the wariness He’d held a moment ago.
“I like her,” He said conspiratorially to Ilmater, before turning that brilliant smile and sky-blue eyes to her. She blinked, and He was towering over her. His hand drifted towards her head, His fingertips sunwarm and brushing against her forehead; an anointing of dappled morning sunlight.
“Go with the gods, Child of Ilmater. We are with you.”
-*-
This time, when her eyes fluttered open, Foxglove was met with oppressive shadows and the smell of copper blood, the clanging sound of fighting still echoing around her. Groaning, Foxglove brought a hand to cover her eyes, pressing into the sockets and causing little zigzag lines to appear.
Halsin’s hand was rough, moving hurriedly against hers, as he lifted it away from her face.
“Be calm, Foxglove,” he shushed her, voice a low murmur. “You need healing, my heart. There is no time - rest, I will protect you.”
An ethereal whoosh sounded near her head, and Foxglove heard footsteps, then her own defiant voice mocking her allies. A voice that she hoped was Real-Astarion’s snarled back, his own vicious insult lancing out along with a sharp bolt from his crossbow.
The fight continued. She must have gone down - must have fallen to Not-Foxglove, and been shunted somewhere else, where the gods granted her succor and a moment of respite.
“Halsin,” Foxglove croaked. “Leave me - it’s not safe,” she slurred.
A bear roared, somewhere. Halsin cursed, voice low and angry, then breathed a prayer.
“Oak Father, I beg a boon. Watch over her,” Halsin muttered. Foxglove felt his palms cup her face, felt the softness of Halsin’s breath as he spoke over her. “Invicta mortem.”
Foxglove’s grasp on reality faded as the world flashed spellwork-gold, then dark again.
-*-
There were no divine visits this time. Foxglove blinked awake between a wall and a low fire, the softness of a bedroll little comfort against the cold stone of the grand Sharran fortress.
Halsin was crouched next to her, a flask in his hands.
“Drink. It’s a healing potion,” he explained, pressing the mouth of the flask against her lips. Foxglove let Halsin cradle her head, tilting her face just so, so that the red, thin liquid flowed through her parted lips and down her throat. “Good,” he murmured to her, pushing flyaways back from her face, when the flask had been drained.
There was the sound of his rummaging before another bottle was produced - a larger glass vessel, sloshing with clear water.
Foxglove realized then how parched she was, and Halsin did not need to coax her mouth to open for this drink. She gulped down as much as he would let her, a low whine escaping from her throat when he pulled the bottle away after a few moments.
“I’ll give you more,” he soothed her, his reluctant smile softening her desperation. “I kept you under for too long, I fear. Let us see how the potion settles, first.”
Foxglove furrowed her brows, trying to recall how she’d gotten to where she was.
The fight - the Self-Same trial, the horrible crunch of her own bone when Not-Foxglove’s morningstar collided with her skull. Then her visit with the gods, and her resurfacing in the battle. It had still been raging when Foxglove returned from unconsciousness, and she was only lucid for a moment before Halsin cast her back into it.
“Did we win?” Foxglove asked, voice rough. From her position on her back, she could see Halsin’s lips thin and shoulders hunch at the question.
Foxglove felt her stomach drop, like someone was hoisting her over the edge of a very high cliff.
“Halsin?” she asked, stuttering. “Where are the others? What happened?”
Foxglove fought to right herself, muscles complying but making their protest known as shooting pain jolted through her. Halsin clucked, broad hands grasping her shoulders to steady her.
“They’re fine, everyone is okay,” he hushed her, an arm still wrapped around her upper back. Halsin guided her to press against his side, gently leaning them both back against the wall.
Foxglove muddled through her confusion. “What happened, then?”
Halsin cast his gaze down, taking a deep breath Foxglove had the soundness of mind to understand was designed to calm himself, to center his heart and spirit against whatever was troubling him.
“Shar’s final trial was not kind to us,” Halsin said eventually, words clipped and sharp. “We emerged with the third umbral gem, but we are still missing a fourth, with no other trials to pursue. You… you went down very quickly,” Halsin whispered. “I was able to stabilize you, but to stop and heal you would have been my death and yours, so I submerged you into a comatose state.”
Foxglove blinked. She felt like she was missing something - like she couldn’t see the whole lanceboard, or some of the pieces were hiding in shadow. By all accounts, it sounded like a success to her. They were one critical step closer to finding the Nightsong.
But Halsin was still tense, his eyes still downcast and his breathing too rhythmic to be thoughtless.
Foxglove did not have the tact or wherewithal to speak in any way but plainly. Her body ached, and she was a hair’s breadth from begging him to lift that glass bottle back to her lips.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, Halsin?” she asked dryly.
He sighed, rubbing one hand over his eyes. “That I need to tell you is indicative of the problem, my heart. You almost died. I fought a battle with you lying behind me on the ground, in a puddle of your own blood, and you awoke on my bedroll, by my fire, with my hands scraped raw from the effort to heal you, and you ask me what is wrong,” he grunted.
Foxglove laughed, but it was without mirth.
“I have been on the verge of death since we met, Halsin,” she said, not unkindly. “Any day could have been my last. Your talents and the gods’ attention- sh*t, remind me to come back to that,” Foxglove mumbled, shaking her head to keep herself on track. “Even with those blessed things, there is a parasitic worm in my head that could ostensibly take me any day, any moment. And if there was no parasite, I am a Cleric of Ilmater. My death is inevitable. This is a facet of my life,” Foxglove said plainly. She chewed on her lip, trying to understand this sudden sullenness.
Halsin’s protectiveness was not new. Foxglove could not possibly count the innumerable times she’d stumbled back into camp to find Halsin’s eyes on her, a healer’s assessing gaze. There was the night by the river - his unwillingness to let her be swallowed by her own grief, his gentle hands washing her blood-stained skin.
But this recalcitrance was new, and it unnerved her. Halsin did not try to keep secrets from her. He’d answered every question Foxglove had ever asked him with the kind of self-assurance only three hundred and fifty years of time in one’s own skin could build.
Halsin sat quietly, taking in her words. Finally, he turned those hazel-green eyes to her and took one of her still-bloody hands. His fingers traced round a splotch of red, over the jagged fingernail of one of her digits where she had scraped it against the flagstone floor during the battle.
“Imagine yourself in my place. Imagine me lying on the floor under you, bleeding from a legitimate crack on my skull,” Halsin said slowly. “Imagine stabilizing me, imagine watching my would-be killer wear my face, and saunter towards you with the death-weapon swinging. Imagine choosing to cast me back into unconsciousness, knowing I would be a moment from death and defenseless against anything that tried to end me. Imagine knowing you were the only thing standing between me and the Fugue Plane, and imagine turning your fury on something wearing my face, and slaying it while it taunted you, my voice shrieking hatred at you.”
Foxglove couldn’t breathe, could hardly rein in the nauseous shaking of her body as he described what had happened in that room. Her breath hitched, an apology on her tongue, but he wasn’t done.
“I do not need to imagine those things, Foxglove. I lived them, not even an hour ago,” Halsin said harshly, his voice rough. “And you came back to me, by the Oak Father’s blessing, with a blasé question and an indifference towards your own demise. I know your feelings towards your death,” he acknowledged. “And I am not asking you to change. I know what your faith calls you to do, and I would never dream of asking you to abandon Ilmater’s teachings. But your life - your death - is consequential. Please do not act as if it is not.”
Halsin’s hand was still loosely holding hers. Foxglove lifted their hands towards her mouth, pressing her lips to his skin. He still smelled faintly of dirt and metal, but his skin had been rinsed clean, likely before he attended to her own wounds.
"I'm not your keeper, Foxglove, and I would not deign to insert myself in such a way. Even as whatever we have progresses, whatever it grows into - I will not hook a leash on you. I do not wish to," Halsin said gently. "In love or in life. You will always be free to pursue your own actions, to follow whatever desires of the heart or mind or body you wish to. I will not cage you in, but I am struggling to acclimate to your... insouciance," he sighed.
This moment - something like it - had transpired between them before, when Halsin returned from the Shadowfell with the shell of Thaniel, and Foxglove had been unable to process anything while Shadowheart lay dying in front of her.
The threat of loss - the experience of having sustained great loss - warped them both, it seemed. And even if the air was clearer down here, far below the surface of the Shadowlands, the Curse had still permeated the temple, still threatening all who entered it with the Curse’s oppressive mindfog.
“I do not mean to be so flippant,” Foxglove said, pressing another kiss to Halsin’s hand. “And I am unspeakably grateful for your care, Halsin. Forgive me. It is habit, and so easy, to see myself as expendable in the greater scheme of our quest. I’ll work on it,” she promised him, smiling weakly. “We can blame it on my youthful sense of invincibility, if you like?”
Halsin laughed then, a startled sort of chuckle that drew a real smile from her.
“Perhaps a hundred years ago, you could have claimed that. You’re almost to your third century,” he teased her.
“I’ve still got two years,” Foxglove protested, grinning. She let her head drop sideways onto his shoulder, content to share in his heat for a moment. “When is your birthday? Do you celebrate it?”
“Midspring. It falls irritably close to Beltane,” Halsin laughed. “Frustrating, as a child, for the adults to have business to attend to, instead of paying attention to me. I do not celebrate it anymore,” he admitted. “The druidic circles I’ve been part of still honor the old festivals, and Beltane is a celebration of light and life, so the celebration of my continued life was intrinsic, in its own way,” he shrugged, careful not to dislodge Foxglove’s head.
Sitting against Halsin in easy silence, softened by her apology and their gentle humor, Foxglove thought of Ilmater and the way Lathander’s foot had brushed against the Broken God’s calf. Even the gods took solace in the comfort of another’s body.
Halsin’s arm around her felt so much like Ilmater’s winter-cloak presence around her shoulders; protective and heavy but not restrictive, an anchor and reminder of His favor, of Halsin’s affection.
"About... about what you said," Foxglove started, tongue wetting her lips as she struggled to recall his exact phrasing.
Halsin snorted, amused. "Which part?"
Playfully shoving him before settling back into his side, Foxglove continued. "About the freedom to pursue other desires. What did you mean?"
"Ah," Halsin murmured, rubbing his hand along her arm. "It is good we speak of this now, before we let our relationship blossom any further."
Halsin inhaled thoughtfully, then let his words flow gently and carefully from his lips.
"Some people treat their relationships like a walled garden. Tamed and separate from the wilderness around them. Such displays may be pretty to look at, provide a finite measure of joy or sustenance, but to me, such an arrangement is stilted, unable to grow past what is planned for it," Halsin explained. Foxglove heard an undercurrent of nervousness in his voice, but tried to focus on the metaphor he was painting.
She could see it; a gated garden, carefully planned and kept trimmed and even. Safe, certainly, but without the kind of organic change a long, long life like Halsin's or her own required.
"For those who chose it, that is their right. But it is not for me," Halsin said delicately. "I do as nature does, and let my heart run wild. Desire flourishes wherever it finds purchase. I am but nature's servant, and would not seek to subvert it so."
Foxglove paused, an amused smile working across her face. "So you do not intend for us to purposefully seek monogamy, then?"
"I do not," he confirmed gently. "But doing so does not excuse a lack of communication, or breaching of other boundaries. Freedom of the heart does not mean disrespecting yours," he added firmly.
"Don't fret," Foxglove soothed him. "I sort of expected this from you, I admit," she smiled sheepishly. "An elf of your age, unattached to a partner? I suspected either a recent loss or simply no desire to settle down. I may not have known what I was getting in to, but I have no qualms."
Halsin did not bother to attempt to hide his relief. The authenticity of him, and of what this meant to him, set that deep affection to bloom in Foxglove's chest.
"Is there... any other desire flourishing?" Foxglove asked, straining to keep her voice even and nonchalant. She truly did not mind if Halsin's heart roamed, as long as she retained a place in it. But she did not relish the idea of him being with another now when he had asked her to wait.
Halsin fingertips pressed into the flesh of her arm where his palm rested. "Right now? I bed down alone. I'm hoping my fortunes improve when the Curse is lifted," he murmured to her, teasing. "I will tell you, if another stirs my desire. For now, I am content to wait for you, and explore the unfolding of what we hold so delicately between us," he said, voice a mere whisper by her ear.
"You set me aflame on purpose, druid, and you will have to tend the fire," Foxglove hissed, shifting as that heat began to stir in her blood. Halsin's answering hum was low and hungry, but he pulled back from her, letting cool air flow between their bodies.
"Soon, my heart. Soon," Halsin said roughly, finally extricating himself from her. He reached for that glass bottle again, and offered it to her with a taunting glint in his eye. "You wanted more of this, before. It's been long enough the potion will have settled. Still have a thirst to be quenched?"
Foxglove was torn between scowling and laughing, so she tried the first before surrendering to the second. "Give it here," she grinned, tipping the remaining cool water into her mouth and letting it slake both her thirst and that fire of lust that Halsin so masterfully stoked. When the bottle was empty, she pulled it away, setting it down with a gentle click next to her.
"Where are Shadowheart and Astarion, anyway?"
"Scouting," Halsin replied, shrugging. "I mentioned there is a fourth umbral gem unaccounted for, and no trials remaining. There was another wing we did not venture down, so I suspect they may have gone there. Frankly, I was more concerned with waking you and ensuring the sleep I put you into did no lasting damage," he explained grimly. "I need to take another look at your head wound, and, forgive me, my heart - you could do with some kind of cleansing," he smiled at her, nodding down at her bloody hands and body. Foxglove snorted a laugh, nodding in agreement. "But if you want to seek them out after that, I will follow you."
