Chapter Text
1492 DR – Baldur’s Gate
Tavarrah slowly fell forward onto her face. Debris, blood and viscera alike coated the floors of the subterranean chamber – most of which, she was sure, belonged to her and the broken remains of her companions. After nearly four months of travelling together, facing all manner of horrors as well as the permanent threat of ceremorphosis, they had become the closest thing to a family Tav’s wretched mind could ever recall.
Cazador’s taunts of Tav became more pronounced with each step he took, but his words barely registered in her ears as she stood up once again, her legs trembling as they tried to hold her upright. Her fury came out cold and biting, as her grief-stricken mind seized control over every ounce of her magic. Gone was the restraint she had clung to so desperately, her magic lashing out in waves of green and red.
“Tormentum!”
“Dilabi!”
The bolts of energy that left Tavarrah’s fingers streaked through the air in an arc, hitting the vampire squarely in the chest. He remained impassive and unflinching as he approached her, a victorious and smug smile etched on his lips. Every ounce of her body howled with pain, but she refused to stop until she got her vengeance. Until she made him pay for everything he took away from her. For everything he did to Astarion. For stealing his past, his present and their future together. So she lifted her hand once again, magic crackling on her fingertips, readying herself to cast the spell again-
She did not get the chance to do so; Cazador’s massive hand clamped around her fingers and snapped them. The echo of bones breaking and her keening wails becoming one.
Letting go of her mangled hand, his lips pulled back into a sneer that bared his sharp teeth. Tav attempted to lunge forward again, only for her attack to die as his elegant, clawed hand closed around her throat and began to squeeze. Trying to ignore the throbbing pain spreading across her body, she trashed against his vice grip with whatever little life force remained in her battered body. The more she fought, the more his sharp talons dug in. Trails of red fell down her neck, soaking the collar of her tattered mage robe and undershirt.
Cazador hauled the daughter of Bhaal up, forcing her to stare into his crimson gaze. Something brushed against her mind, attempting to open and reveal the secrets buried within. This intrusion was not new to Tav, for it had not been dissimilar to the times the tadpole currently imbeded in her head had connected with the minds of friends and foes alike. However, unlike the tadpole connections, her mental barriers were instictively brought up against Cazador’s assault, either because of whatever dregs remained of her own inner strength, the Emperor or the tadpole. Instead, it conjured illusions of happy chatter, lively music, herself happily petting Scratch and the owlbear cub back at the Elfsong. Of crooked smiles, red eyes and chaste kisses pressed to the corner of her mouth. Cazador snarled, and she felt the grasp he held over her mind wavering.
She kept on thrashing in his ever tightening grip, her hands trying to scratch the one wrapped around her neck. Despite her current struggle, she still refused to give in to her sanguine urges and embrace her bloody inheritance. Once upon a time, she had been Bhaal’s favourite butcher. But that person had ceased to exist the more she suppressed the urges – and ultimately, she had meant to renounce and expunge all traces of her unholy progenitor. That is what she had wanted for herself, no matter the cost.
The vampire’s gaze bore coldly into hers, as he looked down his nose. “Did you truly think you could save that pitiful boy, hmm?”
“You bastard! He was more than you will ever be. They all were,” Tav snarled. "I will make you pay for everything you did!"
“Will you now?” Cazador taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “I am afraid I don’t die easily these days.”
Tav kept writhing in Cazador’s grasp, as her vision began to swim at the edges. She could feel the pain radiating from behind her eyes, as the illithid worm squirmed and thrashed against the confines of her skull in response. With her life force slipping away, she sent one last desperate plea to the gods for either help or release.
“Now, what shall I do with you? Perhaps I should simply consume you for your insolence…” he began, his lips curling into a triumphant smile. “Or perhaps, I shall make you my Consort and bind you to me for eternity. I will rejoice seeing you forget that pathetic wretch, while you learn to worship and cherish only me.”
Tav’s reply died in her tongue, replaced instead by a breathless gasp as Cazador’s fangs sunk into the column of her throat. Unlike Astarion’s careful and almost reverent bite, his felt like searing needles slicing through her skin. As he drank greedily, the delicate pull of blood she had grown accustomed to during countless of nights was instead replaced by consumption and destruction. Every cell in her body screamed in pain, as her hot and divine blood poured out of her. It flowed so quickly that Cazador was unable to lap it completely, some of it spilling and drenching her already stained robe.
A spark of rebellion blossomed in her chest as her heart began pounding furiously, and she began to struggle once again, as her hands tried to find purchase and attempted to tug at his clothes, his hair and his chest. But no matter what she did, his grip was as unyielding as steel; hard and just as cold.
“Please,” she whispered brokenly, as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Cazador paused abruptly and pulled away from her neck; the only answer to her plea being the delighted grin that spread across his face.
“You, my dear, are even sweeter than I thought,” he laughed, delirious, ignoring the pleas uttered by Tav. As her body went into shock from both the blood loss and pain, Cazador banded his arms around her small body, crushing her into a twisted parody of a lover’s embrace.
He buried his face into her hair and neck, breathing in her perfume, and his lips sunk into her neck once again. Though she hadn’t thought it possible, his drinking became even greedier, and she instantly noticed the change, for it felt like lightning coursing through her veins. Tav’s heart began to slow down, icy pain bursting across her flesh and settling deep within her bones. He was not only draining the blood out of her veins, but also the willingness to fight back and the essence of who she had ever been. With the little energy that remained in her, Tavarrah looked over Cazador’s shoulder. She saw the broken and mangled bodies of her fallen companions, the pile of blood and guts that until a few hours prior had been her everything. To them, she sent a final message through her tadpole.
I am so sorry for failing you. All of you deserved better.
But perhaps, having her blood spilled and consumed, was always meant to be her destiny as the spawn of the God of Murder. How dare she think she could be better, and raise above her birth and her parentage. Tav’s breaths grew shallower and more laboured, her vision narrowing and growing dark. For once, she had managed to experience being alive, even if it all had come crashing down around her.
She embraced the darkness, as she clung to the few happy thoughts of a life barely lived.
--
The first thing Tav noticed when she regained control over her body was the lack of noise. Gone too was the stickiness of the viscera covered floors and the coppery stench of blood, along with the aches of her broken body and mangled neck. However, nothing startled her more than the familiar raspy voice greeting her.
“Rise to thy feet, Child of None. Do not be alarmed when thine eyes open, for we have much to discuss and time is of the essence.”
She slowly rose and sat up, taking stock of her surroundings. It was the same crumbling and humid chamber where she had first unearthed the ancient corpse that now stood before her.
“Withers?”
The shrivelled creature ambled towards her, eyeing her wearily. She had no idea why he had brought her here. Tav’s body felt devoid of any weight, as memories and pieces of her own life story flashed across her mind’s eye.
“To answer thy unsaid questions, thou standest within my own domain.”
“Your domain?”
“Yes. Thou art in the Fugue Plane.”
Despite not remembering much of her pre-tadpoled life, Tav did recall hours spent studying the different planes; she knew the order of the cosmos, its many pantheons, even after its recent upheaval. She knew this was the Fugue Plane, where all souls travelled upon death to be claimed and taken to either the home of their gods, or, to meet their Judgement. And it seemed the latter, had been the designated fate of a faithless child shunned by her divine father.
As Tavarrah stared at the skeletal being standing in front of her, she could not help but dwell on the reasons why he had seemingly come to claim her soul. From the very moment Tav had unsealed him from his tomb, she had known there had been more to Withers than what originally met the eye - but she was certain the only beings powerful enough to drag and claim souls were either gods, or archdevils.
With quivering lips, she carefully formulated her next question. “Can you bring Astarion and the others back, please?”
“A noble request, indeed, but one I am unable to fulfill.”
“What is the point, then? I would rather burn in the Hells’ for eternity, than be parted from any of them,” Tav said brokenly. The pain in her heart grew more and more unbearable, until a sob finally clawed free and rose from her throat.
Withers’ voice was clear and left room for little discussion. “Thy fate was to succeed against the Netherbrain and destroy the cult of the Absolute. Instead, thine untimely death hath tipped the balance dangerously, unleashing a chain of events culminating with the subjugation of the Netherbrain by the Chosens’ of Bhaal and Bane. ‘Tis not the written fate of this realm.”
She froze, locked by both the intensity of his stare and the realisation sinking in the pit of her stomach. “You want to send me back in time, so I can change the fate of Toril? To ensure the Brain is destroyed, and tip the scales?”
“Yes, thou art correct.”
“There must be some sort of catch. Things are never that easy,” she gaped, her mind reeling with the sheer impossibility of it all.
“Thou art a brave soul who intended to defy the Lord of Murder,” Withers’ said, “With thy death, thou hast become undone. Thou can now be rebuilt and born anew.”
“What if all I want to do is rest? What if I am not your prophesied saviour?” Tav lamented bitterly. She knew that there would be no end to all the pain and misery she had known throughout her wretched existence. As an unclaimed child of Bhaal, her destiny had already been decided by fate – she was to remain the Fugue Plane, wandering alone for eternity. “All I have brought to this world is death. You even said it so yourself. I am pre-destined to unleash death and destruction upon this realm.”
“What say thee if control was thine own?” Withers’ offered, almost gently. “I too, still hold some power, and can invest a portion of it in someone such as thyself, who attempted to defy thy parentage and challenge thy fate.”
“I would accept, but-” she started, before he brought a hand up to silence her.
“One who can oppose and fight against Bhaal’s compulsion is worthy of my favour and capable of surviving any crisis. Become a scion in mine charge, and thy will be born anew.”
“Will I see Astarion again?”
“Alas, my dear child, I cannot foresee whom thee shall encounter. But, I can see thine heart. Although the words remained unsaid, I can see that you loved thine companion to the last. And love, itself, is an extremely powerful force. It can, after all, trascend the boundaries of time and space.”
Tavarrah carefully considered his words, her mind reeling. The possibility of saving Astarion did not sound real. His soul and body had been consumed by that damned ritual, condemned to roam Cania alongside seven thousand other innocent souls. But, if Withers’ truly held the power to send her back in time and undo it, she could save him and the rest. She could even turn a new page in her book of life, and find a life that truly belonged to her and her alone. Where her mind and body would belong to her, and only her. Where she would not feel compelled to murder and destroy.
“Very well, I will do it.”
“Tell me, adventurer...hero...friend. Do the voices echo still?” The smile Withers’ gave her was one she had never seen before, as he spoke once again.
Her eyes widened considerably, as she processed his words. It caused Tav to pause, as she tried to listen for the voice that had always plagued her mind. There was nothing. “The Urge is gone? Does...does this mean Bhaal won’t be able to lay claim over my new body?”
“Thou possess the heart of a saviour, my child. Thine heart hath overshadowed the mind of a murderer, and, hast vanquished thine Urge. Thou shall be born anew.”
Tav felt the tears that had been threatening to spill over her eyelashes. She bended her head, in an attempt to fight for self control, and she felt Withers come up beside her.
“Thou must now feel the separation of thine soul from thine physical form. Take this chance for what it is, child, a chance for change, a chance for a better future,” Withers said, as his glowing hand grasped hers. “I must caution thee, Tavarrah, thy task will not be easy. Ther willen ben great risks and dangers thou must face. Thy will be placed back in a time of chaos and upheaval, and thou must be brave to be whomst thy need to be.”
An unnatural warmth began to spread from her hand down to the rest of her body, banishing the cold. A cerulean glow bursted forth from within, enveloping Tav’s body and cocooning her in warmth. “Rise and greet the bloodless dawn, Child of None. Death shall not claim thee whilst I endure.”
Her vision narrowed as her body was overtaken by sudden exhaustion. Tav had never thought spirits or souls could get tired, but rather, they merely existed suspended in the ether. Slipping away into a dreamless rest, she ceased to exist.
--
10th Marpenoth, 1370 DR – Baldur’s Gate
Lady Lucinda Portyr’s steps were brisk through the ancient corridors of her husband’s keep in the Upper City. Walking past its street-facing windows, she could faintly hear the hustle and bustle of city life beyond its walls - but she did not pay any mind to the noise. Nor she did the vaulted ceilings displaying painted constellations above her, or the marble busts of generation upon generation of Portyrs’;all of them seemingly staring down at her with impassive frowns. They were irrelevant to her, in light of the news she had to share with her husband.
Her hands clenched and unclenched the ivory skirt of her gown, despite the joy she had felt when healer had confirmed the reason for her bouts of indisposition. The gentle smile that had graced the lips of the elven healer was firmly etched in her mind, alongisde the single word she had uttered.
Pregnant.
Lucinda and her husband had spent the better part of two decades trying to conceive; only stopping after the stillbirth of little Selwyn. After their tragic loss, they had not even bothered to try anymore and had given up all hope of ever being blessed with the sound of a baby’s first babble or a toddler’s laugh. However, the gods had now heard their prayers, and saw fit to gift them the life now growing within her.
Her pace quickened, the wood flooring creaking in protest under her feet, as her insides churned. She was just past her fortieth name day, and carrying a pregnancy to term would always be challenging for her – the women in her family had always struggled with childbirth, and her age only made matters worse. But, she mused, you have already lived a good life, haven’t you? After all, women of all ages and races found the end of their lives in the birthing chamber. If that was to be her fate, at least she had been blessed by the gods’ with a good and happy life.
Her pace slowed to a halt, as she stopped outside of her husband’s study. Nodding respectfully to the Flaming Fist standing guard, Lucinda gestured towards the entrance to the chamber.
In response to her silent instruction, the guard merely nodded and tapped their knuckles once against the door. “Saer, your Lady Wife wishes to speak with you.”
A cheerful voice responded from within, beckoning Lucinda inside. “Enter.”
The young guard stepped aside and opened the door. “Thank you, Solaris,” she said, meeting the corporal eyes’. Quickly withdrawing two gold pieces from her reticule, she pressed them into their gloved hand.
The scene that greeted her as she entered was one she had grown familiar with over the years - her husband Selwyn and Grand Duke Silvershield rising to greet her, the unfurled treatise on top of the table all but forgotten. Silvershield offered her a polite smile, while her husband looked at her with devotion that befitted an ardent follower of one goddess or another. She had never known what she had done to earn it, but from the very first moment they had met, he had gazed upon her as if she had been responsible for hanging the moon and the stars.
When Selwyn finally addressed her, his voice was equal parts gentle and loving. “Lucy, my darling.”
Duke Silvershield glanced between the besotted pair of lovers. Coughing dryly in response to their exchange, he picked up the parchment roll and began rolling it. “Lady Portyr. Lord Portyr. I shall see myself out.”
“Entar, please do not leave at my expense. I shan’t take too much time from either of you.”
“Very well. If the Lady insists I stay to hear the news she has to deliver, then I shall do so, ” he nodded, the stiff tone of his voice betraying his discomfort.
As soon as the words were uttered, the attention of both men turned towards Lucinda. Their expectant gazes made her nervous, and almost on instict, her hands clasped protectively around the incipient swell of her abdomen.
Selwyn’s eyes followed his wife’s motions with rapt attention. His heart thumped in his chest, as his mouth went dry. “Are you…?” the question was asked in a soft and almost reverent tone.
All the Lady could do was nod in response, happy tears gathering in her hazel eyes. “Yes, my love. The Physician General just confirmed that I am with child.”
With a spring in his step that instead befitted a man half his age, Lord Portyr closed the distance and gathered her hands in his own. “All will be well, Lucy, I promise you,” he said softly, pressing kisses against her knuckles, and seeking to meet her gaze. “I will ensure neither of you comes to harm.”
--
20th Kythorn, 1371 DR – Baldur’s Gate
Lord Selwyn Portyr had never been religious. He hadn’t been after marrying Lucinda, either. Rather, he’d been a laissez-faire Selûnite, all too eager to pray to whichever god or goddess his wife followed if it meant that he could live happily by her side. That had all changed, however, when his beloved wife had announced she was expecting. And for many months, his prayers (and the hefty donations to the House of the Moon in Waterdeep) had seemed to be enough to gain the favour and blessing of the goddess.
Her pregnancy had gone smoothly so far, according to the healers looking after both mother and daughter. He had been so dedicated and overjoyed through the past eight months, that he’d even gone as far as agreeing to consult a few diviners, at his wife’s insistence. Their predictions all seemed to agree on the same – the baby would bring great honour to the Portyr name, and become a beacon of light to those who roamed in the shadows.
When Selwyn’s role as a member of the Council of Four threatened to tear him away from her side, he initially declined. Despite his initial reservations to leaving his wife’s side at a time like this, she was adamant on his attendance, given that his commercial and trading expertise was an asset in the drafting of the new trade agreements between Baldur’s Gate, Elturel and Neverwinter. He had acquiesced and only done so in hopes he would not be required again until after his daughter had been born.
He bounded into the hall eager to reunite with his wife, a smile stretching across his lips. Said smile soon dimmed, however, when he noticed their household help had seemingly congregated at the entrance of the manor; his gaze immediately settled on Mrs.Vaanar, who approached him cautiously. In her arms, the dragonborn corporal carried a lace bundle.
“Saer, the babe came earlier than expected.”
The sombre tone of the soldier, coupled with the solemn looks on the faces of those in the hall, caused fear to grow at the pit of his stomach. “Lucinda?”
“Lucinda?” He called out once again, his voice growing ever so desperate.
“Saer, there were complications with the baby’s birth. The healer did all she could, but your Ladyship lost quite a bit of blood during the delivery.”
The knot that had formed in Selwyn’s throat lessened ever so slightly. Perhaps the situation would not be as dire as he had originally feared. “Where is my wife?”
“She’s currently resting in the bedchamber, my Lord,” his valet, Percy, spoke up.
Selwyn brushed past Percy, rushing up the staircase. His household staff sprung into action as well, scrambling to follow him up the stairs.
“Your Lordship, healer Dalyria did say Lady Lucinda will be afflicted by weakness for some time to come,” the valet said, as he paused at the top of the stairs to recover his bearings, “She has left strict instructions to ensure the Lady makes a complete recovery.”
Lord Portyr’s pace did not decrease even when he arrived down the corridor that led to their bedchamber, and Mrs.Vaanar spoke up once again. “Your Ladyship has seen the baby, Saer, but she insisted on waiting for you to return before naming her.”
Once Selwyn’s steps had come to a halt, Mrs.Vanaar approached him. She immediately placed the whole bundle of blanket, lace and infant in his arms. All he could see peeking out of them were two tiny chubby cheeks, a button nose and eyes closed to the world. He moved one finger, in awe, feeling the softness of her cheek. What will be your name, oh little one?, he mused, completely besotted by the baby in his arms. In response, she wriggled happily; her peaceful demeanour denoting only the happiest of dreams. One of her tiny fists’ curled around the fabric of her blanket, mirroring the hold she already had over his heart.
Satisfied that his daughter was now laying comfortably within his grasp, Lord Portyr resumed his march down the hallways of his estate. Each step that brought him closer to the birthing chamber unleashed wave upon wave of fear, as his mind tried to predict what he would see behind its doors. They gripped and constricted around his heart painfully, and it was almost enough to squeeze all the air out of his lungs. The dangers of childbirth were also fresh in his mind, for he had nearly lost his wife after she had given birth to their dead son.
As he approached the door, he could hear the sharp voice of the Physician General barking urgent orders at the healers. Practically bursting inside the birthing chamber, the scene that greeted him snuffed out all the joy and hope. Dalyria and the healers that had been brought to assist with the birth were frantically working around Lucinda. The woman’s entire frame was drenched in sweat, as she laid in the bed trembling. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, and she did not seem to acknowledge the arrival of either her husband or newborn daughter.
Before words could even come out of his mouth, the doctor’s voice rang sharply. “She is still bleeding. Quickly, lift her hips and prepare another Blood-Replenishing Potion.”
“Gods’ above Dalyria, what is happening?” Selwyn asked, rushing to his wife’s side. His voice tightened as he noticed his wife’s hands clenching the blood-soaked sheets. The sight alone was enough to shatter him from within and cause his stomach to drop. “What is wrong with my wife?”
“Saer, there were complications during the delivery that caused Lady Lucinda to bleed heavily.”
Selwyn’s gaze dropped to the bundle in his arms. The baby they had poured so many hopes and dreams on, became the materialisation of his deepest fears.
“Please, save her,” he pleaded, his voice raw. “Do whatever it takes.”
“We are trying, Lord Portyr,” she said, ushering him to the other side of the bed. “Come, sit next to her. I can imagine these must be hard and unexpected news, but your wife needs you.”
He sat down next to his wife. Lucinda’s face was coated in sweat and tears, her skin tinged with an unnatural pallor. A faint, reassuring smile graced her lips as her eyes fluttered open, though even that seemed to drain her. Moving and settling his daughter in one arm, he reached for his wife’s cold hand with the other.
“Lucinda,” he whispered softly, brushing a wayward strand of her hair from her face. “Our daughter is here and she’s healthy. I am so proud of you, my love.”
Lucinda’s eyelids fluttered, but she was too weak to respond. Lord Selwyn’s grip tightened around her hand, tears threatening to spill out.
“Can I hold her?”
Dalyria silently approached him and held her arms out. Placing a delicate kiss against her forehead, he reluctantly handed his daughter to the elven healer. Turning his attention back to his wife, Selwyn gently lifted her against his chest. It was only after ensuring his wife rested comfortably against chest, that he nodded for the healer to place their child in Lucinda’s lap. They both wrapped their arms around the newborn, his supporting hers.
Gazing down, Lucinda’s face softened with love and devotion. Tears welled in her eyes, as she brought a trembling hand up to trace her features. “She is perfect,” she breathed out, her voice barely audible.
Selwyn held the both of them close to his chest, feeling the bittersweet joy of the moment. Dread gnawed at him, as the love of his life faded before his very eyes.
“Dalyria!” he called out quietly, trying to keep the tone of his voice as even as possible. The physician’s grave expression told him all he needed to know.
Despite Lucinda’s strength fading fast with each laboured breath she took, her grip on her child tightened. “Name her,” she pleaded, “I want to hear her name.”
Selwyn’s heart clenched. “We will name her once you recover,” he said softly, his voice wavering.
“Now,” his wife insisted, her voice growing weaker. “Please, my love.”
Lord Portyr hesitated, as his chest constricted with fear. But he relented after meeting his Lady’s beautiful amber gaze.
“Éowyn,” he whispered softly. “She shall be called Éowyn.”
A soft smile appeared in Lucinda’s lips, as she looked down. “Éowyn Portyr. It is perfect, just like her.”
Selwyn kissed the crown of her head, memorising his wife’s scent. Lucinda’s breathing grew shallower and her fingers trembled, as she brought a hand up to caress her husband’s cheek.
“I...love you both. Please...look after her.”
“Do not say such things, my love. You will be fine and we shall raise her together.”
His wife’s caresses came to a halt, her eyes fluttering shut. She drew in one last breath, and like the flame of a candle being snuffed out, her light was extinguished.
“Lucinda?” Selwyn’s voice broke, his hands shaking as he held onto his wife’s lifeless body. “Lucinda!” He sent an urgent prayer to Selûne or any of the gods that were listening, hoping that this was only a nightmare. That he would wake up and be greeted by his healthy wife and equally healthy daughter.
None of them listened, and Selwyn’s life collapsed around him. He desperately cradled the body of Lucinda and their daughter. Beyond the walls of the estate, the midsummer solstice had arrived to Faerûn, but all Selwyn could feel within his chest was the bite of winter.
Squirming in the arm's of her grieving father, Éowyn let out the softest of cries; almost as, if she too, shared her father’s sorrow and pain.