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The Drow was lying on the steps, hands pressing against the deep wound on her side. Her silky white hair was stained with blood, dishevelled and sweaty, but her face was still beautiful and proud. Even through the loss of her imperious stance, Viconia was still stubbornly elegant. But despite her effort, the aura of mystery and power that used to surround her had been shattered by a few spells and a couple of strong strikes.
Ellith wanted her pathetic, she wanted to turn her into a worm suffocating beneath the foot of fatality. But the Drow kept on defying them, even with her goddess blind and deaf to her pleading.
The bard glanced at Shadowheart, caring not for their own superficial wounds nor the blood covering their skin. Not their own blood anyway.
The Cleric was standing, proud and stern, above her former mother figure, that woman who tricked her into a cult which had swallowed her memories, her sensitivity, her independence and sense of self.
A solemn silence had invaded the chamber, and the echo of Shadowheart’s breathing sounded like an ominous wind blowing on Viconia’s doom. Jaheira was mumbling behind them, but neither the bard nor the cleric needed her advice now.
“What do you want to do, Shadowheart?” Ellith asked in a low whisper.
“I want to see my parents. And I don’t care what happens to this one. She’s been in my head long enough already. Do what you like. I know you’ll choose well.” She answered, positively unimpressed by Viconia’s pleadings. And against all odds, she stepped away, leaving Viconia’s fate in Ellith’s hands.
But the Drow was stubborn, unwilling to be ignored by the girl whose mind she had crafted. Or so she thought. There was something quite touching in her desperate attempt to die by Shadowheart’s hand. A death wish relying on a legacy which would never be fulfilled. “What are you doing? Come back and finish this yourself! You owe me that!” Viconia yelled through her pain.
Yes, Ellith thought. the Drow wanted this whole situation to turn into a handover. She wanted to make a ritual out of this.. in the name of Shar.
“Let go, Mother. Embrace loss.” Shadowheart spit back, barely glancing at the pathetic form on the ground.
The bard gave a little approving nod. Her friend was becoming increasingly impressive; her courage, her growing independence and humble determination mingling with her inner pride in an admirable way.
Now Jaheira was stepping in, not to advise the cubs, but to talk to a former ally who had chosen a different path. “She stands at the same crossroads you yourself once did, Viconia - but it seems you are not quite the teacher you thought.”
Ellith repressed a chuckle, and Minsc rushed in before they could add anything. “Boo thinks you have had every chance to change your ways. Count yourself blessed it is not he who judges you today.”
And indeed, the hamster was standing on Minsc’s shoulder, his little paws folded in the most judgemental way. Ellith winked at the rodent.
Although slaughter was always a pleasure that made the Bhaalspawn shiver and drip with an undescriptive arousal, they didn’t feel the need to kill the Drow. They had killed enough today, hadn’t they? All those Sharrans’ lives had satiated the Urge, and they felt… at peace. For now.
“Go. If you’re wise, you’ll vanish.” The bard hissed, piercing eyes falling heavily on the Drow.
Casting one last terrible glare toward her former daughter of loss, Viconia got up and walked away, obviously expecting Shadowheart to react.
But the Cleric couldn’t care less; she was already searching the tables and bookshelves, trying to find a way to her parents.
“Something tells me that it is not the last time you’ll hear of her, cub.” Jaheira whispered as Viconia ran away, as best as she could with her wounded body.
Ellith shrugged; Viconia’s fate – or upcoming revenge – was the least of their concern right now. The bard walked around the many corpses on the ground while Astarion and Lae’zel looted the bodies. Gale had joined Shadowheart near the bookshelves, and suddenly Ellith wondered how the encounter would have unfolded if Minthara had joined the battle… perhaps the two former Lolthite would have found some kind of common ground…? Mh. Anyway, it was too late to think about it. Viconia was gone, and Minthara was at camp, probably arguing with Halsin, as usual.
Wandering through the large chamber, Ellith was sticking their tongue at the many Shar statues that adorned the place. As they reached one corner of the room, a subtle breathing sound caught their senses. And a smell too. A sweet, familial scent which happened to be eerily comforting.
There were a few sobs as well, echoing behind those heavy doors. Without waiting for their friends, Ellith pushed open the wooden panels and stepped into the room. Weapons, supplies and a few other outfits… nothing unexpected here; nothing other than the huddled form hidden between the weapon racks.
The bard didn’t hesitate and walked straight to the curled-up figure, as their own fingers brushed against the hilt of their dagger.
A human woman. Grey hair, unkept short curls, her face hidden in her hunched knees. Ellith could smell the fear oozing from her very being, but the heavy flowery smell was all around the place.
And then it hit the bard’s nostrils and mind.
Lavender.
She smelled like lavender.
Ellith’s head started to spin, and they had to take hold of the rack on their right to keep balance. It took them a few seconds to catch their breath. They needed to keep their mind sharp; No matter how harmless this woman seemed to be, she could be one of Viconia’s followers.
“Look at me!” Ellith commanded with a stern voice, fighting against the dizzy spell. “And tell me who you are.”
Their threatening shout alerted the other companions, and before long, the sound of their quick footsteps was getting increasingly closer.
The old woman obeyed, slowly raising her head to reveal her face. Wrinkled and tired, with a deep sadness in her eyes. She looked positively terrified... and lost.
“What are you doing here?” Ellith asked, trying to keep their voice stern… but the face in front of them was making it quiver.
“Forget her…” Shadowheart whispered as she joined Ellith’s side. “Just another victim of Shar’s bewitching. I suppose her memory’s gone. Let’s not waste our time with her.”
Ellith nodded. They knew their friend was correct… and yet, there was something about this woman that kept them stuck. The scent, those deep brown eyes filled with fear… why were they so familiar?
“Wh-Who are you…?” The woman asked as a spark of recognition appeared in her eyes. “I know you…”
Taken aback, Ellith stumbled backwards, only to plough into Astarion who had joined the party. “Careful, honey-bun,” he said with a gentle but playful voice. “Remember that you have a few curious friends around.”
Ellith barely acknowledged his teasing statement, too troubled by the woman’s voice and words. It wasn’t the first time their heard that voice, that they knew. And even with their own memory lost, they could tell there was something aloof. They were a Bhaalspawn, after all. So, if anyone from their past could recognize them, they would hardly have kept a good memory of their former meeting… right?
“Your eyes… I know your eyes.” The woman breathed, crawling forward on her shaking limbs. She was wearing a dark robe on which Shar’s symbols were delicately embroidered, but even if she looked armless, Ellith was keeping a hand on their dagger.
Surrounded by the lavender scent oozing from the woman, the bard tried to fumble through their own mind, digging even deeper into their memory to decipher the puzzles of their past. And the deeper they dug, the harder it was to focus. Another dizzy spell, followed by a searing headache which made them stumble.
Ellith barely felt Astarion’s cool hands as he caught their waist. “Darling, are you all right?” He asked in a whisper. “... Or should I kill the old lady for you?”
“No!” Ellith snapped back before they could even think about it. An almost instinctive cry, as if this woman meant anything to them. They sneaked out of Astarion’s grasp and cast a defiant look at him. “Not yet.”
“As you wish, Ellith, but don’t expect too much from a brainwashed lunatic like her.”
“Ellith?!” the woman yelped.
“Shit.” Astarion mumbled, a new kind of concern creeping upon his fair features.
The bard focused on the woman again, taking one step toward her despite the lingering headache and waves of nausea bubbling in their stomach. “You know my name, then?”
“Ellith…. Ellith… Ellith…” The woman was reciting the name like a mantra, her eyes closed and hands joined in a prayer position. “I knew… I used to know…Ellith.”
Curiosity tickled in Ellith’s mind. Their name was rather unusual, so if this woman knew someone called Ellith… It could only be them, right?
The Bhaalspawn’s past was but a black canvas stained with blood and adorned with guts, and each time they tried to search into it, the now familiar searing ache left them sick and feverish. Save for Orin, Gortash and the butler, there seemed to be no one who could tell them about their past. It felt like they had no existence before the Nautiloid. But there was someone before the tadpole, there was a life, a life of violence and cruelty, of treachery and greed.
What if this woman could add another piece to the puzzle? And if she could, would Ellith be able to accept it?
Astarion’s hands had been following them, and he was now firmly holding their shoulders from behind. “She’s demented, El. If you want to keep her alive, that’s on you.” The vampire whispered into their ear. “But I wouldn’t take anything she says for granted. Look at her! There’s nothing left of her shattered mind!”
“And there’s nothing left of mine either.” Ellith mumbled, a disheartened hollowness imbuing their every word.
Astarion’s grasp immediately relaxed, as if unlocked by the sudden shift in Ellith’s voice. “Darling… You’re nothing like her.”
In the meanwhile, the woman had kept on chanting Ellith’s name, clinging to it as if it could lead her back to her memories.
“Come on, dear…” Astarion sighed, offering his hand. “We need to find Shadowheart’s parents.”
He was right. That’s why they were here, in this place of loss and desperation. After a few more seconds staring at the poor creature, Ellith took the vampire’s hand and followed him. Their friends were gathered around another figure, a purple-haired Tiefling who seemed delighted to see Shadowheart.
The woman’s sobs were still resonating behind them, but Ellith couldn’t dwell on the mad mumblings of an amnesiac woman, they had more important things to do… right?
“And that was the last of them!” Minsc beamed, taking his sword out of the tender flesh of the Sharran who had presented herself as Mirie. “No more butt to kick in here.”
“What a waste…” Jaheira shook her head, sheathing her own weapon. “So many young souls, tainted by Shar’s doctrine, corrupted by the lies of a goddess who never care for their fate…”
Astarion gave a bitter chuckle as he poked a corpse with the tip of his foot, probably searching for something to loot. “As if any god ever cared for mortals…”
An almost sacred silence fell upon the House of Grief, only broken by Gale’s footsteps as he walked out, obviously affected by everything that had happened in this damn place.
Shadowheart was still standing behind. She had helped in the fight against the remaining Sharrans, lashing out her legitimate anger and frustration towards her former fellow companions. But Ellith had smelt the grief oozing from her voice with each spell she had cast.
She was silent now, eyes fixed on the ground.
Ellith sighed a sigh of both exhaustion and concern. The meeting with Shar herself had drained them all, but watching their friend accepting the death of her parents had clearly affected every single one of them.
Of course, it was something Ellith couldn’t understand. They knew no parent, no family… maybe they did once, but their memory loss had cut all ties they might have weaved before. Yet, beyond their lack of understanding, they were sensible enough to understand how such a loss could break a soul. They just didn’t know how to react, how to help… they weren’t even sure they could.
Besides, they had something else in mind, something they’d tried to ignore for the past hour, in vain.
Turning toward Jaheira, the bard assumed their role as the leader of the party. “You all go back to the Elfsong and take care of Shadowheart. I’ll join you later.”
Another silence, during which Ellith could almost feel Shadowheart’s eyes laying heavily on their back. “You’re not… coming with us?” she asked.
“Not yet.” The bard answered with a voice that was colder than planned. “You stick to Jaheira.”
The High Harper nodded in agreement, and offered a comforting arm to the cleric. Ellith knew her experienced friend would know how to lead Shadowheart through her grief. Better than they could ever do.
Minsc followed the women outside, but Astarion didn’t even pretend to move along. “You’re not going back, El. Not for her. Trust me, it’s not worth it.”
“How could you know?” Ellith snapped back.
Instead of answering, Astarion bit his lower lip, not hard, but just enough for El to understand that some sort of anxiety was gnawing at him.
“Go with the others…” The bard said, softly this time. “We’ll talk later. Or not. I don’t care.”
And before Astarion could reply, they were trotting back to the grotto.
The old woman was still there, but she was standing now, eating an apple from the supplies, one arm wrapped around her own stomach as if to comfort herself. In the distance, Ellith could hear Nocturne packing her own things. Good for her.
The bard’s footsteps caught the woman’s attention. She dropped the apple and stared at the half-drow in front of her, eyes wide open.
“You’re here.”
“I am.” Ellith nodded, keeping their distance.
“You faced the Lady of Loss.”
“No. My friend did…. How do you know?”
The woman lowered her head and stared at her own hands as if they could give her an answer. “I felt it… I…”
A few other careful steps in her direction, and Ellith could see the sadness in her eyes.
“I can remember better…” the woman mumbled, and her hands stared to shake. “Not everything… but... clearer. As if a fog had been blown away.”
There was something in Ellith’s mind that urged them to leave this room and never come back. Something that didn’t want to know what this poor soul had to say. But the need to rediscover their past was strong enough to keep them still. “Do you… Do you remember Ellith?”
“Ellith… such a smart child, a beautiful child. The voice of an angel. She’d sing to me… ” and with that, the woman started to mumble an eerie tune, which somehow, sounded familiar to Ellith’s ears.
The half-drow didn’t even try to break her trail of thoughts. Instead, they focused on the melody, trying to remember the notes. But the attempt only triggered another dizzy spell, and before long, Ellith was wincing in pain as they tryed to keep focus.
Their little whine seemed to disturb the woman. She stopped singing and stared at the bard. Ellith looked back into her eyes.
It was more than recognition, more than acknowledgment. It was a deep intertwined yearning.
“She said I smelled nice…” the woman whispered, taking one step toward the half-drow.
“You do smell nice… Lavender.”
A nod. Another step. And a tender glint in her eyes.
“She wanted me to teach her how to read…”
Oh. Of course she did.
“What’s your name?” Ellith asked, keeping their voice low and gentle. “Can you remember it?”
The woman reached out to the nearby table and with a shaky hand, she picked up a quill and a piece of parchment. The handwriting messy, faltering, as if she hadn’t written in years.
“Loren.” Ellith read out loud, and the woman’s features relaxed. “Your name is Loren.”
She nodded, the shadow of a smile hovering on her lips. “You can read…. You learned.”
As Ellith tried to fumble through their own mind, to rummage through their own shattered memories, a new wave of nausea shook their stomach. But they pushed through, trying to remember if only the echo of this name. Loren.
And they did. They knew that name.
A buzzing echo, accompanied by this now too familiar searing pain. After a few staggering steps backward, Elith opened their eyes, only to discover that Astarion was standing beside them, his sparkling red eyes fixed on them. “It old you it was a bad idea, darling.”
“And I asked you to go with the others.”
The vampire spawn shrugged dismissively. “… and missing all the fun? Never.” His hand sneaked around the bard’s waist, comforting and grounding, as a clear contradiction of his light, playful tone.
When they refocused on Loren, the woman was still staring at the name she had written. “I think… I think I used to love writing…”
“And what did you write?” Astarion asked with a wave of his hand. “Poetry? Prayers?
Ignoring the question, Loren picked up the note and with a sudden surge of energy, she violently tore it. “SHE RUINED EVERYTHING!”
The unexpected cry had Ellith jumped against Astarion who tightened his grip, and their hand instinctively moved to the dagger at their side.
A useless precaution.
Loren was already relaxing, here gaze softening as a long sigh escaped her parted lips. “She would sing to me. She sang all the time.”
Something stirred in Ellith’s chest, as if sharpened claws were digging into an old wound. They watched the woman run her hands through her short curls, slowly, almost diligently. “I wanted to love her.”
The clawing intensified, as if reaching for Ellith heart. Astarion’s fingers too were now fully clasped around the bard’s hip.
The lavender smell was everything, sweet but intoxicating, filling their mind with shattered images which disappeared before Ellith could make sense of them. Blood and flames, but also warmth and laughter. And the distorted smile of the Butler.
He was already there.
It took Ellith a few long seconds to realise they had closed their eyes, their face twisted in a wince a disgust.
“Stay with me, darling.” Came Astarion’s whisper. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
The bard nodded. “Yes…”
After a deep breath, which barely helped soothe the headache, they took one step toward Loren. “Loren, tell me, what happened with Ellith?” and they spoke with their most persuasive voice, the one they used when they needed someone to acknowledge something.
It worked. Better than expected. Loren throw herself at Ellith, reaching for her arms. “IWANTEDTOLOVEHER!!!!”
It was not just their defensive instincts, it was something deeper that brough Ellith to push her back. An unfathomable need to keep the woman away, to refuse whatever she could offer her. No matter how much they needed it.
And Astarion didn’t miss the cue; he immediately dragged Ellith backward, establishing a proper distance between Loren and the bard.
As they got a grip on themself, Ellith gently pulled away from the vampire spawn; It wasn’t his fight.
Raising their head to imbue themselves with a new self-confidence, Ellith looked down at the old woman. “Where?” they asked, their voice commanding and suddenly much colder. “Where did it all happen?”
The disquiet in Loren’s eyes increased, but it was soon replaced by confusion. She was trying to remember, rubbing her hand against her forehead. “Orphans….” She mumbled after a few long seconds. “The sanctuary.”
“The Orphans’ Sanctuary?!” Astarion breathed.
“You know this place?”
“Yes… I mean, not exactly.” The vampire shook his head dismissively. “I didn’t exactly target urchins. But I heard it burnt down… maybe thirty or forty years ago. It made quite a fuss around the city back then.”
“All burnt… everything ruined… the children, all dead.” Martha sobbed, before falling to her knees and bursting into tears. Ellith stared at her in disgust.
“The date could match…” the bard pondered, but they didn’t want to dive into their broken memories once more. “Loren, how did it happen?”
Through her sobs and tears, the woman didn’t seem to hear the question, distress and agony echoing in her broken whimpers.
“Tell me! How did the fire start?”
“SHE DID IT!”
Once again, the sudden shout surprised both Ellith and Astarion.
“SHE CAME BACK TO KILL!”
An unpleasant shiver ran along Ellith’s spine, but Astarion quickly took the bait, his curiosity obviously picked. “Came back? You mean, she wasn’t dwelling in the Sanctuary anymore?”
Her face was hidden in her shaking hands, as if assailed by a thousand of painful memories which had been repressed for too long. “Couldn’t keep her… too dangerous.” Her sobs were getting louder. “Just a child… delivered to the streets…”
“Well, doesn’t it make sense now?” Astarion whispered thoughtfully, as if connecting the dots.
“HE KNEW!”
“He..?” Astarion asked.
But Ellith didn’t need to ask. There could have been only one ‘he’ back then.
They were feeling sick again, and the new wave of nausea was accompanied by anger, disgust and frustration. Frustration for their own incapacity to remember, disgust towards this old pathetic woman, and anger against… themself? against Bhaal? against that so-called sanctuary?
Maybe the place deserved to burn.
Still on her knees, Loren joined her hands and started to call out to Shar, begging her lady to erase her memories again.
Ellith needed to know more, but Loren’s sobbing voice was sickening.
“There’s nothing more to get from her, darling.” Came Astarion’s voice, echoing Ellith’s own conclusion.
And then they felt it.
This hunger deeply rooted in their heart, their fingers itching around the hilt of their dagger, the calling for slaughter.
The Urge.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
The voice was loud enough to cover Loren’s prayer and Astarion’s whispers. Ellith felt their body staggering, but all they could see was a world painted in blood and gore. They closed their eyes, fighting the sharp headache which was buzzing in their skull, fighting the nausea.
And yet, they followed the voice.
Willingly. Stubbornly.
Kill.
The only way out.
The voice was loud enough to cover Loren’s prayer and Astarion’s whispers. Ellith felt their body staggering, but all they could see was a world painted in blood and gore. They closed their eyes, fighting the sharp headache which was buzzing in their skull, fighting the nausea.
And yet, they followed the voice.
Willingly. Stubbornly.
Kill.
When Ellith opened their eyes, their blade was buried deep inside Loren’s guts, intestines bulging out of a large opening in her belly.
The sickness receded, but the headache remained.
And as the Bhaalspawn looked down at the disfigured corpse, they felt no shame, no guilt, no sorrow… not even that specific gruesome satisfaction which usually accompanied their slaughter. Only relief. As if a forgotten yearning had finally been quenched.
‘She was supposed to be your first one, dear master’
The Butler’s voice.
Ellith looked around but… no, it was useless. His voice was in their mind.
‘Your Father will be happy. After so many years. Her wretched soul never belonged to Shar’s domain. It belongs to Him.’
Ellith pressed their fingers into the woman’s insides, her organs still warm and soft enough to ease their sore, tensed muscles.
Astarion hadn’t moved an inch. He had witnessed the whole macabre scene stoically, as if it was something which had to happen. And that was probably for the better, for his own sake.
“Are you back here with me, darling?” He asked rather casually, clearly used to Ellith’s fits of violence, and unimpressed by their feral slaughter.
The Bhaalspawn nodded slowly, and before long, his hand was resting on their shoulder. “Then let’s get out of here; it’s smells like desperation and decay.”
“And grief.” Ellith added, their voice sombre but steady.
Loren would never pray again. She’d never write again. And she'd forget… forever.
Neither Ellith nor Astarion spoke a word on their way back to the Elfsong Tavern. They walked quickly, trying to reach the safety of the camp before sunset, just to make none of his siblings would come after them in the darkness of the streets.
Ellith was grateful. Astarion hadn’t tried to stop them, was not judging them. He had simply accepted them with their violent quirks and gruesome impulses.
But as they reached the inn, a new feeling settled in the bard’s chest. It wasn’t grief, not exactly, not regret. It felt like a strange kind of loss, the loss of something which had never happened but could have happened.
There was once a woman who wanted to love the child they used to be.
It was a haunting realisation, burdened with what-ifs and why-nots.
Astarion opened the way to the company’s chambers upstairs, and they found the place silent. Except for Wyll and Jaheira who were talking in whispers, everyone seemed focused on their own thoughts, probably musing on what had happened today.
Loss.
The word ran again through Ellith’s mind, and the chasm in their chest deepened.
Fuck Shar.
It wasn’t the first time Ellith turned their frustration against the goddess. But this time it felt different. It was not just Shar. It was the divine, generally speaking. Blind devotion and submission. And for the first time, it was accompanied by another heresy: Fuck Bhaal.
Strangely, it seemed to lighten the pressure in their chest.
The bard’s gaze met that of Shadowheart. She was sitting on the floor, holding Scratch close to her chest as the dog gently licked her hand. And the quiet understanding that passed through this exchange of look between them hit the bard like a tidal wave. Their friend had just lost their parents, parents she had barely known. She had also come to accept the loss of the woman who had been in charge of her all her life. A mother figure which had never actually cared for her. Delivered from her own burden, only to inherit another sort of pain.
The grief on Shadowheart’s delicate face was like a beautiful but heart-wrenching painting. Between admiration and contemplation, the bard drank in the sight...
... Until Astarion squeezed their shoulder. “Do you need anything, sweetheart?”
Startled by this unexpected gentle attention, Ellith blinked a couple of times before shaking their head. “No… No, I’m fine. Just… Please, don’t tell the others about all this. They don’t need to know.”
He nodded, and Ellith knew they could trust him.
“Loss. Actual loss, not Shar's oblivion. I had my family, for too short a moment. Now they're gone. By my hand.”
The moonlight was shining on Shadowheart’s sorrow, making it more beautiful than it should. Ellith had followed her there, expecting no more than a moment of introspection, or maybe a prayer for her parents’ souls. But the tears in the cleric’s eyes were foreshadowing something else, something much more fragile. Tears were not usual on her delicate features, but Ellith couldn’t help thinking that it suited her well.
No – that wasn’t the kind of intrusive thought they needed right now. Not what their friend needed.
“They're not truly gone” The bard whispered. “Remember the moon motes…”
There had been no such hope for Loren, forgotten in Shar’s name. And sacrificed in Bhaal’s one.
“I remember. But they can't comfort me. They can't give me advice. They can't tell me what I was like as a little girl.” Shadowheart’s voice was breaking, and her words hit Ellith like an axe in the chest.
Ellith had never understood her so well. “You did what was necessary. You freed them, and yourself.”
They meant it. And in their voice, there was a genuine vulnerability they had never let Shadowheart witnessed before.
“But why does freedom have to feel like I've lost everything? Perhaps I could have saved them, or perhaps Shar would have helped me forget them. Instead, I've neither...”
Her tears began to roll freely down her cheeks, and before long, the cleric began to weep.
Ellith was stuck. Although their friendship had strengthened positively during the past week, and even if they could spend hours talking and joking together, sharing their sarcastic thoughts and banters, Ellith and Shadowheart had never been physically close. There had never been any touch, and barely any sentimentality.
And yet, after a few seconds of reflection, Ellith found themselves pulled towards their friend, and they carefully wrapped their arms around her shaking body. Shadowheart leaned into the hug, pressing her weeping face into the bard’s shoulder and holding them tightly.
And it felt…. Good.
Strangely good, to be able to relate, to empathise and to comfort someone they’d learned to care about.
There was no ambiguity, no question, no doubt. Just solace, a certain, unusual kind of bonding and relief. Ellith didn’t cry along, but their heart was bleeding in rhythm with Shadowheart’s sobs.
The cleric was free from the shackles Shar had wrapped around her mind, free from pain and her blinded devotion.
A painful sacrifice, but which was worth it…
A sacrifice Ellith didn’t think they would be able to do.
But there was something inspiring in the courage their friend had been displaying so far. Something that felt like hope.
Ellith’s embrace tightened a little more, until Shadowheart’s sobs receded.
“So, it's still Shadowheart, then? Sounds like you're not keen on Jenevelle?” The bard asked with a gentle smile as they slowly pulled away.
“Shadowheart. She's as much a part of who I am as Jenevelle; I can't just forget her - that's not what I do anymore.” She answered, keeping a hand on Ellith’s forearm, as if to ground herself. “Besides, Shadowheart still suits me - even better than before, perhaps. You can't cast a shadow without some light.”
Quite unexpectedly, Ellith found some sort of comfort in those last words. And in their friend’s sad but kind eyes, lingering on them.
“All right… what’s next?” they asked, a little embarrassed now but hiding their doubts with a quick nod.
“I'll follow. But I think I want to stay here a little longer, firstly. This place isn't familiar, but it's peaceful.”
It made sense, and Ellith didn’t insist. After a smile, they turned around, their mind filled with a gust of contradictive thoughts.
“She died, didn’t she?” Shadowheart’s voice echoed behind them as Ellith was reaching the courtyard’s gate. Stopped in their tracks, they clenched their fists.
“Was it your choice, El? Or Bhaal’s?” The sadness in the cleric’s voice was deeper than ever.
That was a question Ellith hadn’t even considered. It was the Urge, but an Urge they had willingly embraced… for their own sake. And probably for that of Loren.
“It was her fate.” The Bhaalspawn answered, forcing themself to keep their voice as neutral as possible.
Shadowheart said nothing, but Ellith could feel her eyes staring intensely at their back as they walked away.
Both Ellith and Shadowheart had lost their childhood, or a least, of token of it. And neither of them would ever get it back. A reality the Bhaalspawn was loath to acknowledge.
They'd need a bottle of strong wine tonight. Or two.