#if isobel thorm has one fan it's me if she has no fans i've died or something... how does that spiel go

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Moon-chosen, Moon-guided - Part II

What's that? The writing got away from me and now the fic has three parts instead of two? Shocking and unprecedented.

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Jaheira, Shadowheart, and a bit of Withers and Karlach Length: ~11500 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

More hurt/comfort, more trauma and coming back from the dead, more pondering mortality. But also some first kiss flashbacks, (un)likely cleric camaraderie, friendly grappling, and stomping mind flayers. This part spans the events of Act 3 of the game.

Summary:

There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave. From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

The brilliant, defiant Beacon of Last Light many revere from afar. Isobel Thorm they do not know at all.

Part I

Also on AO3.

—

Part II - First Light - The City

They call him Withers - a frankly ridiculous name - and none of them seem to have any idea who or what he truly is.

You watch in horrified awe, from what you hope is a safe and discreet enough distance, as he cleaves soul to body with such ease as to be unthinkable. And all the others observe this amazing feat of power (so painfully echoing what your father sold his life and yours and everything for) as if it were a blessing for safe travels and good weather from the village priest. You gape for a few breathless moments, then try to focus.

There is an undeniable air of divinity about him, but it is one you cannot place more precisely than the clear fact it is unlike both Aylin's blaze of moonlight and Ketheric's reek of the grave. Death and fate dance a strange, subtle, orderly choreography around him that has been unmistakeable from the moment you arrived in camp. You would not care to repeat your brushes with either of those two things, so you have found yourself avoiding him in what you can only hope are inconspicuous ways.

Yet still, here you are, your own curiosity playing its games with you. The others leave, take the shaky, freshly restored Gale over to the central campfire for warmth and thin, scrounged-up soup - and then presumably to Shadowheart for further healing. There was an element of urgency to the whole thing that strayed from mere concern for a friend into something oddly specific. You make a note of it to ask about later - though who to ask is a question on its own.

The wight-ghoul-skeleton-lich- demonstrably and evidently none of those things - Withers - tilts his head serenely to meet your gaze with a quiet challenge even as you duck behind the treeline like a child playing hide and go seek.

You pout, worry at a torn seam in your left glove, and wonder. He spoke to Aylin the other day, leaving her unusually contemplative, mood dour. But she refused to elaborate, even to you. And you, coward, squashed with great efficiency any feeble emerging thought of confronting him on her behalf.

So it is a surprise to find your feet carrying you from your woodland sanctuary until you stand before him at last, and it is an annoyance when questions stick in your throat. Who are you, truly? doesn't make it past your lips, and neither does What do you want with us? With me?

He looks up from his tome, after a while, and breaks the silence himself. "Shrink not so from death, grave-touched cleric."

"I do not fear death," you find yourself repeating to yet another, chin raised high - words you have always meant, that have nonetheless always been met with varying levels of doubt. But it is true. You never sought out death, of course, but you never feared it, either, because you knew with such certainty what awaited you afterwards. There is no loss; only temporary separation. We will see her shining spires and walk the silver gardens… 

Except you turned out to be wrong. Now, after your grim awakening, you know one thing.

You died, but Selûne did not Claim you. For all your devotion and service, Your Lady did nothing; could, surely, do nothing, leaving your soul forfeit for one reason or another as a century slowly and darkly crept by.

Instead, once you were back - returned by entirely vile, unholy means - and when you called out to her amidst the suffocating darkness, She answered, put you to work and used you as the instrument of the salvation of many. Through you, Her light, Her protection. Through you, Her will.

Oh, it was a duty you took up gladly. You would have yearned to be so chosen, once. You would have been so proud. But reality proved yet again, in cruel, cruel ways, to be quite different from tales and bard songs.

Withers looks at you with those strange eyes, those singular sparks of life in a dead face. Looks into you, almost, as if digging for some hidden truth. "Indeed, thou dost not. But the trace death has left upon thee - that, perhaps, is a different matter."

You know there is something wrong with you, still. You can feel it. Have felt it ever since-- well. Nothing you've tried, no spell or prayer or ritual, has done anything to lighten the foul, rotting thing that has settled within you. Not even the archdruid's excited proclamation that the shadow curse on your home was slowly but surely lifting did much to relieve it. It is differently horrifying, however, to hear it so casually confirmed by another.

"There exist many roads to death, and just as many from it. A number of them known not even to myself, and beyond even mine accounting. And so thine path, perhaps, is something yet to be fully seen and understood. But who could be better suited to navigating the unknown than one of Selûne's shining faithful?"

"Shining," you scoff at that, bitterness rising, ingrained courtesy and highborn upbringing set aside. "Hardly. I have done my best for Our Lady, yes, because it was necessary, because there was no one else. But," you swallow, every syllable sticking barbed in your throat, "She cannot possibly want--" 

This time, the words swarm, drowning each other out: me. this husk. anything to do with me.

"And so, moon-devoted, thou claimest to know better than thy goddess what she wilt?"

You feel a hot spike of anger and shame, hear it bleed into your voice. "What concern is it of yours?"

"Matters of balance are ever mine concern, and thine goddess hath a weighty counterpart and rival." He waves an almost insultingly dismissive emaciated hand. "It is no matter. Thine own father was unable to make peace with death, and instead sought to master it - an impossibility, of course. The challenge laid before thee now is different, but a challenge nonetheless."

"I-I was-," you start, stammer, taken aback by the mere mention of family ties, but he continues before you can even attempt to fully form a reply.

"I have said my piece," he states, all finality and eerie calm. "It is not in mine purview to guide."

Of course it isn't. Selûne guides. It feels like She has guided your steps since you were born, a presence in your life for as long as you can remember. Ever watching over you, ready with a twinkle of moonlight to show a path if you but asked for it, a comforting silver hand to envelop yours, to reassure and gently direct if you chose to follow it. A feather-light touch, always, but one you cannot fathom the absence of, a life without. One you feel even now, with the tiniest bit of focus on your part: soft as a warm breath on your shoulder, in this utterly unremarkable evening-darkened wood just off the side of a well-trod road.

From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

"Thank you," you say softly to Withers, and receive no response.

-

Dark clouds catch up with you just outside Rivington. The ensuing storm makes for a day of travel cut frustratingly short then turned into a miserable and damp night in a hastily assembled camp.

Ironically, now that your vigil is done and you have ample chances for it, sleep mostly chooses to elude you. It seems unthinkable, away from Aylin, and difficult even when safely and reassuringly in her embrace.

But you once again have the long, late-night confidences when you're tangled up in each other, ensconced in soft blankets. Those hours were ever your favourite - and while they may be darker-tinged now, they are still a treasure regained. You've never had anyone so enraptured as Aylin always seems to be while listening to your thoughts, no matter how deep or how mundane. Even as you selfishly press your icy feet and hands against her.

And it is really quite easy to understand - after all, you yourself would be hard-pressed to find anything more fascinating than Aylin. The differences between you to be explored and the endless similarities to be surprised by, and the wonder of there always being something more to discover. Thoughtful, almost philosophical discussions that are somehow just as important as the absurd joy of recounting and reliving a perfectly uneventful day through each other's eyes. 

But most of all it is the gentle, warm radiance of Aylin herself, when the Sword of the Moonmaiden is set aside, and when the weighty mantle of Selûne's daughter is briefly dropped. She's always struck you as, above all else, profoundly lonely. With her singular position, the unique burdens she bears, now only brought to the fore. You remember wondering, a century ago, amidst lovestruck daydreams in your room atop a tower, if she kept herself apart on purpose. If this was a defence against the inevitable reality of both her immortality and her eternal duty, so entwined with her being. 

The thought of any carefully-kept distance, any long-constructed barrier being obliterated for you makes your breath catch all over again, as you hold her close and run gentle fingers through her hair.

What little sleep finds you that night is restless, shallow, riddled with nonsensical dreams of thick, suffocating darkness cut through by flashes of pale bone, picked clean to a shine. Through it all you keep blearily, exhaustedly focused on your efforts not to move too much, as Aylin fell asleep clinging to you tightly, her head on your chest, murmuring drowsy nothings about the sound of your heartbeat and the soft patter of the rain on the canvas of your tent. To disturb her feels unthinkable. Instead, you close your eyes and try to match her steady breathing with yours.

A moment or an hour later you blink awake and groan as your head pounds. A grey light suffuses the tent, the rain still beating down fiercely, and Aylin is nowhere to be seen. Her handiwork is evident, however, in the way you are carefully wrapped in all the mismatched blankets and covers you've collected over the past few days, and it takes some effort to extricate yourself from all except one.

Aylin is gone, but she has left behind a telltale trail of feathers. There are some in the blankets, and as you pick one out of the wool you cannot help but smile at the fond memories that bubble up. They would get caught in your clothes, your hair - yet another way in which the peculiarities of your paramour made secretive trysts all but impossible. You recall Aylin's indignant reaction when you, flustered, once tried to pass some of them off as the result of a torn duvet seam. The surge of warmth is enough to rouse you fully.

You stumble to your feet and into your boots, trying to ward off the worst of the morning chill. A peek through the flap finds Aylin standing a few steps away from the tents and the treeline, in a veritable downpour. She is perfectly still, her chin tilted up and facing away from you, wings present in all their glory and languidly outstretched, altogether more calm than you have seen her be since your reunion. 

Holding the blanket tight around your shoulders as the cool air fully hits you, you step outside. Aylin herself is wearing nothing but the threadbare yet comfortable linen shirt scrounged up by your newfound allies to get her out of her century-old prison rags, and you almost want to tut - it was difficult enough to find one that fit her, and now it is utterly drenched. 

It can't be very long after dawn, but the endless grey makes it somewhat hard to tell. Even without speaking up you make enough sound that Aylin notices you, inclining her head towards you slightly.

"I used to detest days like this one. Doubly so when travel was required of me, let alone flight. Cold rainwater seeping under armour, well - even Dame Aylin has her foibles." She exhales a small huff of laughter.

Then she stretches her right arm out in front of her, raising her hand to catch raindrops and observe them chasing each other in rivulets, running across and along golden scars.

"I have not felt rain on my skin in a hundred years," Aylin says, so quiet you can barely hear her from where you still stand, shivering. "A mere nuisance, once. Now I am prepared to call it a delight."

She lifts her wings, feathers ruffled up, then spreads them and shakes off what water she can. They are awe-inspiring in their impressive span from afar and beautiful in their detail up close. But what few get to know is just how soft and fine and warm they are. How welcoming.

And welcoming is the only way to describe the way Aylin steps closer, extending a chivalrous hand to you and lifting one wing above you to shelter you from the rain. "Join me, my love? One of the truest wonders of this world is the way all delight multiplies when shared with you."

You gladly take the offered hand, and when she moves to brush a kiss over your knuckles, gazing at you with eyes overflowing with affection, you feel like your chest is about to burst. You press into her side, all thoughts of cold or discomfort forgotten as if they were never there, and stay in that cherished sanctuary until the rain stops.

-

The bustle of a city as large and as endlessly crowded as Baldur's Gate is new to you, nigh dizzying. It's something you've only ever imagined, listening to Aylin's tales of Waterdeep, and something you planned to see in your travels that never came to pass.

You don't quite share Halsin's discomfort, but the few outings you've made in the days since your odd little band settled in the Elfsong Tavern have been somewhat overwhelming, even with Aylin and her uncanny sense of direction by your side. 

But it is also where you've so far felt the least disoriented and displaced - utterly unfamiliar as it is, a hundred years ago or just yesterday makes no palpable difference to you. It is a chance, perhaps, to set aside some of your very particular burdens, at least for a little while. Nothing here is like peering into the gloom and seeing perverse outlines of Reithwin, its very ground torn asunder, the cobblestones you walked what felt like yesterday crumbling under the onslaught of shadowy vines.

And Aylin, well…

You've known Aylin to be a bit toned down - for her standards, anyway - approaching lethargic, even, around this time. Slightly more inclined to bemoan the need to get out from under the covers and leave your embrace when dawn broke. The dark period of the new moon was ever a challenge - a cruel little twist, perhaps, that her powers would be at their lowest when they were most likely to be needed. 

This time, feeding your uneasiness, it is all far more pronounced than you can ever remember it being.

And really, how could it not be? Learning of another who sought to chain her and use her, not even a full month after winning back her freedom from a century of captivity - it makes you boil with rage, rage you only wish you could take out on some unsuspecting foe in combat. You barely dare imagine what it must be doing to Aylin. And dispatching the wretched wizard has seemingly done very little to help, all of it only serving to undo the scant, precious progress towards something resembling peace you two have managed to achieve in the time since your reunion.

Your eyes catch on the golden scar that cleaves across her noble chin, so often haughtily tilted, now a picture of despondency. She sits quietly in one of the plush chairs at a beautifully engraved table, a single finger idly stroking the fur of the chittering hamster that Minsc, that loud, endearing mountain of a man, claimed was going to offer her great comfort and wisdom.

She doesn't like telling you of what happened to her, what was done to her. And you only pry and draw out what you think necessary, slowly and oh-so-carefully.

But there are things that cannot escape your notice. The slight hesitance, the brief stiffening when you hold down her arms, caught up in a flurry of passion. That is new. The visible discomfort she still displays after too long a time spent indoors, without a clear view of the sky. The way sleep so often eludes both of you.

Then, her reluctance to have her back touched at all. You think of the perfectly soft trail of downy feathers on her shoulder blades even when her glorious wings are dismissed - now marred, cut through and laced with some of the worst of the gilded scars, save the ones above her heart. She flinched the first time you thoughtlessly, ever-so-casually tried to run your fingers through them, as you had a thousand times before. To have your beloved shrink away from you so suddenly felt like a blade through your very heart.

It was utterly enraging, as well.

You've on a handful of occasions caught Aylin gripping something so tightly rivulets of silvery blood had run down her hand, her breathing ragged. She is somewhere far away in those moments, and you are never sure how to bring her back, more often than not forced to let it run its course despite your attempts at soft reassurances. You have a sinking feeling, a sense of where she could be returning to, and you worry she'll get lost there, sometimes. It is a place you've never witnessed yourself, though you would have pleaded and bargained a thousand times over to take her place. 

Instead, you seethe, appearing carefully contained to an outside observer, and cannot fathom how someone could bear to raise a hand to a being so good, so precious. How so many could have laid eyes on Aylin and chosen to hurt. To kill. It is unthinkable.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and sit down across from her. You don't speak, merely offer your presence from a comfortable distance, and leave the rest up to her. After a long stretch of silence, she nudges the hamster and sends him scurrying on his way. Busies her left hand with tracing the golden line that runs from around her right ring finger down to her wrist.

"'Nightsong' they called me," she starts, quietly, not looking at you, then almost snarls. "A cruel jape at my expense - as if I were nothing but Shar's plaything. Her little instrument. Hers." Her hands clench into fists on the table, and you place your own upon them gently, touch feather-light, careful not to suggest restraints.

"A daughter for a daughter," her tone is almost wry, her voice low and gravelly. "Some sick arithmetic of loss concocted between her and Ketheric Thorm."

As Aylin speaks, your eyes land, again, on the scar that goes through her bottom lip, and the one that stops just at the right corner of her mouth. The ones you have felt in kisses, on your own skin. Reminders carved into her, as eternal as she is.

The mouth twists down into a grim arc. "They poisoned him, once. That was undoubtedly one of the worst."

Deaths, she doesn't say. You've known one, and Aylin's full tally is beyond counting. The leaden silence stretches between you again.

She shakes her head, movements heavy, and visibly pulls herself back into the present, as best as she can. "No, Isobel. It is of no use. I picture the destruction of my would-be captors that I wrought with my own hands, I spin a grand tapestry of my victory, and all of it is for nothing. Still I feel… hesitant. Tired. So unlike myself. The joy of righteous battle… diminished, if not gone altogether. Lost to me."

I am lost to myself, her entire countenance cries out, and your throat tightens painfully.

She is different, understandably so - well, understandable to you, perhaps. She is also understandably frustrated by this new ground to tread, unused to something that was never supposed to be her lot. 

"My darling," you begin, picking your words out one by one, so very carefully, running your thumb over her knuckles in a comforting rhythm, "time and experiences simply take their toll on us. We cannot expect to stay untouched forever - not even you. We are ever ourselves, of course, but - but made anew, different from moment to moment. There can be a joy to it, to the newness and discovery of it all."

You stop short of pointing out and praising change as one of the main teachings and virtues of Selûne herself. Your try for encouragement does not seem to hit its intended mark, anyway.

"But what if I find," Aylin grinds out through her teeth, "I do not like who I am at the moment? Who I seem to have become."

The darkness roils within your gut and the taste of rot creeps up your throat.

I don't know, my love. I don't know what to do. I don't know.

"What am I to do then?" She asks again, insistent, as frustrated as you are by the lack of a clear answer, chafing against it all. The lines of gold on her brow furrow in displeasure. "Is it my lot to wait for another nebulous change that I am to have no say in - a tenday, or a hundred years hence? Until when? Until Mother Selûne sees fit to--"

She cuts herself off in an attempt to stop her temper getting away from her, eyes squeezing shut, hands clenched into tight fists beneath your palms, breathing loud.

You imagine, sometimes: learning of her predicament and charging off to save her, Last Light be damned. Wonder if you could ever have done such a thing and lived with yourself afterwards - though you recoil at the very thought.

You imagine, then, taking a different turn in your erstwhile flight from the mausoleum. You imagine, instead of stumbling into a dilapidated inn and creating a haven there, reaching the Gauntlet and finding Aylin. Setting her free.

Dreams, nothing more. Flights of fancy. Shar would never have allowed you to reach her. Her prison was right there underneath you when you awoke, but she may as well have been thousands and thousands of miles away. And besides, the worst of the harm to Aylin had already been done. And you yourself readily accepted a different duty.

Still it churns in your mind, over and over, just as it clearly does in Aylin's: Why was there no one else to stop it all a century ago? Why was there no one to try for a hundred years?

Instead, there is this: whatever the two of you are now. Sitting across from each other, eyes locked on the interplay of your hands. There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave.

And there is the haunting, niggling thought that all your efforts are merely you trying to make her whole and hale enough again in order to be ready for your own inevitable second death. And oh, she seems to have borne it remarkably well the first time, all things considered - you feel strangely proud when you think of it. But things are different now, and so is your immortal paramour; this unfading, eternal, amaranthine being you've inadvertently burdened with the struggle of mortality.

What future is there in store for you? Some far-flung decade that you would have dreamed up once: you, ancient, and Aylin, glorious, untarnished by the wear of time and untouched by the world.

Except she isn't so above it all, is she?

In the end, you fear the one way forward for both of you is this: moment by treasured or agonising moment. Day by precious or miserable day. It will all only ever be what you two make of it - which, after all, is how it is for any couple in love, young or otherwise, isn't it? A charmingly ordinary thought that makes the corners of your lips want to perk up despite everything weighing you down.

"I think," you begin slowly, "the only thing we can truly do is live on. In the face of everything, in spite of everything, as best we know how." And then, just to drive your point home, you tighten your hold on her hands and her gaze both. "Together. And I want you to know that if you need me to, I am always prepared to simply listen."

For once you are so very certain you have the full measure of her great might and ability: whatever she may claim, Aylin cannot do this alone. Shouldn't need to, besides.

She has you. And you have always been a stubborn one, much to your father's chagrin.

Aylin heaves a deep, heavy sigh, wide shoulders straightening, visibly attempting to pull herself out of her gloomy reverie and reinforcing some internal bulwark. "With you by my side, dearest Isobel, how could I do anything but my utmost best?"

Your thoughts still stray, unwitting, in the direction of mortality and you try to refocus - no loss, only a temporary separation. No loss. You pray it is so. That this time, when the fateful moment inevitably comes, you will be granted the kindness.

In the meantime, you're not about to lie down and wait. You can think of a few less fateful moments you'd like to fill your days with, even as the threat of an unprecedented evil and the culmination of your efforts against the Absolute looms over you all.

"Aylin," you tug on her hand lightly, and she looks back up at you questioningly. "Let's go out - see more of the city, perhaps."

She seems confused, more than anything, but even this is enough to burst the last of the dour, heavy bubble that had begun to settle over the both of you. "My love…?" 

"A stroll by the docks, maybe? And then, well, not necessarily today, but…" You trail off, daydreams catching up with you. "Once the fight is done, and we have a moment to ourselves, we can take one of the boats downriver. The sea is a sight to behold, I hear, and lovely this time of year - and, well, I've yet to see it."

The river you've lived by your whole life, but the ships departing Moonrise always left without you. There is much to amend.

Aylin smiles - it is genuine, if still tinged with that uncharacteristic tiredness around the edges - then raises your hand to her lips. "Who am I to deny my darling such an easily fulfilled request?"

You allow yourself another mote of seriousness. "The day seems perfectly clear and warm, and I'd love to share it with you, Aylin. But if you would prefer not to, I understand."

She shakes her head, and holds the hand she has just kissed between both of hers, enveloping it so very tenderly. "I would be honoured, Isobel. You who cherish me, who hold me entire in your caring hands even when pieces of me grind against each other most inharmoniously. What greater prize in this world, but even an hour more spent in your company?"

You swallow against a sudden lump in your throat, stricken by the intensity of the feeling, the naked adoration in her eyes, still tinged with the impossible wonder of your reunion. All of your hours. However many remain. You would gladly give her all of them, as numbered as they are.

Aylin stands up and holds out her arm to you, the very picture of gallantry. "And perhaps - to drive away some of this malaise - a flight? My darling need not wait for a boat if she wishes to behold the sun set over the sea. I will show you the ocean that bathes Argentil in my Mother's light, one day. But for now, this one will have to suffice."

You rise and, instead of taking her arm, you step forward to embrace her and bury your nascent smile against the reassuring beat of her great and precious heart.

-

The rot within is more subdued than it ever has been, now that you are well and truly out of the shadow. Aylin's mere presence noticeably keeps it at bay - and that is one remedy you truly cannot find fault with. Her insistent, devoted applications of her own brand of healing and blessings help immensely, as well, each time she settles in behind you, enveloping you in her arms and wings and the soft silver glow that is just as pliant at her fingertips as you are in those moments. With her at your back, it feels impossible to doubt, impossible to feel unworthy or tarnished in any way. 

But when the last traces of even the most fervent of Aylin's efforts inevitably fade away, it is still there: the foul, unnameable thing. And you fear more and more that it always will be. It doesn't take being apart from her for very long for the cough to start up again, for the insidious cold to crawl relentlessly up your spine and all the way down to your fingertips, and the hitch to appear in your breath at the first sign of more significant strain.

There are more important things to devote your attention to, however.

-

You conclude your business with the Selûnite enclave with a promise to return with aid and with none other than the Moonmaiden's daughter herself. Emboldened by the warm reception despite their dire circumstances, you bask in the familiarity and sheer sense of belonging among people you've never met before, but who feel tied to you with the same silver threads that once twined around you and your family and your moonlight-bathed home, and wider still. 

A way to dull the ache of the keenly-felt absence, perhaps: weaving a new tapestry altogether.

After a prolonged farewell, you set out back towards the city and your companions, all under the still weak but enduring light of the sickle moon only starting to wax. The night is Your Lady's domain, just as much as it is Shar's. You refuse to let her claim go unchallenged, and you march forward confidently, a fistful of summoned silver flame to show the way.

It is early morning by the time you return, perfectly unaccosted and somewhat smug. The streets around the Elfsong are abuzz with everything the start of a new day entails, a veritable hive of purposeful activity.

Your rooms, however, seem to be more than that. The noises of a struggle reach you as you climb the stairs, concern furrowing your brow and driving you to rush, washing away any lingering effects of your sleepless night. But as you reach the door, you realise it doesn't sound like an attack: there is a familiar tangle of voices, none of which sound distressed, and there are… cheers?

"A well-fought and invigorating bout!"

The first words you make out as you carefully crack the door open are Aylin's - as if your very ears are attuned to her somehow, as if all of you is searching for her, always.

"Damn right you're invigorated, you slippery angelic fucker," Karlach's voice is next, unmistakeable, brimming with laughter and only slightly out of breath. 

You open the door fully and step inside, only to be faced with what is clearly an improvised arena taking up the majority of the sunken area around the large fireplace, an array of mismatched cushions on the floor carefully delineating a ring. The thick rugs and skins have been piled up in one corner, and Astarion is lounging atop them, trying his best to exude boredom.

The rest of the varyingly invested audience is scattered around the open communal area, Wyll and Minsc leaning against the balustrade eager for the best view, most others sitting in displaced chairs. Some of your companions are still enjoying breakfast, and some, like Shadowheart, are enjoying some breakfast wine. You step forward, eyebrows raised as you take it all in, and move to stand next to Shadowheart's perch on one of the massive hardwood two-seaters that someone took the time to move up here.

"D'ya know, never thought I'd get a chance to duke it out with a godchild. Nevermind fighting alongside one," Karlach is bouncing on the balls of her feet, shaking the strain out of her arms, and you see her flared-up flames slowly subsiding, heat visibly rippling just underneath her skin. "One more round, then? Tiebreaker?"

Aylin, pacing around the other side of the ring from her, turns to face her and inclines her head in a show of respect. But whatever reply she was going to give is cut short when your unannounced presence is finally noticed by her opponent.

"Or maybe not?" Karlach nods towards you, then winks, warm and playful. "Wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your fine little lady friend, after all." 

Aylin follows her gaze and the moment she sees you, she seems to grow a size larger, all aglow. She beams up at you from her place across from Karlach, the two of them obviously tousled and sweaty and still catching their breath. Judging by the way they are both dressed as if they've just rolled out of bed, this… athletic competition is what they've, for whatever reason, decided to start the day with. You give in to the laughter you feel bubbling up, decide not to question any of this, and sit down next to Shadowheart.

"Graced by the gaze of my darling Isobel, defeat becomes an impossibility," Aylin proclaims, and you give her a perfect little ladylike wave, as if dispensing a blessing.

Her wide grin is matched by Karlach's, and they step to face each other again. But Karlach suddenly stops and hastily gestures at a deathly serious Lae'zel who is moving forward to stand between them, one arm half-raised. The… referee of the proceedings?

"Oh, oh, oh. Shouldn't we wait for Isobel to give you a handkerchief or something?"

"There is no need," Aylin answers the teasing, a picture of serious earnestness, radiating confidence and pride, looking up to meet your gaze once more, one hand to her chest. "The truest token is my heart, given to her entire and for eternity, and her own to me."

"Gods, I love that woman," you murmur to yourself, and place a hand over your own heart to mirror her gesture. Shadowheart snorts next to you and you elbow her, not taking your eyes off Aylin.

There was a brief interlude, early in your courtship, where you both decided to try for ill-advised secrecy. Why or how this came about you can't even remember, but you do remember enough to look back and laugh at the sheer futility of it.

A thankfully short period when you thought it very lucky and convenient that your knightly paramour had wings, and your rooms a balcony. As if all of Reithwin didn't see her glow with irrepressible joy when going to see you, as if she didn't perch on your railing in full silver-blue plate. Your everything-but-secret lover is a radiant beacon, and your love was made to be basked in - it was really quite simple. 

Lae'zel huffs, signalling for the talk to cease and the bout to proceed. "Assume positions. Fight."

It is a delightful spectacle when they meet in a grapple, and you arch your eyebrow at Shadowheart's rapt gaze as she sits beside you, leaning ever forward, her cup threatening to slip out of her hand.

But a couple of singed floorboards later and a mess of feathers everywhere - really, far from the worst the poor apartment has seen - Jaheira storms in and forces the goings-on to a stop with a single command, ensuring the score will be forever unsettled. 

In the aftermath, as the ruckus and disappointment both subside, you do a quick once-over of the damage to mentally add to the proprietor's repair fund tally. The vampire spawn ambush the other night made sure at least one of the rooms of the suite was currently uninhabitable.

Scratch lopes over to you as you do the rounds, not seeming to mind the noise or the lively chaos at all. He knows very well, in that uncanny canine way, who is the most likely to spoil him rotten - and so you do, with very little prompting. Jaheira raises an eyebrow and smirks at you as you give your report to her, sitting on the floor without the slightest pause in the belly rub you are administering, half-occupied by thoughts of needing to find a decent brush for dog fur.

You recall how utterly terrified you were when Scratch approached you the first time you joined the camp - so convinced he was about to take one sniff of you and growl at the wrongness that you simply froze. Instead, he almost toppled you with the sheer enthusiasm of his welcome, tail wagging into a blur, licking your face the moment you crouched down to bury your hands in the warmth of his soft white fur. You laughed until you cried, some dam within you breaking utterly, and drove poor Aylin into a state of confused panic.

With one final good boy as you pat down the fur you've ruffled, you send Scratch on his merry way. Then you get up, only mildly reluctant, smooth down your robes, and pull your gloves back on. As you flex your fingers in the supple leather you try not to think about how the chill comes on so very quickly.

You go looking for Aylin, only to find her and Karlach in a tight embrace, almost clinging to each other, slapping each other's backs, laughing breathlessly with such abandon it makes your heart feel light as a feather and a smile bloom on your face, wide and unrestrainable.

But then you stop and duck behind a corner, because the laughter is turning into a conversation and you dare not risk an interruption. For days you have been trying to nudge Aylin back towards talking to the others, joining in, finding a kindred spirit, to little avail. Now, perhaps, she has managed on her own.

"Sort yourself out, yeah?" You catch Karlach's quiet words, brimming with shockingly kind concern, even as they are accompanied by a light fist to Aylin's shoulder. "And make sure you take care, despite, you know. Despite everything. For her. But for yourself, too."

The inclination of her head towards where you were sitting with Shadowheart mere minutes ago makes your breath hitch a bit, and you feel the burn of guilt for eavesdropping.

"Let's just say… I know the trap of going on like you've got all the time in the world. Fell into that one arse-over-teakettle one time too many. And, well. Here we are now. One very tight and busy schedule to live on."

"I wish I had aid to offer. I would beseech my Mother--"

"What, calling down divine intervention for little old me? Please. We'll figure something out, if it comes to that. Anyway, no time to waste, too much homecoming to enjoy, too many evil and-or tentacled skulls to crack, right?"

There is a smile in Karlach's voice as she stubbornly diverts away all concern for herself, and it makes your chest clench painfully. You feel suddenly overwhelmed with the worry you'll interrupt whatever this nascent and much needed thing between the two of them is, so you do your best to slink away unnoticed.

-

The enclave has one of the simplest yet loveliest shrines to Selûne you have seen. Outside of the bustle of the city and a little ways uphill, they've housed it in a small, plain-walled circular room in the midst of the enclave itself, its centre left open to the heavens. There are no seats or pews or even tiles on the floor, only soft grass carefully maintained to a perfect length, surrounding an unnaturally still pool. In the middle of it, as if hovering over the water, one arm outstretched in welcome towards the entrance, is a statue of the Goddess herself, wrought in white stone, pearl, and lapis lazuli. Almost miraculously, this place has survived all the attacks of the Absolutist forces untouched, and even served as a sanctuary for those unable to fight, for a little while.

As you make your way inside to enjoy some morning peace and offer up a brief prayer in calm, pleasant solitude, Shadowheart is the very last person you expect to find there. She is sitting, seemingly engrossed in calm meditation. Her newly silvery-white hair matches the mother-of-pearl inlaid in stone so perfectly you pause for a moment to appreciate the sight - for its beauty and for all it truly signifies.

"Hello, Shadowheart," you greet her almost cautiously, stopping a few steps behind her.

"Oh," she turns to face you, startled out of her contemplation - of the pool, or the statue, or nothing at all, you can't tell. "Hello. I-I wanted to see where it was you two'd run off to."

You tilt your head and spread your arms as if to envelop the entirety of the place. "Here we are. Though I'm afraid you just missed Aylin - she is taking some of the more martially inclined faithful out on a patrol."

Shadowheart nods, but still seems oddly distracted, or lost in thought, and turns away from you again. You let her set the pace of the conversation, let the silence be.

"I just thought…" She finally starts, tentative, as if feeling out the shape of the words before she speaks them. She doesn't look at you or face you, all of her attention on Selûne's still, carved visage. "I wanted to know if I'd… feel something new, or different."

"Do you?" You prompt simply, and move to sit beside your unexpected guest.

"Not really," she mumbles, head bowed, brow furrowed, seeming almost frustrated. "I- I don't know."

Silence blankets the small shrine again.

"I found them," Shadowheart says finally, voice carefully level. "My parents."

"That is… incredible news." But you keep your enthusiasm in check, because her face drops immediately.

"I barely got to talk to them. To know them at all, to remember them. It feels like I was introduced to them just enough to be pained by their loss. Their death. By my own hand. In exchange for a chance at being free from her."

Your heart falls at her words, and you shut your eyes and bow your head. You don't need to press for details - Shar's cruelty is something you are all too aware of.

After a moment, you reach between you and place a gentle hand over hers - where that telltale dark purple mark now seems to be fading, healing. Then, you start to muster up the words, voice kept quiet, level, and soft.

"I was a child when my mother passed. There are pictures, statues, but… it's been so long." You've never shared this with anyone, not even Aylin. "I feel oddly nervous, sometimes, that one day I'll make it to the Gates of the Moon and she'll be there, waiting for me, and I won't recognise her at first. Can you imagine? The… awkwardness? It's the silliest thing to think about, I feel, and yet I've fretted over it so many times." 

You try to laugh it off, weakly, wryly. Then you squeeze her hand in yours, and it makes your heart feel just that little bit lighter when she squeezes back.

"Grief is but a part of love, I think," you begin again, letting your gaze catch on the way the blades of grass bend beneath your joined hands, soft and pliable. "If I had to choose between suffering through inevitable sorrow or never truly feeling anything, only to be spared the pain - well, I'd like to think the choice is so obvious as to hardly be a choice at all. But I am aware - painfully so, in recent times - that it isn't such an easy choice to make for others."

It is something in which you and Aylin are entirely of one mind, and an agreement without which you are certain your relationship could never have blossomed: refusing love in order to avoid the pain of its loss is no way to live.

The void of Shar, the numbness and nothingness - that is true death.

"You will be reunited with them again, one day, if you so wish. Walk in silver gardens…" The precious words bubble up, as they have so frequently been doing of late. "There need be no loss, not truly, for us. Only a temporary separation."

Shadowheart doesn't say anything, but moves closer to you, and rests her head on your shoulder. You feel a small shudder run through her, and you know you would see tear stains gathering on your robe were you to look. But you do not. Instead, you rub your thumb against the back of her hand in gentle circles.  

You stay that way for a while; long enough for the sun to climb in the sky and shine down into the shrine, bringing the water of the pool to life in a rather lovely display. The gold rays reflect into silver, lining the entire sanctuary with intricate designs.

"May I?" You ask Shadowheart as you give her hand a gentle tug, the first words to disturb the peace of the moment. 

You twine your fingers through hers when she gives a curt nod, and then nudge as if to grasp at something in the air. Guiding the gestures, more than anything, and waiting for her to follow. As is only fit. 

At first, nothing. Then, silver threads weave themselves around both of your hands, winding in between your fingers. Coalescing, finally, into a bright point in Shadowheart's palm. She cups her hand around it, closes, grasps - then brings it down for the two of you to look at. 

A small silver half-moon attached to a fine chain lies in her hand.

"Well, look at that. A proper holy symbol." You smile your best encouraging smile at Shadowheart, whose brow is furrowed in mild confusion as she turns the little pendant around and around.

"What- what am I supposed to do with it?" She blurts out, finally.

You shrug. "Whatever you want." Then, still keeping your tone airy and light: "It's a gift. A keepsake. No strings attached, I'd like to point out, despite appearances - Our Lady just happens to be something of a weaver, you see."

"I… didn't really know that, even with all the endless preaching against her I sat through," Shadowheart replies, frown deepening. "I also don't really think she's, well…"

"My Lady, then," you acknowledge, indulging her. You remember your vow to yourself of treating her with patience and kindness. "And I've never known Her to give a gift and expect something in return. It is Hers to give, nothing else. Yours to use it, or not - that's entirely up to you. Like it is for all of us."

It is precisely the lightness of Her touch and the endless respect for mortal will that you would blame for what happened to your father, your home. To you and Aylin. And blame is far too strong and unfair a word, perhaps, and something about it all rings a bit hollow still where you feel it shouldn't - but you stifle a sigh and note it down for the future as something you need to contemplate and work through yourself. Include in a prayer or two, maybe.

But it is certainly not something you feel ready to discuss with Shadowheart just yet.

She gives a little snort-laugh, and you'd almost say you feel triumphant at the sound. "You sound just like Aylin."

You raise an eyebrow. "Well, far be it from me to claim it unlikely we'd rub off on each other, but my darling is rather unique, and so is her way of speaking. I wouldn't really compare myself--"

"No, no," Shadowheart is insistent now, and her grin is turning dangerous as - you do notice - she very pointedly turns the conversation to different topics. "I'm sure of it. Gods, you two are insufferable. And I'm not sure if you're worse together - pardon the expression - mooning over each other, or when someone's somehow managed to pry you apart for all of two minutes and you instead decide to yearn."

"We've well earned the right to be insufferable, I think," you snip back, cheekily. You quite like this Shadowheart, you find. A bite to her still, but not with the intent to truly harm. Merely… keep you on your toes, perhaps.

Shadowheart scoffs, but without even a hint of malice. Then, very softly, she admits: "Yes. You did."

She smirks again, as the two of you rise and make your way out into the unassumingly lovely day, Selûne's gaze escorting you out like a friendly hand on your backs. "Though you could perhaps work on some subtlety. Take it from a former… well… not-quite-Sharran. It's not always a bad thing, not wearing your heart on your sleeve."

"You know," you tap your chin with a single finger, as if pondering a difficult problem, "I'm not sure Aylin is capable of that."

"You doubt your glorious paladin's abilities? I am shocked, Isobel." Shadowheart places a hand against her chest in mock-horror, pausing in your walk down the gravel path winding in between hastily-erected but comfortable dwellings.

"I do not doubt. I know. And I know I would never ask her to even attempt to subdue herself so. Dame Aylin." The two of you giggle like schoolchildren, what had perhaps begun as forced levity turning entirely genuine.

Then, Shadowheart leans closer, conspiratory, and slightly wicked. "Oh, we've all heard Dame Aylin go on. 'The most precious treasure in the world is the noble heart in the chest of fair Isobel.'" Then, an almost innocuous nudge at your shoulder with hers. "'The most delectable feast in the world lies betwixt the thighs of sweet Isobel.'"

You rub your temples with one hand, your other arm busy sending a sharp little elbow in Shadowheart's direction as she almost skips away. Your face is heated, but not unpleasantly so. "Oh, Aylin. She is incorrigible."

"But you love it."

"Guilty," you let out a heavy sigh that melts into a laugh.

But then you turn towards seriousness again, and muster up something you've wanted to tell Shadowheart for a while but never quite got the chance to. 

"Thank you," you say, taking both her hands in yours and standing facing her, forcing herself to meet her eyes. "Thank you for bringing her back to me. I know it has cost you much."

"It's cost me everything," Shadowheart replies simply. "But it has brought me everything as well."

-

Sharran forces dare attack even here, in the shadow of your father's moonlit fortress, in the very heart of a famously devoted Selûnite region. Perhaps they heard, or tortured out of some poor soul, that their hated Moonwitch was sending an emissary.

But the emissary does not seem to be quite what they expected or prepared for.

You've heard of Dame Aylin's exploits, of some of the many glorious deeds to her name - well, to be quite honest, you've deliberately asked around for them and chased down all the tales, however ridiculous they seemed, with somewhat concerning single-mindedness. But none of them, not even the most outrageous exaggerations with all the force of poetic licence behind them, can compare to actually seeing her in the heat of battle.

It is certainly dangerous to be so distracted in the midst of a clearly planned and organised assault on your home, and it is especially egregious to keep looking up, chasing a vision as it flies somewhere high above all of you, soaring over the head of your father's statue gracing the centre of the embattled town square. But she is so utterly glorious and radiant and filled with unquestionable purpose in all that she does, and you are utterly beyond help.

"Selûne, Moonmother, in Your name!" The clear voice suddenly rings out from somewhere close by, drowning out the din of battle in your ears. You turn just in time to see a flash of silver light engulf one of the masked attackers, burnished black disks brazenly displayed on their armour, and, well, you are not the only one smitten.

But then - disaster. Three of Moonrise's most recently recruited silver-bedecked guards find themselves stumbling into a group of enemies that close a circle around them. You see one of them fall, gripped by inky-purple strands, before you can even start to intone a spell; another one loses his footing and opens himself up for a deadly blow.

Quick as lightning, Aylin rushes down and forward, pushing the stumbling guard fully out of the way. Instead of him, the cultist's scimitar finds purchase in her gut, sliding through a gap between armour-plates like butter, and another's obsidian-black axe bites into her shoulder.

The sound it makes, that Aylin makes, draws a shout from you. A bolt of moonlight dispatches the first cultist, rage and terror somehow making your aim uncanny, and you step forward to bathe the rest of his nearby comrades in deadly, burning radiance before he has even hit the ground.

After this, the battle is over as quickly as it had begun. The last of the attackers falls on her own blade rather than be captured and questioned, crying out some pitiful, ill-conceived mantra about secrets. 

You find you do not care: your world, for the moment, has sunk down to the breadth of one woman lying on the trampled ground in a distressingly rapidly growing pool of silver, the guards she saved hovering around her in a mix of awe and alarm.

They let you through without hesitation - you are a cleric, after all. A healer. But as you drop to your knees at her side and attempt to assess the damage, you can tell you are too late.

Your hands fly in well-practised movements all the same.

"Do not worry, fearsome, fair Isobel," Aylin manages, breathily, barely audible, around a mouthful of blood. Her hand makes a very weak attempt at a dismissive wave, or grabbing your wrist to stop your ministrations, you cannot quite tell. Her helmet and her wings are both already gone, and the silver burning in her gaze just moments ago is a weak flicker. "I--"

Her eyes flutter closed and she falls limp beneath your hands and you--

--do not have time to even begin to comprehend what has happened before she is gasping awake again, coughing and groaning, spitting up a clot, trying to sit up.

You gape for a moment, then help her in her efforts, lean her against your chest. The weight of the armour feels like it might crush you, but moving away feels unthinkable.

"No tears, no," she mumbles, half-coherently, as you strain to understand, as a gauntleted hand reaches up to brush against your cheek clumsily. "So mundane a blow cannot… truly fell… Dame Aylin."

It is one thing to be aware of it in theory. Another thing entirely to witness it. Immortal.

There is a crowd gathered around you by now, you register faintly. People crying out prayers of praise and thanks to the Moonmaiden, for Her infinite wisdom and Her endless gifts and the indomitable daughter-champion She has blessed you all with. You feel a tug in your chest, like you should be joining in; like you would be the one leading the prayer in ordinary circumstances. 

But you feel terribly far away from it all even as Aylin's breath grows more steady as she leans against you. You see her smile, still bloody, and understand only the most general sense of the reassuring platitudes she is whispering at you. 

You bring her to the House of Healing with the other wounded of the battle and insist rather possessively on treating her yourself. Only afterwards do you tear yourself away from her bedside to take full stock of damage and casualties while she sleeps it off. 

Your father rushes to embrace you tightly as soon as he catches sight of you from the House's grand entrance, and you let yourself cling to him for a moment. You do your best to assuage his worries, claim - lie - that you were in no real danger, insist on continuing to help here where you are most needed as he returns to his gubernatorial duties. And somehow, miraculously, he lets you go.

As you help the dutiful sisters with the worst of it, you finally manage to focus on murmuring your own prayer of thanks. It helps clear the long-clinging fog from your mind. And it helps, truly, that you count no deaths among Reithwin's faithful - the only fallen today are Shar's to claim if she deigns to do so.

Well - and then there's Aylin.

You go to check on her in the morning, after you've managed - been forced into, rather - a very brief nap. 

The glorious and apparently unconquerable Dame Aylin is awake, reclining against the headboard of the only occupied bed in that wing. You don't recall requesting she receive any special treatment, and she doesn't look too pleased with being singled out as if in a place of honour - in fact, she mostly looks bored. She is frowning down at herself, plucking at loose threads hanging off of the bandages that cover most of her shoulder, chest, and abdomen - your own handiwork.

You step into the room and set down the basin of fresh water and an assortment of healing supplies with a deliberately loud clatter, jarring her out of her reverie. The moment she sees you, an expression of blatant joy dawns on her face. You try very hard not to read too much into it.

Instead, you make very standard proper-bedside-manner-dictated small talk as you peel away the gauze. The wounds are mostly healed, as you would expect from your application of any and all magic you had remaining that night, but there is a small line of gold running down towards her left side, where the blade bit in and through, and another one cupping across her shoulder. Oddly beautiful for what is presumably a scar - and highlighting the marvellous build of a finely muscled torso, pipes up a segment of your mind that has no place around a sickbed.

You wrench yourself back into professionalism and lightly press down with your fingers, following the shining gold, the freshly knit-together skin, still reddened and bruised in places. "Do you feel any pain when I do this?"

"None at all," Aylin answers resolutely, entirely back to her old self. But then- "Ah," she winces as you find a particularly sore spot, expression wry, "it would appear I spoke too soon." 

You trace back up, murmuring incantations, letting the cool, healing relief flow from your fingertips.

The way she is unphased by all of this seems… uncanny. In fact, she shows more concern for you, completely untouched by the battle, than for herself. It is oddly and slightly frighteningly flattering, in retrospect, that she used her dying breath - well, this particular dying breath - to reassure you. 

And it all makes much more sense now, as things slot into place. The recklessness of her fighting style, of her whole manner. The way she shrugged off blows and rushed ever forward, where the battle was thickest and fiercest.

But now you've seen she is immortal, yes, but not invulnerable, however much she might like to act like she is both. And if she pulls herself out from literal death, no matter the scope of the wounds, she does not seem to magically heal much past that - the evidence is before you now. You can already picture her merely patching herself up with her own healing magic in the middle of the fray, as if in passing, just enough to enable her to storm on. All while her enemies gape and turn tail when they realise the futility of standing against her.

"I only hope you did not worry overmuch, Lady Isobel. It is in my nature, inextricable from my being. I cannot fall, not truly. But I keep the reminders, sometimes - wrought in gold."

Then she very cordially points out a few more, as if to indulge you. Some bigger, some smaller, some thin lines, barely there, some wide and jagged. But all of them bright gold seams, seamlessly integrated into her skin.

"Why not silver?" You blurt out, then feel your face burn with embarrassment. And then a mild but growing horror as you think back to the silver staining your hands and robes as you knelt on the damp cobblestones. This is in turn chased away by an odd warmth as you recall how she murmured your name and reached for your face. 

Aylin, however, guffaws joyfully, stopped short only by a sudden wince as she pulls something still tender.

"Would you believe, I do not know? It is simply how I am, how I have always been. Perhaps I shall ask my Mother to elucidate, when next we commune." Then she beams at you. "What a joy and pleasure you have proven to be, Lady Isobel. To make me consider things about myself I have never had cause nor inclination to before. A rare treasure."

You blame your lack of sleep on the ease with which she is managing to fluster you without even seeming to consciously try, so you do your best to keep your response polite and nothing more. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Dame Aylin. All of Reithwin treasures your presence and is grateful for it, especially after tonight."

She looks up at you and you meet her gaze, pausing in your ministrations. She looks disappointed, if anything, and the disappointment is shared - those are not the words you truly wish to say to her. And you cannot quite explain to yourself why you feel like a sudden distance has sprung up between you, after months of a beautifully built-up rapport, laid on the foundations of those first few shared star-struck gazes. Why this one out of all the many reminders of her divine nature has shaken you so.

As you continue reapplying bandages and keep distractedly checking in with her about the tightness, she catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. "My wounds are a distant memory, for they are being tended by fair Isobel--"

There is a naked determination writ all over her face now. It brings to mind her battlefield bearing, more than anything else, but her eyes are wide and soft and almost pleading.

"Truly, I am in the best of hands." A kiss again, and she lets the hand go. It is a perfectly polite and courteous gesture. Nothing… scandalous. But there is a clear ardour to it you did not acknowledge before. Calling attention to a line you have not yet crossed, but that you have both, perhaps, been toeing for a while.

Then she moves to sit up fully, even through visible winces, and shrugs off the steadying hand you place on her shoulder.

"You are the worst patient I have ever had," you state dramatically, laughing. She merely cocks her head in response, so very winning and charming even when still covered in blood, dirt, and partially unravelled bandages. "I will go get some more fresh water so you can clean up - though we've already ruined these sheets, I fear."

But you do not move, despite your words. Your eyes have not left hers in what seems like hours, but can't have been more than a minute. There is a blatant yearning there that you know is reflected in your gaze, that you have both become utterly incapable of hiding.

"I would ask, greedily, another boon of my most gracious healer," she murmurs.

"Oh?" You lean closer, ostensibly to hear her quiet words better. "Why, Dame Aylin, after your valiant performance tonight, I might just grant it."

You are almost nose to nose when Aylin speaks up again, her throat visibly working, her entire impressive self working up the courage to leap the distance - and you find you very much want her to.

"A kiss, then. To drink but once from the lips of the incomparable Lady Isobel Thorm would soothe all that ails me, seal all my wounds."

You watched this woman take an axe to the shoulder and a sword through the belly, and only now does she sound hesitant. Nervous. Afraid, even. The smallest of trembles in that rich, regal voice.

"If… if I have misread, if I have misinterpreted your intentions, I beg your forgiveness with all possible contrition…"

Your reply is wordless as you surge forward, boon happily granted. The first of many to come.

-

You trained to be a cleric. Uniquely gifted and blessed from a young age, you excelled.

You prepared to travel and adventure, to right wrongs and heal hurts and bring the Lady of Silver's light to all that might find themselves in need of it, your glorious paladin at your side. That, you never got to do, all your life and promise snatched away from you.

After your reawakening, you were chosen, in one way or another, to be a protector, and protect you did.

But now you find yourself cast in the role of a battlefield medic in a city under siege. Nothing could have prepared you for the sights, the sounds, the smells. Not even the shadow curse's foul grip on your home.

You drain every drop of light and magic from yourself every day. And every day you reach within and wring out just a little more, fervent prayers on your lips, bloodied and worn hands knitting together injuries, conjuring up food and water for starving refugees, calming the fog of violence and war in wounded minds. Shielding and protecting from stray arcane bolts and fending off freshly-turned mind flayers, too.

Every day, Aylin takes to the skies, to the walls, to the Upper City, to wherever she is needed, wherever the battle is raging most hotly.

And every night she returns to you and holds you and whisper-pours devotion into your ear until you finally still in the few hours of sleep you are granted.

And then you wake and do it all over again. 

The task of steadfast faith, you called it once. It is not nearly as long as your vigil in Last Light, but the few days since the escalation of the tremors beneath the city into an all-out attack are the most draining of your life.

Still you refuse the very thought of stopping. Selûne burned herself to give the world the sun, after all, and did not complain of the pain. Whatever you have left of your own self is the least you can give.

You are fighting alongside a cornered group of Harpers and a few fellow Selûnites from the enclave when it all reaches an explosive finale. The brain-shaped monstrosity topples out of the sky and into the Chionthar for everyone to see, turning its tightly controlled forces on the ground all throughout the city into little more than a confused, easily routed mob.

Aylin alights on the mind flayer that is clutching at its bulbous head and cowering before you just as you are about to finish it off with a well-aimed bolt of moonlight, ending its misery with great finality. 

She is covered in gore and soot and far too many gruesomely varied kinds of muck. The feathers of her wings are ruffled and scrambled and some of them even broken, and a telltale imprint of a tentacle lash runs from her jaw down across her neck. But she is gloriously triumphant and resplendent even so, and you do not mind it one bit when she picks you up in a crushing embrace, spins the two of you around with a great, bellowing, utterly victorious laugh you feared you would never get to hear again, then kisses your cheeks and your brow and your lips until you are both breathless.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #what's that you say knight/lady flavoured nonsense oh don't mind if i do #if isobel thorm has one fan it's me if she has no fans i've died or something... how does that spiel go