Chapter Text
"No, no, first the rotation, then the spin," I explain for the umpteenth time, trying not to lose my cool. This would be so much easier if I could demonstrate this to my students, but being in a wheelchair doesn't exactly lend itself to showing off a dance routine.
Well, at least not one involving actual steps.
Now that the Szarr trials are finally over, the Baldur's Mouth has stopped pestering me for an interview, and I'm no longer getting gawked at by passerby whenever I'm out in the city, I agreed to become a substitute teacher at Alfira's new Bard College. Just until she can afford someone else who is qualified for the task.
After the damage the Wish spell did to my body, I'm slowly learning how to walk again, still mostly using a wheelchair with the occasional few walks using crutches. Well, thankfully, I can still access the weave, though Gale told me I may never be able to cast another Wish spell.
Not that I'd want to.
While I still would do it all again—curing the 7000 spawn of their vampirism, making them mortal once more—I have no desire to go through those kinds of repercussions ever again.
With that being said, I may not be the best dance teacher Alfira could've had—especially since I can't even dance myself at the moment—but I'm the only one available who doesn't ask for an ungodly amount of coin to do the job.
So my students will have to make do with my instructions and the sketches Vincent drew for me to show in the classroom.
I point to figures eight and nine on the chart. "You twist your upper body first and then follow with the legs, once you're already in the air. You move like connecting waves through the ocean. Not a sudden hurricane."
"I don't get it, teach," my student frowns, the corners of his mouth dropping.
I smile lightly. "You will," I promise him and grab the Ring of Minor Illusion I bought from Rolan at Sorcerous Sundries.
A quick twist makes a copy of me appear. Though only very rudimentary, an illusion of light, looking more like a specter than anything else, it's enough to demonstrate the dance move I'm trying to explain.
Sometimes the drawings just don't cut it after all, I think to myself as my students nod and attempt to repeat the motion.
"Very good!" I praise, turning when there's a knock on the doorframe to the dance studio. I mostly leave it open to let some air in, since we can't open the windows in these colder months.
I see Alfira there, smiling and giving me a little wave.
"Continue as you have for five minutes, then you can start cooldown and stretching," I tell my students, wheeling over to her.
"Alfie, something wrong?" I ask. She usually doesn't interrupt a lesson unless it's important.
"Astarion is here. He wants to pick you up for a construction site viewing," she explains. "I can take over for you here."
"Construction site?" I tilt my head in confusion. "Why would I need to view a construction site?"
"Because it's Szarr palace," Alfira answers, her voice dipping low with a frown. "Well, what's left of it anyway."
Ah, that explains it.
I don't answer right away, my mind briefly wandering to the day two weeks ago when the council finally decided to demolish the place. Tear down this den of debauchery and stage of corruption. To finally free the city of one of its most prominent reminders of the crimes committed within the upper echelon of Baldur's Gate. Before that, it had been ransacked, everything that seemed worth anything taken, windows smashed in anger, curtains ripped from their hangers.
It appears that, after no one claimed ownership of the palace, people saw it as an invitation to vent their anger about many things. The trials did stir the pot quite a lot, and tempers still run hot, animosities and suspicions between Upper and Lower City running rampant.
The council must've made a decision on what to do with the big empty place in the middle of the city, and resolved to ask the only people still around who were once forced to call it home.
"I see," I finally answer her. "Thank you, Alfie."
"He's waiting for you by the stairs," Alfira nods toward the staircase, and I smile, briefly squeezing her hand before turning back to my students.
"Something's come up, be good for Miss Alfira, yeah?"
"Sure thing, teach!" they echo back, and then I wheel off to meet Astarion, get this dreadful meeting over with.
"Sorry to pull you out of class, my love," I greet Rolim with a kiss before picking him up and carrying him downstairs.
"It's alright," he answers, breathing in my scent. "I'm just glad they've finally decided on what to do with the place."
I set him down on a nearby chair, then quickly go back up to grab Rolim's wheelchair.
All in all, we've managed to work around his disability quite well, but even so, we still have hope that he'll gradually get better. The physician Rolim's been working with certainly seems to think so. Just the other day, he'd said that the fact he's able to stand and even walk for short bursts at a time using crutches is a promising sign.
Dancing however…
I shake off the thought. That's something to worry about later, after he can walk properly again. We agreed to take this step by step, and honestly, most days I'm just glad he's still alive.
"So?" he asks as I hold onto the wheelchair while he pushes himself up and then sits down in it so we can go. "What have they decided?"
"Nothing solid as of yet, but they have someone interested in buying the property," I answer as I push him out the door.
"They have?" he looks up at me over his shoulder. "What are they going to do with the money?"
"I strongly suggested they use it to rebuild the Lower City," I answer. "They're going to need all the funds they can get."
It's something I might not have considered, had my life taken the path my father always dreamed up for me. I'd have been blind to the needs of those people like Kerquis deemed below them, but thankfully, that's not how it went.
I never forgot that one talk I had with Vincent centuries ago; his bitterness and that of others I spoke to afterward made their suffering and the injustice of it all quite visible to me.
I wasn't able to do much about it while still working at court, other than hand down milder sentences than most, but now that I'm on the council, I can actively advocate for these people.
"And who wants to buy it?" Rolim's voice draws me out of my quiet musings as we continue our way through the winding streets of the Lower City to get to the hole in the wall that marks where Szarr Palace had once stood and lorded over the landscape.
"Hah," I grin. "You're going to love this," I pause for dramatic effect, "A congregation of Lathander wants to build a monastery there."
"What?" Rolim turns his upper body, staring up at me with a mixture of emotions hunting each other across his mien—none of them staying long enough for me to identify them.
"Do you think they know?" he asks in a hushed whisper.
While I have since reiterated the true prophecy, as Aylin told it to me, to the twins, neither of them has yet made a decision on whether they want to be visible figures and involved in the Morninglord's church. But word gets around, especially that of seven thousand vampire spawn suddenly being brought back to life.
It was only a matter of time before someone from the church who knew about the prophecy came looking.
"I don't think they know it's you and Vincent," I try to calm him. "But I do think that they'll ask questions."
"Gods, I—" he sighs, turning back to the front again as we make our way past shops and parks. "I don't know how to feel about this whole prophecy business yet, and Vincent?" he frowns. "He still thinks he's unworthy of even being in it."
"We don't have to tell them anything," I answer. "You know that only a select handful of people know about the Ring of Wish Withers gifted you, to the rest of Baldur's Gate, the seven thousand coming back alive, and your injury are completely unrelated."
"Right," he breathes out, "you're right."
"Who knows," I smile, giving a soft shrug, "maybe the 'bringing about new rites' part of it is that you guys don't act as prophets at all."
"That'd be something unheard of for sure," Rolim snickers.
"Yes," I agree with a chuckle. "In all honesty," I continue. "Whatever you wish to do, I'll support you."
"I know," he says, turning back to me again and reaching up, placing his hand above mine where it lies on the handles of his wheelchair. "And I love you for that, maban nín."
"I love you too," I smile, briefly stopping and leaning down to press a fleeting kiss upon his lips. We're still taking things slow in the intimacy department, and I'm leaving our pace wholly up to Rolim.
He often tells me to seek pleasure elsewhere if I ever feel deprived of it, but it's not like I've been living promiscuously before meeting him. Sure, there have been flings here and there, relationships too, but on the flipside, there have also been times when I haven't felt like I needed company in that way, and so I'm more than willing to wait for him.
As an elf, I have that time, even if it takes a decade or two.
The thought brings along another, and my heart squeezes in melancholy. Rolim is a half-elf, and with the Ring of Wish gone, he will remain with a half-elven lifespan of around 150 years.
Which means I have about a century left with him, and I'm determined to make every day count.
"How about we go have dinner after this? Go someplace nice?" I ask.
"Sure," he agrees. "I could go for a nice little impromptu date."
"It's a deal then," I grin, and we continue our way toward the ruins of Szarr Palace.
The demolition of the place hadn't been done with explosives, though many people would've liked to see that—myself included—but instead, the council had made the sensible decision to use whatever building blocks were usable for repairs around the city.
That way, many broken buildings were able to get fixed without having to wait months for the masonry to complete order after order.
The rest of the foundation had been blown up in a series of small, controlled explosions, destroying the dreaded tourmaline depths.
Then the remaining hole had been filled with debris and earth until it was once again stable ground on which to build. But the site still looks like a gaping wound in the city's landscape.
Building a monastery here, connecting the Upper and Lower City, definitely has its merits. But whether or not the congregation is thinking the same, we'll have to see.
My mother always said that many people lose sight of what truly matters and only help those who can pay for their aid, so I'm hoping they won't just pocket the riches the Upper City will undoubtedly donate but instead spend them helping Lower City folk.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself again, and so I snap myself out of my thoughts and instead look ahead at the group. I spot Wyll's father—Duke Ravengard—first, his tall frame and distinct looks quite recognizable.
Next to him stands an older human man in gleaming gold plate armor, his red hair streaked with white. A half-elf with golden-brown hair and similar in stature stands next to him, wearing the same armor, but without the elaborate cloak, signifying a difference in their status within the church.
Two women are also there, wearing civilian clothing, one a half-elf, the other a full elf. Both of them have dark hair, their backs turned to me, though one of them—the elven woman—is beginning to turn grey as well.
There's an odd sense of familiarity to her, but I can't put my finger on it just yet.
When Ravengard spots us, he smiles and waves us closer.
"Dawnmaster Runno," he begins, gesturing toward us. "This is Magistrate Ancunín, he's on the council with me, and this is Rolim Cordwainer—"
I don't hear the rest of what is said, because just then—
The women turn around to meet us and—
My whole world screeches to a halt.
We stand before the grave as the pallbearers lower Mama's coffin into the ground. Papa's face is streaked with tears, deep furrows carving permanent paths into his skin as he holds our hands.
Vincent is sobbing loudly next to him, while I sniff quietly, squeezing his hand just a bit tighter.
"Why are they putting Mama into the earth?" I ask as Vincent hugs Papa, burying his face in his tunic in an attempt to find comfort.
"Because your Mama has moved on into Lathander's embrace," Papa explains with a tight throat. He's stopped crying, wants to be strong for us now.
All we have left now is each other.
"But Mama always wanted to dance on the wind." My voice gets louder with every word, until I'm almost screaming, tugging on Papa's hand. "They can't bury her! It's dark down there, and Mama hates the dark!"
Vincent's sobbing picks up.
"It is custom, dearest," Papa presses out between gritted teeth. "Please, Ryllae," he pleads with me.
"You didn't even fight the shadows around her room!" I accuse him with angry eyes—Mama's eyes. My hair, my eyes, I've always been so proud of looking just like Mama.
"Sweetheart, you dreamed those shadows up. They were nightmares you had during your Mama's sickness," he tries to explain.
"No!" I scream again, finally ripping my hand out of his hold. "No, no, no! They were real! They poisoned her! I saw it!"
"Ry, you're scaring me!" Vincent cries out, and it is only then that I stop cold in my tracks, staring at my twin, my baby brother.
What if Papa's right? What if they really were just dreams?
I frown and come back to their side, hugging Vincent and whispering softly in that mixture of Elvish, Common, and Chuchian that we'd declared our own little code language.
"Sorry for shouting," I apologize, but I can't bring myself to look back at the grave again. "But I know she wouldn't want to be in there, in the darkness, all alone. I just know it."
Papa frowns but nods, stroking through my raven hair. "She's not alone, dearest," he calms me. "Her soul moved on. She's with the Morninglord now."
I don't fully know what it means, but I can see that speaking the words brings comfort to our father.
And so, I leave it be.
For two centuries, I'd forgotten about the shadows, and then, when I nearly died to the Wish Spell, and Father told me that Mother is still alive, I still hadn't remembered.
But now? Now it all comes rushing back.
The malicious little whispers I heard, my ten-year-old mind not yet understanding what it all meant, the wooshing of skirts, the way mother always got weaker after the doctor had been with her.
No one had believed me, no one had seen the pattern. Father had trusted the doctor when he said there was nothing much he could do about our mother's mystery sickness.
Belladonna must've bribed him, or he'd been a Sharran who jumped at the chance of messing with an enemy of his goddess.
Because there she stands.
She's older now, her face no longer the youthful woman I remember, but weathered with age and a life well lived.
And in this moment, I'm ten years old again, holding my father's hand as the coffin disappears into the earth on a grey winter morning.
My voice breaks when I utter but one word—the only word that matters right now.
"Mama."
Written by a human in Ellipsus.