Chapter Text
The breeze off the Chionthar stings your cheeks. It's not cold by any means, but after near a month in Avernus it seems your body has acclimatised to the infernal heat more than you realise. The world feels so open and light, the oppressing heat lifted from you, letting you breath and move in a way you hadn't known you've been lacking. Exactly how long you will get to enjoy this relative freedom is something you chose not to discuss with Raphael. Do a good job and maybe he'll be inclined to let out more of your leash.
You sit back against a vacant mooring post and watch people bustle about their business on the wharf of Gray Harbour. If not for the scaffolding and construction in the streets it would be easy to think the battle with the Absolute never happened. There was one oddity to be found and you look at it right now. Out on the river float massive pontoons, the skeletal structures of dredging machinery atop them and working away. Their construction might well be the only reason Raphael decided to allow you a measure of freedom. Someone is looking for the Crown of Karsus. Of course the official reason given to the public is very different. Everyone you spoke to on the docks repeats some variation of the dredging being an effort to clean up the Chionthar and quell any fear of illithid contamination in the water.
Sitting here, quietly watching the comings and goings, the odd wisps of fishermen singing when the breeze caught their voices. You slowly begin to realise how disconnected you feel from it all. Any hope you've held onto during the long journey to get your old life back, gone. It isn't the contract you signed, not wholly. You feel changed on so many levels, your worldview skewed in a way you are still trying to comprehend. The thought of going back to being the carefree bard you once were feels like someone else's life. You could try and force it. The offer letters were there from wealthy patriars, ridiculously lucrative offers too. You were one of the Saviours of the Gate after all, and in their eyes it means your name carries weight. Mixed amongst those letters were ones of a more intimate nature, love poems right up to actual marriage proposals. Each as hollow and self-serving as the next. You really should throw them all on the fire once you return to the tavern.
A month in Avernus. A guest, not prisoner, in Raphael's House of Hope. A distinction he made clear to point out from the start. What you expected to happen as punishment for your failure, never did. For whatever reason, Raphael seemed content to let you roam as you pleased within his House. Though he painted a very vivid picture of what would happen if you chose to foolishly attempt using any of the portals in the Chamber of Egrees. Control through instilling fear rather than using chains? Maybe. But neither were you above playing the polite house guest to lull him into a false sense of security. At times it felt like the two of you had found a mutual balance, though you would never be fool enough to call, or mistake it for, trust. And if there had ever been any danger of you developing a notion of misguided sympathy for the devil, it'd been thoroughly scrubbed from your mind the fist time you wandered the House. It was the sobering reminder you needed of just who you were dealing with. Had that knowledge stopped you from sharing his bed each night? No. Had it stopped you from engaging in acts of debauchery with him and his incubus? Absolutely not. At times you felt like your own worst enemy.
Being here, back in Baldur's Gate, away from the devil and his influence, it's what you need. A chance to scrub your mind clean and find out who it is you are in the wake of everything that happened. And maybe, just maybe, you can find a way out of this mess. But you know you can't do it alone.
“Balduran's Bones, it's actually you!”
You startle out of your thoughts and turn at Wyll's astonished voice. He's standing further down the wharf, flanked by three members of the Flaming Fist. Gone is the careworn attire from your journey together, now he wears the finery of a Grand Duke. All be it one who has postponed his swearing in until the city has recovered. When he takes a step away from his retinue, one of the Fists protest and is quietly placated. None of them look happy as Wyll strides towards you.
“I saw you leave the party. To get some air, we all thought, you seemed so overwhelmed by it all. But you never came back in,” he says once he's close enough not to be overheard. “The courtyard stank of sulphur. That damned devil came for you, didn't he?”
There's little point in denying it. Despite almost scrubbing your skin raw, you know you still carry the stink of the Hells on you. With anyone else you might be able to talk around it, just not with an ex-warlock. “He did.” You look away from him and back out over the water.
Wyll follows your gaze. “A month in Avernus, after failing to deliver the Crown,” he says, giving a slight shake of his head. “I'm surprised you're sane, alive even. Don't get me wrong, it's good to see you, but....”
“Auspicious timing,” you finish for him, lips twisting downwards. It's exactly how it seems.
“It is,” he sighs, gaze narrowing. “What were you even thinking back then? You honestly didn't believe you could out-play him, did you?”
This is his first question? To rehash an old argument? Maybe he just needs to work it out of his system and maybe it's past time you were honest about a few things. “I didn't think I'd have to out-play him. If anything had become glaringly obvious, it was we weren't powerful enough to stop the Netherbrain. One of us would have to evolve, become illithid. I never counted on Orpheus offering.” It feels a weak excuse to hear it aloud.
“You could have stopped him,” Wyll voices the obvious rebuke.
“Could?” You laugh a little. “I doubt he would have listened or trusted us with the task.” But you didn't know that for sure, and the truth was so much more muddy than that. The palpable relief you felt at his offer, the selfish fear of not wanting to lose yourself to the parasite. Not wanting to die. Of talking yourself into the delusion of placating a devil. Wyll didn't need to know the sordid details.
He shakes his head and you can tell he's working himself up into a lecture. “You didn't even try. I can understand wanting to live, but what you promised Raphael goes so far beyond that, has dire consequences for every living creature. I'm aware he said he'd never use the Crown to dominate a mortal mind, but that's only because he wouldn't need to. If he ever managed to unite the Hells and end the Blood War, it would be a cataclysm of blood and fire for all other planes.”
“You think I'm here to blindly make good on the contract I signed, that I'm oblivious to what it would mean? You really think that poorly of me?” The anger stirs faster than you can dampen it back down. “I'm trying to buy time, I want to find a way out of this damn mess. I don't expect anyone's sympathy, but I thought you might understand the situation better. I guess it was lucky for you I was too naive to kick you out of camp the first time Mizora showed up.” You push away from the mooring post and turn to leave, you're too angry, too caught up in your own web.
“Wait.” He takes hold of your arm to stop you.
You slide a glance in the direction of the Fists, but they've made no move towards either of you. “I'm not here to make things difficult for you, and I accept this is my own fault. I'm asking for help, advice, or just a friend.”
Wyll lets go of your arm. “I don't know if there's any help I can give, there's a world of difference between Mizora and Raphael. The tug-of-war thrilled her, playing and twisting, clauses always open to a new interpretation depending on her whims. Raphael isn't like that. You take the deal, or you don't. He doesn't care. It's why I was so surprised to see you.” He gestures to the dredging cranes. “The Crown is out there, free from the Chosen and the Netherbrain. He doesn't need you to deliver it to him anymore, he can simply take it and claim your soul. But he hasn't. Doesn't that make you nervous?”
You take a breath, rubbing at your arms. “Maybe he doesn't want to rob himself of the satisfaction of seeing me hand it over as agreed. Devil's are all about power, over people, situations.”
“It could be that simple, but if it's advice you're really after, I wouldn't bet on it. On the surface, Astarion's deal with him seemed straight forward, it wasn't though, was it? All the variables, all the half-truths. How badly it could have gone if we hadn't stood with him.” He shifts his stance, frowning. “This isn't going to be easy, might not even be possible. You're staying at the Elfsong?”
“Yes.” All the other rooms used by your friends had changed occupants numerous times over during your absence. Rented out with the blurb of sleeping in the same bed as the Saviours of the Gate. “Everyone left?”
“Everyone except Gale. He's been holdup in Lorroakan's old tower, research, he says.” The way his gaze hardens makes it clear he's not entirely sure if he believes it. “I'm worried he still has designs on using the Crown for his own gain.”
You keep your sigh internal. Of course he did. “I'll go and talk to him. Though if he really has gone back on what he said, I expect his reaction to my return to be frostier than this one.” You know you land the blow by the way his cheek gives the slightest twitch. Good.
“You shame me and it's justified,” he admits. “During our adventure you helped each of us, even when there were times we gave you very little reason to trust us. You set it aside, made time. I lost count of all those others you helped along the way, whether it be a song to lift spirits or literally putting your life in mortal peril. One bad decision made under duress shouldn't wipe all of that out.” Wyll turns towards you, back straight, his hand held out to you in offering. “If you want it, I'll see rooms made up for you at Wyrm's Rock. We can discuss the situation in far more private surroundings.”
And your closeness would make it easier for him to keep an eye on you, no doubt. When did I become such a cynic? “I have to see to a few matters at the tavern first, I promised to sing for my supper and board. Do you have time to meet late tomorrow afternoon? It'll give me time to try and see Gale first.”
His expression turns earnest. “I'm making the time.”
“Thank you, Wyll.” You take his hand and shake it firmly.
~~*-*~~
You choose not to head back to the Elfsong straight away, opting instead for a winding tour of the Lower City. Partly out of curiosity to see what has changed and partly to see if Wyll would send any of his Fist to keep an eye on your wanderings. He may have agreed to help in principle, but that does not equal blind trust.
As the sun begins to dip behind the tallest buildings, you take a seat outside a cafe and order tea along with a sweet pastry. The simple mundanity of it is a wonder, a balm that is much needed. Exercising the full freedom to choose without worrying about the influence of the worm in your head, or the devil at your shoulder. You listen to the conversations drifting over from the other tables as you sip your tea, slowly teasing flaky pastry apart and savouring its sweetness.
Some of the conversations are about the reconstruction, arguments between masons over the merits of exact restoration verses a more modernist approach. Other conversations are the trivialities of everyday life that help you to feel more grounded in your surroundings. Not once do you hear the word Absolute or anything attached to it. It's only natural people want to forget. You wished you could. The stray pitying thought makes your stomach churn and you push the remainder of the pastry away. It won't ever be over for you, not even in death. And the blame fell squarely in your own lap.
Tossing a few coins onto the table you up and leave. There are a few hours yet before you need to don your performers mask and play to the crowds in the Elfsong. Maybe it would help to improve your mood, remind you of the way life used to be. Carefree and hedonistic, rolling from one party to the next. Maybe you'll take a sweet one to your bed tonight, something simple and soft and meaningless.
You tell yourself the twinge of guilt your desires bring is irrational. There's nothing meaningful between Raphael and you beyond lust and an illusion of control. Another poor decision you deluded yourself into believing you wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of. He certainly has no compunction against sharing you with Haarlep that's for damn sure. Though why he continued to seek your company after that first tumble in Sharess' Caress still baffled you to an undue degree. Especially in light of the things Haarlep had whispered in your ear. True, the incubus was chaotic by nature and probably wanted to see where their stirring would lead.
One revelation you still weren't sure you grabbed the full magnitude of was about Raphael's lineage, who his father is. The Arcdevil Mephistopheles, Lord of Cania, the eighth circle of Hell. According to Korrilla, cambions were usually outliers within the hierarchy of Baator, not all that powerful and with no prospects of promotion, or demotion. They could be useful when dealing with mortals, their half-human heritage making them adept at understanding and manipulating their emotions. Mephistopheles being Raphael's father changed everything, like any child born into privilege you supposed. Far more powerful, allowed to carve his own territory within Avernus. You've seen the Soul Pillars singing their laments to the damned, the power he is slowly amassing. All of that on top of being handsome, charismatic and darkly alluring. Him having the nerve to call you temptation incarnate felt like projection.
The more your thoughts wander with nothing to distract them, the more you hear Wyll's words. His belief that you might be well and truly damned. All you've managed to accomplish is swapping the countdown of the tadpole for a set of barbed chains hooked into your soul and ready to sunder it.
The trap of self-pity is laid out before you, all you need do is fall into it. Drink and other chemicals would numb the dread. At least until you hear the ring of small bells, steady and measured, before the devil took his due.
You pause at the door of the Elfsong, resting your hands on the carved wood. You've surmounted impossible odds before, but you had your friends at your side. Now they are gone or in direct opposition to you. Change, impermanence, it's nothing new. Your life as a bard is one of revolving acquaintances, never settling anywhere for long, no meaningful attachments. All you have to do is make it to the next set of doors. Schooling your manner and finding the smile, you push open the door. One bottle of wine wasn't going to hurt.