Chapter Text
You slowly blink your eyes open, stretching against the luxurious sheets and feeling the cool breeze coming in from the open balcony doors. It's no surprise to find yourself alone, the other side of the bed long grown cold. Still, you pull one of the pillows towards your body, holding it close and breathing in the lingering scent of the devil that's never out of your thoughts. Of course he wouldn't stay, you can count the amount of times he has on one hand, and that was before he became the ruling lord of Avernus.
There's no rush to get up, nowhere you need to be, no one to meet. It's been so long since you felt so at ease, free. Not since those twilit years you spent in the Feywild. The stray thought makes you think of the grove you slept in and the fey creature that kept watch over you. It's already growing blurry around the edges, the vibrant colours bleeding out. As the years roll by, those memories of the Feywild feel more and more like a strange fever dream, like none of it really happened. You were lucky to keep any of your memories at all, most visitors don't. One final parting gift from your mentor.
You roll over, looking towards the oversized bathtub and the dull morning light coming through the gauzy curtains. Maybe you can take your breakfast out in the open air, the cooler months and turning of the trees are fast approaching and you intend to make the most of them. You reach across the bedside table and pull the cord that will summon up a meal from the kitchens. Probably best to use the wait to make yourself presentable.
As far as you know, Raphael has arranged for you to stay in this suite for as long as you want them. While you're grateful to not have to live off the graces of yet another patriar, these grand and soulless rooms have already lost their appeal. There's no vitality here, only waiting vacancy, an emptiness that only emphasises the feeling of loneliness. You let go of the pillow and slide from the bed, padding barefoot to the wardrobe and pulling a plush robe from inside. You pause as you close the dark wood door, your hand resting against it, one finger adorned with a band of blackened precious metal, the facets of the red gem seeming to draw in the light and consume it.
Raphael's last gift came with a catch, the necklace allowing him to eavesdrop on any conversation you had. There had also been no way to remove it, short of removing your own head. The devil had taken it back just before the inauguration ball, a sign of trust in you, or so he is happy to let you believe. You press your lips together, placing your fingers around the band and turning it. He said the gift isn't free, the inscription in Infernal on the inside suggesting as much. A rough translation would be something like: into eternity. As much as such a gift, its laden meaning, turns your heart over. There's only one question currently buzzing through your mind. You hold your breath, gripping the band tighter, and pull. The ring slides off your finger easily.
You almost laugh at how palpable the sense of relief is, tilting the band to read the ornate calligraphy. Again, your heart trips. He's always kept his word. Could he have reshaped you when the time grew right, given what he truly is? A pit fiend. It's a name that means nothing to you, but the image of what you saw in the throne room is burned into your mind. The briefest touch searing your skin despite a devils natural immunity to fire.
Before your mind can spiral down that path, there's a loud knock at the door. You slip the ring back on and pull the robe around you. “Come in.”
“Good morning, my lady,” the grey haired wood elf greets as he opens the door, his expression schooled to professional courtesy. Behind him is a trolley laden with a covered breakfast tray.
“Good morning,” you reply, feeling the strangest urge to reach out and connect with someone that's completely unrelated to the mess in your life. “I'd like to dine out on the balcony.”
“Of course, my lady.” He wheels the trolley out into the cool air and begins to lay the table. “There are also a number of letters that have arrived for you.” He indicates the envelopes propped up against the teapot. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”
You want to stall him, ask any number of mundane questions about the city, about life, gossip. You hold them all back. “Not right now, thank you.” You watch as he bows sharply and heads back out the door, it clicks shut and the sudden silence is crushing. The seconds tick by before your feet suddenly stride towards it and turn the lock. It's not paranoia, it's common sense.
You step out onto the balcony, taking a deep breath of the cool and fragrant air, feeling the way it soothes the heat of your skin. As much as you don't want to acknowledge them, your eyes still stray to the stack of letters. How are there so many so soon? You've barely been back in the city a day. Though patriar tongues like to wag and Raphael's choice on where you dined last night would have done just that. You honestly hadn't expected anyone to care, patriar memories are short if you aren't going to weekly parties and voicing an opinion loudly and obnoxiously. You can only hope that this time you find no attempts at wooing you through terrible verse mixed in with the offers of residency. In truth, you don't want to see any of them either. You have so little desire to return to that sort of life, to be at the beck and call of patrons.
Sitting down, you move them aside and pour tea into a dainty porcelain cup. All you need to do for the next little while is mind your business and you can do that better away from the machinations of patriars. At least until they become of some use to you. How hard can it possibly be to enjoy life as a lady of leisure? Not having to worry about where you'll sleep or who's providing your next meal.
People are a little too quick to romanticise the life of a bard, the freedom and hedonism. And sometimes it is frivolous fun and self-indulgence. Nobody ever talks about the hard times, those nights where you barely made enough coin and had to choose between a full belly or a roof over your head. The agony when the music doesn't flow and the words to a new song won't form in your mind. You've been luckier than most, offers falling your way at the right time, the right people being in the audience. And yet, there are still times when the loneliness bites, even with all eyes on you. There's no real sense of friendship or of planting roots. The fight against the Absolute had been a brief taste of fellowship, and look how that turned out once the danger was past.
You press your lips together, stopping the flow of maudlin thoughts before they spiral ever deeper. This isn't as gloomy as you think. There's Astarion, providing you can find him and he doesn't refuse to hear you out. There is another too, an image of a sacrred face that causes your treacherous heart to ache. That's a road better left untrodden, for both your sakes.
Sipping the bright copper tea, you cast your eyes out over the Upper City, in the distance you can clearly make out the imposing frontage of the High Hall. Colourful pennants fluttering in the breeze, indicating that the grand duke is in residence. The memories of that night trouble you more than you want them to, but you reason you aren't accountable for all the decisions made. That you didn't see all the manipulations going on around you. Wyll chose to trust Gale, and Gale chose to try and outplay a devil who's been plying his trade for countless millennia.
The teacup settles back on the saucer with more force than you intend. You're slipping back into those same gloomy thoughts again. The only distraction immediately offering itself are the letters and you pick one at random, tearing it open with little care. The paper is thick and expensive, the writing unnecessarily ornate, there's an embossed coat of arms that you recognise as belonging to a minor patriar house. The first few lines almost make you laugh with how blatantly the lord in question is trying to appeal to both your ego and generosity. You won't deny you have one of those. There's a real temptation to just toss them all on the fire, but this is information that a certain devil might find very useful. Or even you. Opening the rest of the letters, they all follow a similar vein, either outright asking for a meeting or words of belated congratulations.
So this is the influence Wyll's so concerned about. Influence that has somehow endured over nine years of absence. You wonder how the grand duke will feel about the exact sort of influence Raphael wants you to cultivate, or how the duke himself is going to unwittingly help. Still, these are all things that feel so far in the future. Right now, you're going to enjoy a slow breakfast and then see how the management feel about having a piano or harp delivered to your suite.
~~*-*~~
A total of three days pass before you find yourself feeling oppressed by the walls around you. The silence eating into your brain worse than the tadpole ever did. A piano sits in a corner of the suite purely to mock you for your impotence, each stack of letters that arrive with your breakfast, a pressure they have no right to be. It all leaves a swell of anger in your chest that crescendos with one particularly self-important patriar spending an afternoon waiting in the bar downstairs expecting you to invite them up. You don't. They left furious and no doubt they'll voice their opinion of your behaviour to anyone and everyone. As far as you're concerned, it'll only do you a favour. In the future, hopefully any visitors will make prior arrangements rather than petulant demands. For your own part, you've sent two letters. One to Astarion, another to the de Lazlo's, only Marta has replied. The rebuff stings and you tell yourself there's every chance he's out of town, or busy. You don't know how much has changed in the years you slept, how deep he's gone with his desire to walk in the sun and feel the joys of living again.
Closing and locking the balcony doors, you stop by the writing desk and ignore the empty bars of sheet music. Instead you pick up the knife belt hanging off the back of the chair. The narrow black blade safely sheathed and hopefully you can keep it that way. It's not like you haven't always carried a blade of some description, either for utility or self-defence. Since the Absolute, it feels different. Since coming back from Avernus that first time. Maybe because you know their are those who would actively do you harm. It's true you can't die on this plane, it would only be an annoying inconvenience to be teleported back to the Hells. Still, the fact you're a devil is something you don't want known. You take a breath as you fasten the buckle. This is exactly why you're going to spend the next little while being as bland and unthreatening as possible, to quell the need for such antics.
You pick up your lute out of habit rather than any actual desire to play it. The suite door closes behind you and there's a whisper of magic as you ward it against uninvited attention. The inns interior is all light wood and open rafters, large windows and flowing tapestries of brave knights upholding law and liberty. You take the wide curving stairs down, the murmur of voices growing as the staircase flares outwards into an open lobby with plush seating and tables for drinks and games. You spot the halo of copper hair and the bright colours of Marta's walking coat immediately, a smile easily finding its way onto your lips.
She flows to her feet and dismisses the young man talking to her with easy grace. There's still an air of the delicate and fey about her, but you also see the march of time. Laugh lines that are deeper than you remember, her face that little bit fuller, and she wears it well. A creature of vice and pleasure. Once you saw her as innocent and harmless, a dedicated patron of the arts and music. Now you know you were only half right. That you were the one who was naïve.
Ignoring the eyes that follow your passing, you both embrace. She smells of honeysuckle and lilacs with just the faintest sulphurous twist. “It's good to see you again Lady de Lazlo,” you greet as station dictates, dipping into a graceful curtsy.
She laughs lightly, blue eyes sparkling, smile coy. “My sweetest bard, Saviour of this fine city. I'm so glad you finally decided to return home.”
“As am I.” This little reunion is drawing more attention than you like. “Should we take a walk in the gardens?” It won't get you away from all the prying eyes, but a measure of privacy is better than none at all.
The air outside is fresh and clear, the slightest bite of a cool edge to the breeze. The trees you both walk under starting to show the first signs of changing colour. The gardens attached to the inn aren't as vast as those of the de Lazlo's estate and as you walk you see they've been designed with privacy in mind. Secluded pergolas, unobtrusive water features to mask conversation.
Marta reaches inside her coat pocket and withdraws a sealed letter, offering it to you. “From a close mutual friend. I promised to see it delivered should you return.” A knowing smile plays across her blush pink lips.
Taking it, you recognise the handwriting. Astarion. Why wouldn't he send it himself, or just call in on you? “He's out of town?” You take a guess and hope it lands.
She nods minutely. “He's never lost faith, always said you'll come back. Every time he leaves, he gives me a letter to see into your hands should it come to pass. I've always found him to be such a fascinating fellow, not at all like the bores I normally have to deal with. And just so we aren't tip-toeing, I know about his, um, condition.”
Your gaze drifts to her neck, obscured by the high collar of her coat. Not that it's any of your business. You carefully slip the letter into your pocket, Marta's words sparking a release of fearful tension. He believed in you, never gave up on the possibility of seeing you again. None of this means he isn't angry or hurt of course, but there's a chance you'll be able to explain.
Turning your steps towards a carved stone bench nestled close to the gently running waters of a small fountain, you sit down and swing your lute around to rest across your lap. The moment you set your hands to play, they feel paralysed. It's not that you've forgotten how, there's just nothing inside you to draw from. A familiar classic then, again your fingers don't move. The bite of grief is hard and merciless and you take a few breaths to compose yourself, eyes downcast.
Marta hums, settling next to you and seemingly oblivious to your paralysis. “I have missed the sound of your playing. Does your shoulder still trouble you?”
Her question lights up a memory of deep hazel eyes full of genuine concern and compassion, a helping hand offered far too late. You flex your fingers, feeling the ache in your knuckles and tentatively touch the strings. You wonder if Halsin regrets his belief in you, for refusing to be a part of Wyll's murderous plot.
“It's much better, thank you.” Heavy fingers pluck at the strings, the sound harsh and discordant. If your paths ever cross again, you doubt you'll receive the same consideration. He wanted to see and hear you himself rather than blindly believe the words of another. To see the disappointment and loss in those eyes is something you don't think you could stand. “I hope you weren't hurt in the chaos of that night,” you say, pulling your fingers away from the strings before they can continue their atrocity.
“It was shocking,” there's the slightest quaver in her voice all these years later and her mood visibly dims. “I didn't sleep well for weeks afterwards. Unbelievable as it is, I still wake from the occasional bad dream to this day.” Then she leans closer. “Do you know Ravengard almost became the shortest ruling grand duke in the city's history? There were so many crying such things are bound to happen when you invite someone touched by the lower planes to sit on the throne. Fortunately, the hysteria was quelled by saner voices.”
“Of which you and Alessando are part of.” Members of the Parliament of Peers, and some would argue, the real power in Baldur's Gate. Personally, you can't imagine anything worse. It's not a world you'll be able to avoid completely, you fear. Right now though, you're happy to stay as far away from it as possible.
She laughs. “It has been quite the invigorating experience, a decision I have no regrets about making.” The glitter in her eyes tells you more than you want to know. Then she lifts a hand to touch your arm. “Aless and I do have a small party planned for the end of the week, it would be the perfect opportunity for you to reintroduce yourself. Music, conversation, the right ears bent.”
“No,” you refuse in a soft and easy voice to take any perceived sting out of the word. “I've decided to retire from public performances for a while. I just want to write.”
It's like you've just waved the most enticing proposition under her nose, her eyes widening slightly, lips curving. “Is that why you've sequestered yourself here? You can always return to the estate and write. Aless and I won't place any expectations on you.”
Her offer is tempting, more than you thought or want it to be. Still, you shake your head. “Not right now. But, if it's an open invitation, maybe at some point in the future.”
“Of course it is. You're more than welcome to visit as you please, stay for dinner. Aless and I have dined here enough to know the food is good, but you know how much of a genius Stefan is. And you do love the pastries he bakes. Am I suitably tempting you yet?” She asks with a not so innocent blink of her eyes.
“I can't deny he does bake the best I've ever tasted,” you agree readily enough. “I'll let you know about the rest.”
Marta hums, eyeing you. Like all patriars, she doesn't like it when she doesn't get her own way, but she's not the sort to start a fuss or be bad tempered. “I hope you don't cloister yourself for too long. It feels like such a waste of living.”
You can't help the laugh that bubbles past your lips, it isn't really a concern for you anymore and it's not like you've become a sister in the service of one temple or another. Well, not yet. And you'll be occupying a rank far higher than that of a lowly acolyte. “Oh, I intend to live. In my own way and through my music.” You just need to get through this creative bleakness, whether it lasts another day or another decade. It's not an uncommon affliction. When the silence stretches too long, you lift your gaze to find Marta watching you shrewdly. “My lady?”
“It's like you've shed a coat or mask, I'm not sure which yet,” she says with a hint of wonder rather than judgement. “When you came back to us all those years ago, you were so closed off, hurting. Though I suppose it was hardly surprising given the trials of your adventure. Now,” she looks you over, “you've changed, or found something you lost.”
Lost. Buried. Denied. You let your fingers rest on the quiet strings. “Maybe.” Then you chose to steer the conversation away from you. “I'm guessing your days are taken up by politicking rather than parties now.”
“It should be no surprise to you how much goes on at parties,” Marta says, seemingly unconcerned by your deflection. “Aless deals with the paperwork, I focus on people and charitable work. Honestly, it's not much different than before, just the players and stakes are bigger. Sometimes, a little more delicacy is needed in certain matters.” The look in her eyes conveys what she leaves unsaid clearly.
You don't doubt a creature of Marta's appetites is more than eager to be holding clandestine soirées in dedication to a certain devil. Over the years you've slept, she's probably worked quietly to find those who are amenable, maybe already has a small group willing to take the bigger step. Though you wonder how much of a stomach she'll have for it all when she finds out it's about more than carnal lusts. Patriars really do have a dangerously skewed view of what devils are and what they're capable of.
“There are some strange rumours moving through certain circles,” Marta continues while you're lost to your thoughts. “Our grand duke has become the city's most eligible bachelor. Yet, apparently he's turned down every advance made by patriars on behalf of their daughters. He's under no pressure to choose right now, he's still relatively young, but that's not what's most interesting. After Counsellor Florrick's death, he took a new advisor, no one known to the city either. Tall and slender, a countenance of carved ice, straight copper hair and blue eyes. Charming as they come and a tongue sharp as any blade. Some say they're too close.”
Mizora. It's far from a surprise to hear, she had been of no mind to let her pet ex-warlock go so easily. Though given Raphael killed her patron, you wonder how much power she still wields, if she's even capable of renewing the terms of the pact she once had with Wyll. “Have you ever had much to do with her?”
“On a few occasions. I get the distinct impression she doesn't like me very much. A shame really, I wouldn't have minded seeing what's under all that ice,” she sighs wistfully.
You toy with the idea of warning her away and dismiss it. Better to leave the management of Raphael's assets to him, you don't know what plans he might have in the making. “Would you like to come up for a glass of wine?” You ask more out of courtesy than any actual interest.
“I wish that I could, but I have an appointment to keep with Aless' parents and they do not abide tardiness,” she laments. “I do hope you will give some thought to staying with us again. You are missed.”
The cynical part of your brain supplies the correction that it's your influence she misses and would end up using whether you agreed or not. You slide the lute off your lap and push to your feet as Marta stands and adjusts the fall of her coat. “Should I see you back to the inn, my lady?”
“Always so polite, I remember a time when your lips were anything but.” The back of her gloved hand brushes your cheek.
“It wouldn't do to tempt the ire of a devil,” you warn with a cool smile.
“He's such a charmer, but also a rotten spoilsport.” Her hand drops all the same. “It would have been fun to give out audience a little more to mutter about to their friends. I hope to see you soon.”
You drop into a curtsy as she takes her leave, half of your attention on the well dressed young man reading a book a few benches away. Your heart gives an uncomfortable thud as you see straight through the glamour to the crimson skin underneath, your nose catching the faint scent of sulphur. A devil masquerading as a mortal, just like you are. It's not Raphael's doing, you're certain of that. Cursing yourself for not even considering the possibility of more than one devil being interested in your actions, you walk back towards the inn at a steady pace rather than remain alone in the gardens.
The walls and bustle of noise inside the inn offers a false sense of safety, rich smells of cooking food as people make their way into the banqueting hall next-door for luncheon. Rather than follow, you take a stool at the bar, waving down the server to order a pot of tea and a few pastries. Ten minutes later the devil walks in with his book under his arm, orders his own drink and settles down into a plush armchair a few tables away from you. There's a furious part of you that wants nothing more than to walk right up to them and demand an explanation. Only that's not behaving yourself. That's causing a scene in a public place where you'll probably be loudly rebuffed for your ludicrous accusations.
So you nurse your temper and pull Astarion's letter from your pocket. The plain wax seal doesn't look tampered with and peels away easily enough, you open it to find only two short sentences. My offer stands. Feel free to settle in, I'll return shortly. Pins prick the backs of your eyes and you blink quickly before anything treacherous can fall from them. He really did believe in you, all these years later. Before you can get carried away, you caution yourself. Do you really want to be drawing diabolic eyes in his direction? The fury surges again and somehow you manage to keep it from showing on your face. An hour outside your suite and you're already beginning to feel the itch of worry and paranoia. Raphael's silky voice purrs one word through your mind; control. Bastard.
The tea grows cold and the pastries left uneaten as you while away hour after hour watching other people in the bar and listening to their conversations. Your solitary watcher never moves. This is absurd! Draining the cold and bitter brew, you slide off the stool and don't resist the urge to walk past the devil this time. Jostling his elbow hard and almost causing him to spill his drink over his expensive clothes.
“My apologies, sir,” you say, smiling benignly and keep walking.