chapter eighteen.
grains of sand

[ 𝑨𝑵: cheeky note before the chapter. i struggled a lot knowing what was going to happen and how to portray it for the last year. i decided to stay true to what i originally conceived but want to place an extra warning here.
without spoiling anything, please note that this story may be triggering. if it arises that you feel like this story might not be for you anymore, there will be no hard feelings on my part. i've also put on the mature rating to better reflect the story's direction. ]

Rain drops the size of fat gold coins fell from dark clouds onto the dark lands below, carving rivulets in the dark earth, quickening the ground to dark mud. Against a gale, the caravan snaked up the mountain path at a laborious pace.

Minthara sat astride a sinewy courser, chevroned by her entourage. An ox pulled cart, piled high with blood-stained booty and supplies, rear guarded by the watchful eyes of Loviatar's servant, quick to rap those knuckles that leered too close. Trailing far back, a troupe of rowdy goblins, restless from unsated blood lust. Grouching amongst each other, their bloodshot eyes attached in resentment to the middle pack of prisoners, spared the wind's buffet by their proximity to the cart's back.

Two days had passed since the flint could strike a spark. The screams and smell of death had washed squeaky clean. Two days of drudgery. Just the squelch, squelch, squelch of their feet and the chatter of their teeth and the growl of stomachs rationed to the limit.

None expected the raid to have run so afoul. They had had all the advantage. At least, that was what they had thought. Brothers and sisters, lost. Those who survived, maimed and aching. Minthara had made it clear that the half-elf would reach Moonrise alive. But in the glow of the moon lantern, she shone, clear as a bullseye. Death was not the only revenge.

It began with a stone. A little one, barely the size of one's thumb pad. Grizzly Marrow had the genius of his 'mini trebuchet', fashioned from the bendy reeds from the roadside and twine. They practiced first on the dwarfs, of whom the woman one turned to glare. But when she opened her mouth to snitch, they hid their toy, and she took one look at the leather whip's handle, shiny from the rain, and that was that.  

Finally they built up the courage and took aim. The first shot was a miss but the second connected. A muted cheer rose among them. But faced away, the satisfaction of her pain was stolen. Following attempts either did not land or produce much the same result. They would need to try for something dramatic.

Next they dismantled the bendy sticks and tied two of them together. Long enough to form a whip. Pinky's legs, knobbed and climbing, made him the obvious choice. Fat Cat handed him a soggy hunk of bread, and when he'd garnered the energy, Pinky took off in fast strides. Spud joined him by the side.

"Ab'rek! Ab'rek!"

The servant of Loviatar flicked his drowned, silver hair. "What is it?"

"Oo ... eer ... oo ..." Unrehearsed, Spud stuttered helpless, almost losing pace. "'s wot's to do wiv that ee er ee er." He painted the air in sharp cuts. Met blank, he jabbed a finger. "The scah! Wot's wiv all the scahs?"

Abdirak was unimpressed but attended to. Pinky bulldozed the gnomes, clustered and shivering, and they lurched and collapsed to one another like the swell of the sea. Pinky closed in. He pulled back the makeshift whip, thwacking it against the back of her heels.

She hissed and her pace hiccupped. For a beat, the earth churned to keep her steady and she let out a dry grunt. Downwind, a snicker turned to a scowl. It should have been easy, what with her half-starved to death and beaten like a mutt. But she kept pace and so Pinky did it again, and again, and again, until the stumble became a trip, and a yelp replaced the death rattle, and down she went.

The ground slipping beneath her registered mechanical, like the earth beneath her had fell away. The pain? Not so much a factor. Try catching a scream in a gale.

No, the whip had simply missed, and ended up between her ankles, growing taut enough to throw her plodding off. She overcorrected, jerked backwards, dug in her heel. It caught on a rock. Then she fell face first, and for the first time in three days, dropped off from the world.

Cruelly, she came to.

The first thing she did was cough up a throatful of mud. She felt the warmth of someone beside her, blocking the sleet. A hand clutched tender the base of her skull. It tilted her to the heavens. Wiped the muck collected in the sockets of her eyes.

"Raise your hands."

An eerie hush had settled around her. Fallon wondered if she'd awoken in the after life. She obeyed and water, glugging from the neck of a bottle, doused her hands clean.

"Now cup them. Lean forward and open your eyes."

Her vision blurred and stung. Blinking against the water in her hands, grit gouging with each swivel of her eyes. When she could see the crevices of her hands, Fallon lowered her dripping hands.

Still distorted, she first registered the silver of his hair. Anger flared in her chest. Then sadness. Then something else entirely. By the time she had shrunk from his chest, she had realised who had tended to her. 

The torturer. Abdirak. His fingers smoked purple.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Fallon dropped her eyes to the earth. The caravan had stilled, though from the trail at her feet, this could not have happened instantly. They would have dragged her indefinitely. Part of her wished they had. But someone must have flagged Minthara down.

"Idle play." Abdirak said, rising. "It seemed a waste to let her flounder in the muck."

Minthara jostled the reigns, casting a haughty glare towards the goblins. "Well? Which one of you geniuses so kindly decided to put an end to our mission?"

Clustered together, it seemed for a moment that each might hold their tongue. Minthara's patience wavered. Fat Cat gave a shove and Pinky collapsed with a splat to the mud. Three paces and it was not just mud that the rain washed from her skin.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼

After the rain died, the forest gleamed. All shone emerald, and the beads of water that clung to the sprigs of low branches, fingers splayed, rustled loose from the gust that ushed away the storm clouds. Under other circumstances, it would have been auspicious. Even if it had been, Astarion still felt the creak of dread in his joints. 

Once, he had doubted the worth of the world beyond the walls of Baldur's Gate. Looking back, Astarion couldn't help wondering if the iron bars had been there long before he'd clawed his way from the ground. Elven parents were notoriously protective of their young, he knew this much. Had his parents been the same? He'd registered an instinctual indifference to the countryside when he'd awoken beside the beach. The world had still seemed contained. Only now did it click. The vastness of it all.

Astarion didn't like to be alone with his thoughts. Most people would assume that after two hundred odd years, he would have gotten used to it. They'd be wrong. For the overwhelming slice of his life, thoughts of Cazador had occupied every cranny of his brain, among an assortment of terror, many day dreams of revenge plots, fruitless worrying, or to be accurate, prophesizing of the horrors that awaited him at the end of each hour. 

Which was to say, a lot of feelings, none of them good, all confusing, given how they often contradicted one another.

But his current preoccupations were different. Cazador was certainly there, buzzing at the periphery, the unswattable fly, but what his mind contorted over, like a faded cipher, was his predicament. Her predicament. Their predicament.

He scowled and flicked a speck of dried dirt on his collar. Somehow, despite any path he considered, be it the poisoned promises of the cambion or the intrigue of so called ultimate power, his mind ended up in the same spot.

"Look, I'll come to Moonrise, and maybe that crypt, yes, but then I'll be on my way. And if I ever set eyes on any of you in Baldur's Gate, you won't be able to speak against me. And that will be that." Astarion said, for the third time since rejoining them, and for the third time, was met with little but the sharp smirk of Drasek.

"Regards for the assurance, boy."

Despite not being particularly pleasant company, Astarion had to admit that Drasek was a good guide. He cut a decisive pass along the mountain that did not abide entirely by the road, but ate away the distance between them and those they pursued. Indicators abounded. The discarded food, in scraps and byproduct grew in their freshness, though lessened in frequency. Tracks deep enough to not be washed. When they stumbled upon the small body of a slaughtered goblin, Astarion had silently noted the blood left unhammered by the pelt of rain, its state of congeal, and realised they were closing the gap.

This was before the avalanche.

They heard it far before it appeared, following the path now, a wall of rock risen on their right, the left giving way to a drop. A mess of mud and debris, still sliding down and splaying out, had fallen when a tree's roots could no longer stand the erosion. 

Coming to a halt, they exchanged looks with one another. It was Astarion's best look at anything besides the backs of their heads. Orikas, ghoulish in exhaustion, swaying uncomfortably, hunger pressing against his cheeks. Dalaia looked on the edge of tears, and to his surprise, held Astarion's gaze the longest. Marth swept a hand through his hair. Even Astarion felt at a loss.

Worry evaded Drasek. He didn't miss a beat diverting their path. Bewildered, they followed. Dragging his feet, Marth fell out of step. Astarion slowed to meet him. The druid eyed their surroundings evasively. He attempted conversation, but when met with silence, he followed suit, though not without an eye roll. Such a commitment to being dour.

After a short while, he tried again.

"I don't suppose you have a plan for when we arrive at Moonrise?"

Marth chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes on the ground below. He glanced nervously at Drasek's back, considering the consequences of his reply. Impatient, Astarion prompted him with a sharp 'hmm' that was enough to coerce a reply.

"W-well no. Not yet."

"But we won't be carrying along present company."

"It's not my decision to make," he said. "I mean, it's one for the group, don't you think?"

"Oh yes, democracy in life and death, seems appropriate." He paused, attempting to soften his tone. "Look, you're a ... sensible man. Perhaps the most sensible of your friends. You have ears. We're there to lull her before he gets down to whatever infernal business he has with her."

When Marth remained quiet, Astarion continued on.

"I thought you would be showing more concern! I mean, after all, it's not as though you're neutral on the matter." He saw Marth's shoulders tense from the corner of his eye, lips pulled to a thin line. "

"You really, really need to learn when to shut your mouth." To Astarion's disappointment, he sounded more tired than annoyed. "Though I suppose you're past any pretense that you want any one of us to like you."

"Well, I—" Astarion began, but found he had lost some of his nerve. He shook his head. "Yes. I suppose we are."

"Gods, look, I didn't mean it like that."

"It's perfectly fine. You don't need to apologise."

"It's not that, it's ... I shouldn't ... But ... Just, I have something to tell y—"

They were interrupted by the roar of water. It had been building as they walked, but they had hit the threshold of noise. They had lost sight of the others. Already crawling in his skin, he took the excuse to break rank from their conversation. In his rush to break the tree line, he lost Marth's call to the rapids.

Up ahead, he spotted Drasek. He had stopped at the bank of a river, Dalaia by his side, Orikas crouched at the edge. Each step unfolded the sound and sight before him. 

It was deeply blue, murky with pigment, not particularly wide, big enough for two at most to swim side by side, and a distance from the lip of earth. Down hill, the incline was almost as steep as a waterfall, while its upper half snaked up the pale rock, seemingly disappearing into the mountain itself. Unremarkable, save for a smattering of small dark spheres, dotted mostly near bank, some in the center.

The river's true nature didn't immediately present itself. Only upon inspection did it become apparent which way the water flowed. 

Orikas picked up a stick. He tossed it into the river. Its path pulled up towards the mountains at a rapid pace. Astarion's throat parched. The tip of the stick caught on one of the spheres. It yanked violently, swirled, rivulets cutting the flow of water, before sinking into the center.

"A shortcut." Drasek said, turning to face them. "Who goes first?"

Astarion attempted to recover his composure, ignoring the quickening of his muscles. "How about a hike instead?" He asked with a wave of his hand, met with much the same enthusiasm as Drasek had.

"Are we afraid?"

"No." Astarion said, too quick. "It's just ... My hair was beginning to dry out. I'd prefer to keep it that way, if it's all the same to you."

"Your choice," was his gruff response. "Long as you don't mind cleaning up your friend from the cracks of a dungeon floor."

"I promise you that there are no circumstances where these hands clean."

In a blur of dark hair, Dalaia whipped to face him. "Gods, shut up would you?" She barked with a tremor. "Why don't I just cut to the heart of it for you? You're a coward. Here's your invitation to do what you should've done in the first place and leave." And with that, she jumped from the river bank, landing with a spray into the depths of the current. 

He wondered if he'd imagined a flicker of respect cross Drasek's features. He turned back to the group once she had twisted the corner. 

"So, who's next?"

Orikas rose, keeping his eyes trained on the rapids. He mumbled something under his breath, closed his eyes, crossed his fingers over one another. "Shar preserve me," he finally said, before stepping into the water. He shot to the bottom, rebounding upwards, twisting his head over his shoulder, disappearing as panic rendered over his damp brow.

"Dalaia must be related to a prophet. Here is where my journey ends." Astarion muttered, taking a step back, colliding with something hard. Drasek barred the way. He stepped to the side. "Really?" When Drasek didn't reply, he pushed past, head down, only to run directly into him a second later.

"I'm quite alright, thank you."

"A good thing it isn't your decision."

In a blink, Astarion's world disappeared. Thick smoke coveted his vision. Unsure if he had been blinded, or if the landscape itself had changed, he began to stumble to and fro, cursing loudly for Drasek to reappear. "If this is your attempt at negotiation!" He began, but no sooner had he opened his mouth did the hand, or rather the fist, break the dark fog and land square in the center of his chest.

Astarion tumbled backwards, the world reappearing, as though he were falling through a rain cloud, a droplet himself, plummeting to the drenched ground.

Splash! He dunked beneath the surface, to the bottom, tailbone connecting to the rocky riverbed. He heaved in a mouthful of a gasp. Water piled his nose, his lungs, his vision. And all the while, muted by the panic rising in the bubbles around him, the current rocketed him forward.

Buoyancy launched him to the surface, and his lungs shredded with the force of his inhale. He struggled to place himself. The river had funneled him between the shale of two mountains, flanked by spindly trees. Hoping to slow his pace, enough to catch his breath, Astarion craned his arm towards the low branches.

They slipped through his fingers, the throw of his weight rolling his front beneath the water. Flailing onto his back, he could only stare in horror as he rode into the path of one of the terrifying whorls.

His toe clipped the edge and in an instant, he was yanked under. The vortex enclosed around him, sucking back any attempts to break free. The churn of bubbles obscured his vision as he sank once again to the bottom. The stones below him were buffed smooth and frictionless as he struggled to leverage against them. His first attempt to break free pushed in the face of the current. In his haste to try again, he took on more water. Jerked backwards, he twisted in the dark, no longer aware of up or down. Wits worn to shreds, he gathered what little strength he had, grit his teeth, bubbles steaming from his nose, to make one final shove.

He counted down to two, then kicked with his legs and arms, surging, slamming, against the hard river bottom.

Pain barely registered, his vision flashing bright. Before, things had happened too quickly for his mind to catch up. Now his panic joined him at the bottom of the river, ushering in a flood to his lungs. He was not at the bottom of the lake. He was tunneling from the damp, soil of his own grave.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼

It stoked a grumble when he permitted her to ride on the edge of the cart, perched among the supplies. Fresh memory and exhaustion dulled the threat of mutiny, leaving discontent at a simmer to nothing but thin wisps as smoke, thin as the mountain air, high amid the climb. So high that in her state Fallon wondered if they'd escaped the purview of the gods.

She concluded they would next ascend beyond the clouds. The tunnel nixed that theory. Heralded by branches, sweet with rot, it appeared to never end, and even before they entered, Fallon could see the light being swallowed to a pinprick the deeper they traversed. The rock below was heavily pock marked. Inside, a musk thick as morning breath tensed the air, and the sides of the wall perpetually wept with a clear, viscous liquid. She half expected a tongue to coax them faster. Her chain tinkled. She had begun to shake.

It could have been days, weeks, but the fresh lit torches spelled three hours. Smoke had gathered and many began to cough. Somewhere at the front, a wail, followed by a loud smack, as the claustrophobia, and Minthara, got the better of an archer, the wheel of the cart rolling over the body in a sharp lurch. The younger prisoners whimpered softly. Finally, they emerged.

But it didn't feel like emerging. The world they stepped into was turgid, murky. Clinging to the skin, one felt coated in a film. Despite the vastness, it felt narrower than the tunnel. What's more, the wind that had swirled in the wake of the mountain, disappeared into utter stagnancy. Oddest of all was the light. Like standing beneath a solar eclipse.

Something nocturnal stirred in Fallon. She felt a tug, not from any direction but from all. And she could have sworn she heard something. Someone. Many someones, many sighs, spoken like a conversation caught just out of reach. She pressed the flat of her wrists against her ears. Abdirak swung the light closer to her. The sound abated. She shrunk a step, but no more.

A sharp whistle drew them to a premature stop.

"We make camp here." Minthara barked, her eyes lording over the travelers. Discontent grumbled in the recesses, the unease palpable. "Unless we have any brave souls who would make the journey alone?" Complaints culled, she continued: "This will be your only warning. Do not leave the light."

They settled a short distance from the road, clustering against the unusual chill. Dry branches and leaves broke beneath their feet like the crunch of beetle shells, releasing a pungent scent that watered the eyes and sent one goblin into sprawling unconsciousness. 

Despite her exhaustion, Fallon craned her head over her shoulder, to her side, skin crawling from the watchful recesses. But the only eyes she caught were those of her fellow prisoners.

It had taken her some time to recognise the gnomes. The group, which she sworn had looked larger behind the bars of a cage, consisted of three men, a woman, and two small children. The young ones were twins, a boy and a girl of hardy build, tamed by fear, and resembling the heavier set of the men. The other two were either skinny adults, or else, teenagers, one flame haired, the other's nose fat with swelling. 

And then, there was Hessa. 

Hessa was a proud woman, you could see it on her face, in the way she held herself — straight shouldered with her chin to the sky. Her hair, wiry and dark, was coiled in a trailing lock and tamed with heavy silver rings, which twice Fallon had seen used to thwack sticky fingers. She bore little resemblance with the two children, yet they clung to her sides, both de facto mother and leader.

The caravan pulled to a stop. Exhaustion set in but few bothered with bedrolls, building a fire with the strange, gnarled branches. Lamp in hand, Abdirak led Fallon to the base of a tree, driving an iron pin into the final link of her chain. She slumped at the base without a word, feeling the weight of her own head. Her blinking slowed. Blurring the camp, she fell into the space between consciousness and dream.

She gasped violently, jerking awake. The water dripped off the tip of her nose and dragged an icy finger down the ridge of her spine. She heard laughter, the rattle of a chain, and the crack of splitting bone. Acute among the rabble was the familiar thud of steel boots.

Out of practice, she slumped to the ground, cheek pressing the soil. She was too exhausted to shiver. The thought was so ridiculous that she laughed. 

"Is there something funny?"

Minthara's boots stepped into her field of vision, drawing her silent. She wasn't so exhausted not to brace for the inevitable. 

Not the head. Please, not the head. 

Plap! A metal plate, the gristle and offal not even the goblins bothered with, charred beyond recognition. This answered how long she had been out for. Her stomach rumbled, suddenly seizing upon itself, twisting with hunger.

A coarse note of mirth sounded from above.

"Eat, girl. You'll be of no use if you waste to nothing."

She considered refusal but her gut wouldn't let her. The smell had wormed its way into her nose, saliva pooling in her mouth. She frowned, a final sign of resistance, but she'd already pushed herself up, head spinning from the movement. Soot and earth spread across her tastebuds. 

The sudden roar of the fire swung Minthara's attention. Someone had tossed in something they shouldn't have. When she briefly to investigate, Fallon swallowed her feasting enough to catch a whimper from her periphery. One of the gnome children was weeping as he clutched his sister. Both stared brazenly at Fallon's plate.

She felt her stomach twist into a fleshy knot. Taking a deep breath and following Minthara's path, she blindly batted the plate across the mud and toward the group. There was a moment of hesitation. In the earlier days of their travel, there had been much speculation about Fallon's ability to 'infect' people. They all looked to Hessa, who took a long look at the plate, before nodding.

Fallon attempted a weak, short-lived smile. Minthara was back.

"How sweet," said the drow. "Sadly, no good deed goes unpunished."

She didn't cry out, but nursed the heat of her cheek, which felt somewhat comforting after the bucket. When she remained silent, Minthara struck out with the tip of her boot, leaving Fallon to crumple in two, hissing beneath her teeth.

"It's getting a little boring, isn't it? Playing tough. I suppose you're biding your time," Minthara said. "Let's try one last time. Tell me what Ketheric Thorm would want from a worm like you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but you do, don't you?"

Fallon ground her teeth: "Even if I did, shouldn't tell the person playing fetch."

The foot of Minthara's boot pushed her cheek to form a hollow in the earth, enclosing sound from her right ear so that sound either squelched wet or warped through the metal of her sole. This time she did cry out, debris pouring into her mouth. Minthara grumbled a question and dug her heel hard against the bone of Fallon's cheek.

Suddenly, she jerked upwards, grabbed by the collar and shaken. "Answer me girl."

"Ssh-ounds like he doeshn't trussht you with mush."

She was winding back her hand when a cry broke the low rumble of the camp.

In the brief time, one of the goblins, knobby and cruel, had noticed the food Fallon had nudged to the gnomes, and had taken the lull in supervision to take what he felt was better suited in his stomach. The gnomes had put up a fight. Angered, the goblin had called over one of his cronies, and together they had hoisted the boy child between them, hammocked as though fresh from the hunt, and tossed him from the glow of the torches, the fire, the lantern.

The boy was shrieking. He cut silent. Behind him, morphed from the gloom, towered a shadow. Knife-like fingers sprouted from the dark column of its body, its darkness so thick that it appeared solid. Though it boasted no visible mouth, it made a sharp ticking sound, like the tail of a rattling snake, as its lower body began to wrap around that of the terrified child. 

And appearing behind it, multiplying from the night, came a surge of figures identical.

Forgotten, Fallon collapsed into the mud as Minthara cursed. "To arms!" She shouted, her archers already pulling taut their strings. Arrows rained and lodged in the ground below. "Light them, you fools!" She plunged her blade into the fire until the tip glowed red, before moving to the perimeter. 

They were surrounded now, the shadows ringing around them, occupying space left unilluminated. And in the chaos that had startled the camp, disaster struck. Lanterns were dropped to the ground, toppled by the points of arrows. Torches swung ambitiously, only to extinguish when their holder lost their balance. 

Near her, someone tripped over the moon lantern, managing to kick it out of the way. 

Fallon felt a sudden surge of strength. She looked down with a gasp. The dim swirled her body like chiffon. Pushing herself to her feet, she realised who had shoved the light. Hessa. Bone of her jaw bulging against her cheeks, she violently pointed her finger towards the child.

The shadow had roped his midsection, his mouth open and gulping like a fish out of water. Fallon stumbled toward them, the gnomes clearing her path. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She raised her hands. The shadow's head, or at least what seemed to be its head, swiveled to greet her. It reached out its hand.

Fallon jerked her hands backwards, having expected her own powers to respond. She heard the voices, clearly this time. They were not unlike her dark passenger, but this time, distinctly feminine, tickling the shell of her ear, ushering her. Everything in her gut told her to resist; in his terror, the boy's eyes flashed golden.

She raised her hand and the shadow's finger's conjoined with her own. It was then that she heard the voice in all its ghostly quality, and despite its gossamer strength, it stripped the air from the cacophony of iron and fire.

I waited for him until the tide receded. When I looked back, there was nothing left. No home. No him. Nothing.

Suddenly the shadow fell to its knees. Freed, the boy shot forward, having been released completely, fleeing into the arm's of his sister. Darkness slipping from her hand, the shadow seemed to glitter with laughter, before it descended peacefully into nothing.

When Fallon looked around, the shadow's brethren had followed suit, and the camp itself had grown still, themselves in a daze, watching the threat disappear into the ground below. Fallon felt a rush, her hair rising to stand on end. The whispers came in a wave, wrapping her in sorrow.

... To see my mother, one last time. He was a violent man. But the worst was not what he did. It's what he didn't let me do.

I'm losing him. I lost his face, his voice. But his laugh. Please, let me have this one reminder.

She was the last thing I saw. That brings me some comfort. To know we didn't spend a second more in this place than the other. Her horror was mine. Was mine ...

She fell to her knees in the silence. Someone stood above her. Looking up, she faced Hessa.

"Thank you."

The metal plate skittered to collide with her knee. Minthara shoved Hessa said. The gnome fell hard onto her side. The plate rang like a watered down gong; Fallon collapsed paces behind her. Minthara's boot toe collided with her side, pushing her onto her back, and once more she felt the bite of the plate, its edge hitting the space between her collarbones.

Fallon let out a guttural cry. The anger that starvation, pain, and fear had dulled kicked against every inch of her body. Everything flooded back to her. He had fled. Her friends were no where to be seen. Not even that devil, who before she could not so much as cough in private without accidentally summoning, had abandoned her.

But she wasn't completely alone, because the whisper was back, and its voice had body. Nasal yet commanding, sharp and austere, that which had once crept now rose to a roar — kill her, kill her, kill her! — and she felt its rage, as though it were her very own, the kind that had been shackled for centuries, now finally rising, and with it her hands, her power pulsating from her finger tips, outstretched, 

It happened in a flash. The lantern swung in front of her. She hissed. Then the song of steel, slicing the air. She saw stars not far flung, as bodies in the sky, nor arcing low in the gloom, but right there, in front of her, a bright light, white hot, thick and molten, close enough to beat in time with her heart, and she could touch it, feel it, reach into it, down to the cartilage, the digit, until she'd swallowed the star, glowing in her throat and bulging bitterly the tract above her collar bones, sinking sinking, lost in the cavern of herself, long enough to nurse the geyser that left her, like bats disturbed from an ancient sleep, and in these seconds it was not pain she felt but pain's absence, for her mind had spared her that, if not to make way for pain.

"You have fight, I'll give you that. Wasted, as it were, on this pathetic form you inhabit. What squalid luck." Minthara threw her head back in a hard sheet of laughter. "They said one piece, but they never specified its quality. You won't talk? Fine. But you've known enough peace. For when I'm done, not even the gods will recognise you. One for every stop 'til Moonrise. And may you pray that you keep your thumbs."

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼

Astarion felt something grasp the scruff of his collar, pulling him to the surface. He was floating, on his back, and between the realm of conscious and not. He had been having the strangest dream, it could not have been reality, of a siren and a gully, caressing him with the softest of hands. She'd tasted of the forest and her eyes were dark and kind. He could've remained there for a lifetime.

Sand grit his skin. The grit scratched the inside of his throat. Something heavy beat against his chest, something tickled his cheek.

" ... No, no, you're out of time."

"You just said that! Shit, why don't you do it?"

"Because if you think I'm putting a finger on him, let alone my mouth."

"Dal."

"Gods, fine! Just give it one more try. Count thirty and then ..."

Astarion's eyes opened and met Marth's. They remained frozen. Several things then happened: Astarion shoved Marth out of the way and began to spit up water, Orikas dropped down to inspect something on the shore, and Dalaia, having pulled away to avoid the spray, began to laugh.

His disorientation fading, Astarion realised that they must be at the end of the river. The catchment was surprisingly still, and the world around him had completely changed. It was as though they'd emerged at the end of Faerûn. 

"Oh, oh!" Marth muttered, but it was too late. Astarion waved a hand in apology, as he rolled onto his knees, continuing to hack up the lungs worth of water he'd swallowed. "Dal, please. It's not that fu—"

Dalaia wiped tears from her eyes. "Really? Because it was funny the first time, but this is the cherry."

"It wasn't funny either times," Marth said. "But at least it's just water. Astarion, are you alright? I'm sorry about the ... Well, you know."

Astarion, who had somewhat recovered, swiped his mouth with his sleeve, which did little more than leave him slightly more damp, turned to Marth with watering eyes. "Oh it's fine, but I'll take dinner next time, if you don't mind."

"Har har."

"It'd be the closest thing he's had in the way of a date," Dalaia said. Her giggling subsided, she suddenly straightened up.

Drasek had appeared among the reeds, bone dry, and wearing a grave look of concern. He was staring at something Orikas was holding in the palm of his hand.

"What've you got there?" Dalaia rose to her feet. "Orikas? What is that?"

"I ..." Orikas said. He had turned several shades pale, barely registering as Marth and Dalaia flanked him. Beneath his breath, Marth swore. Dalaia clamped a hand to her mouth.

Drasek reached into Orikas's hand and plucked the slender finger, holding it upwards. He squinted his eyes. Then he threw it into the water where it floated, turning slowly like the heavy needle of a compass. "It's a grain of sand. And if we don't want it to be the last, we better pick up our step."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

AUTHOR'S NOTES

i. ok so it didn't take me 3 months bc it took me MORE which is so quirky of me but i really got in my head about not fucking this chapter up as u can see from the starting note. but we are back. 

ii. apologies for any messy grammar/spelling, because i now have other writing commitments, in order to balance everything, i need to get looser with my proofreading. fingers crossed that it's legible <3