Ghost Lights Down the Chionthar - SnowKiter (2024)

Chapter 1: The Emperor receives an abundance of wine

Chapter Text

Long ago, Balduran founded a city. A small harbor town sprawled into golden prosperity, and became the home of the brave, the bold, and the adventurous.

After that, things really went downhill.

It’s the mundane things that inform you of what all creatures are like deep down.

People think of world-defining actions: When one stands before the great enemy defeated, the Netherbrain begging for mercy, offering its power for its life, the chance to become Absolute. But plenty would follow through in destroying it, as Tav called for—anyone heroic or cautious or spiteful enough.

The Emperor initially formulated an opinion on Tav at the foot of the Adamantine Forge, amongst the smoking, split-leg ruins of its mighty construct guardian, crushed by the very hammer it protected.

Standing over his flattened foe, the first thing the elf did was adjust the collar of his hard-won prize, the armor still warm from the forge, and beg a glimpse of his reflection from his companion’s shield.

That reflection smiled at himself, eyes gleaming in the smoke, blood and ash in his hair, and said, lightly, “Well done! A brief respite and then come, on your feet. Before we leave the area, we return to that lava elemental and destroy it. It was definitely guarding treasure.”

Then, they proceeded down the cliff, showered forementioned lava elemental with arrows and spells of frost, and nearly burnt themselves all to death for the second time. And for what? Well, to fetch the gilded lockbox Tav had keenly spotted from on high—and evidently kept in his mind throughout fighting the Forge guardian and almost burning to death the first time.

It is always a lockbox. Tav has a sixth sense for boxes that are locked, perhaps a seventh and eighth as well.

Treasure, the Emperor can understand. He was once the very same way. Even when the stakes are high, adventurers will be adventurers.

But the reward from this lockbox is nothing more than some trinket, a haunted amulet that risked laughing madness in exchange for powers that would only truly benefit a monk. A smile crept on Tav’s face as he came under the giggling ghost’s influence, as he barely fought down the laughing fit to tuck the trinket underneath his collar.

You see, Tav keeps the amulet on.

Tav is not a monk.

Naturally, that’s when the Emperor decided that the future savior of Baldur’s Gate is quite mad.

I do not actually drink wine, the Emperor says to Tav.

This does not elicit so much as a pause from the elf, who is struggling to haul the crate, jammed between the secret door that he is also struggling to hold open at the same time. The Emperor observes this for ten seconds and then moves the crate telekinetically.

“Thank you,” Tav says, catching his breath. He makes a show of wiping his hand against his brow. “If you don’t drink wine, why was I able to steal all those bottles when I raided this place?”

It is for guests, for the occasional but necessary rituals in forging alliances. And you were not stealing from me. I told you the location of my hideout, so that you would benefit from an additional cache of resources.

“There you go, you do have use for it. Well, we drank all of your wine and we went through all of your things. It’s only polite to repay you. A housewarming gift.”

That is unnecessary.

The Emperor has reclaimed his hideout below the Elfsong Tavern. It remains utilitarian, threadbare; the past months have been especially busy as he re-establishes contacts and territory.

“We ought to get you some plants,” Tav says, patting the crate. “But think of it this way: I am offloading a veritable excess unto you. This is way too much alcohol for me to drink. Well, I could, of course, drink it all alone, but I try to avoid such pitiful behaviors. So here we are!” Tav smiles crookedly. “I don’t think you are grasping the sheer volume I was sent home with. Perhaps you would, if you had come to the party yourself.”

I already sent a letter in my stead. Besides, your victory was well-earned and it is important for your kind to hold celebratory gatherings. There is no need to complicate things with an unwelcome visitor.

“Unwelcomed by whom?” Tav snorts. “It was a private celebration thrown in the middle of the wilderness by a skeleton who may or may not be a former god of death. Milil was there! And Gale—” Tav pauses and his smile twists. “It’s a poor excuse, anyways. You would hardly be the strangest one there.”

The Emperor seizes the chance at a different topic. What of the wizard from Waterdeep?

“He’s good.”

Is he?

“He says he is happy. He says he will change the world. He is on the cusp of greatness.”

Then it sounds like he has achieved his goal of godhood.

“Oh, yes, he most definitely has,” Tav says dryly. “Glowing eyes and all. Chains of mortality thrown down! His domain, apparently, is ambition. Considering your own goals, if you are looking for some divine patronage, some extra pizzazz in the arsenal, I would certainly recommend him—it’s arguable he owes you, after all, and now he is a god! You ought to take advantage.”

You do not sound happy.

Tav’s expression is veiled; he is deciding how much to admit, or if he would rather just lie. Calculating, perhaps, what sort of answer the Emperor would prefer to hear.

You sound distinctly unhappy, the Emperor suggests again. It’s been proven that directly pressuring Tav causes him to immediately do the opposite of what he is told, unless the pressuring in question consists of shouting help me at him.

Tav resumes unpacking his crates. “I love it when moral decisions are easy, you know. Isobel once said something about the right side being obvious, sometimes, and it’s true when it is. For example, if your friend thinks sacrificing seven thousand souls for power is what he wants, you should tell him otherwise. You should talk him out of it. It is actually not what he wants or needs and it’s not good for anyone, and it’s a horrific, damning decision. That’s an easy one.”

I see. You think Gale should have laid down his own ambition and returned to Mystra’s side, then?

“He’s not the same now,” Tav says tightly.

Naturally. He ascended the limitations of his form. But I understand why you would find such a fundamental change perturbing. Despite my counsel, your attachment to your own form superseded the advantage of embracing your latent illithid abilities, even when doing so would have removed many unnecessary hardships.

This makes Tav smile. “Please, we destroyed the brain just fine without stuffing my head with more worms, thank you. What was truly necessary was preserving this beautiful face!”

The Emperor is unmoved. Then you risked much for your vanity. Though I suspect it is more about stubbornness.

“Gods. I thought you would be funnier.”

What?

“With all the bawdy stories, the songs, I expected more of the roguish sailor.” With a start, the Emperor realizes he is speaking of Balduran. “If becoming illithid would’ve made me less funny, it truly would be a fate worse than death.” There is a pause. Tav then says, “Sorry. That was a joke.”

It may surprise you, but I have retained my capacity to comprehend such things, the Emperor says dryly. We are speaking of your inability to accept change.

“I can accept change! With Gale, I just—I don’t know what I expected. I suppose I didn’t give the decision the attention it deserved. I got complacent, I think, resting upon my laurels after I got Shadowheart to not murder for Shar’s favor, after I smugly showed Lae’zel the truth of her god-queen. I only wanted to encourage Gale to break free as well. I was too one-note about it. Mystra asked for something awful, I won’t fold on that, but she isn’t like Shar, so perhaps…”

You think you should have convinced him otherwise, the Emperor realizes. You think you could have.

“Of course I could have,” Tav says matter-of-factly.

It’s not always up to you. Some minds cannot be changed.

“All minds can be changed,” the bard replies. By me, is the implication. Tav is such a typical specimen of his class sometimes.

Not even a silver tongue can turn everyone aside from their decisions. For example, I saw that you were prepared to argue with me extensively about using the Orphic Hammer. You intended to try and convince me that Orpheus once freed, would somehow refrain from killing us all or withdrawing his protection, that it would somehow be worth the end of everything we worked for. It is fortunate that you ultimately made the right decision. No words could paint such a catastrophic decision in a good light. I could not have continued my alliance with you if you had gone down that path.

“What?” Tav says. “What is that supposed to mean?”

I could not have remained with you and risked imminent death.

Tav rolls his eyes. “What, you would have turned against us? Fought us?”

His flippancy rankles. Perhaps. But at such a disadvantage, in numbers and strength, I would have been forced to flee.

“That’s absurd. Flee where? If you broke our alliance like that, then you would also have lost Orpheus’s protection. You’d be a slave again. If I’d really pushed for freeing Orpheus, you would have no choice but to go along.” There is a rising note in Tav’s voice, almost like a warning.

You’re sorely mistaken. The only choice remaining for me in that scenario would be to return to the Netherbrain.

“What?” Tav says flatly.

Instantly, the Emperor sees that the admission is a mistake. But now he can only try to salvage it, to explain. I have survived and escaped enthrallment twice before. No matter how slim, the chance for freedom is always nonzero…unlike if I were to die altogether.

“So your response would be to—There’s no guarantee that Orpheus would have attacked us, let alone managed to kill you right in front of me! As I said—” Tav cuts himself off. “You’re saying you would have abandoned me, over that? After everything?”

Don’t look at me like that. You would have been the one throwing everything away. We are speaking of betrayal, had you followed through.

“Betrayal?” Tav says indignantly. “Me? After everything I did for—after all the times I’ve defended you in front of the others. Betrayal!”

The nearby bookshelves tremble. There is an echo of power in the bard’s tone, so great is his anger. The Emperor is mildly taken aback.

When the Emperor’s nature as a mind flayer first came to light, Tav had put his hands on his hips and smugly proclaimed he had suspected this twist all along, like a pompous literary critic. Whether this was true or not, he did not so much as raise his voice at the revelation, even while his companions exhibited tired and predictable shock, disgust, horror.

Too good to be true? Perhaps. Sometimes, the Emperor caught less charitable thoughts from Tav, but the only words voiced were kind ones, and the only gestures given were startlingly friendly. Hugs. And later—well, kisses. A chance seized, that night of love to consummate war. Many sweet things were said.

But it must be remembered that Tav, who has deceived other True Souls probing his very mind for loyalty to the Absolute, is something of an excellent liar.

All of this is immaterial, the Emperor says, watching the jars on his table shake. Hypothetical. It didn’t happen. You remained loyal to me. In the important moments, you made the correct decision.

The jars still. Tav wears a bright smile once again. “You’re right. All’s well that ends not as bad as it could have, right?”

During that month of traveling together, the Emperor’s attention had always been exhausted and split at last threefold: Between fighting Orpheus’s forces, channeling the prince’s power against the Absolute’s voice, and keeping an eye on the adventurers. Despite what his reluctant allies feared, the Emperor did not spend a great deal of time monitoring their every thought.

Testing a theory, the Emperor floats forward, advances the equivalent of two paces. And he sees Tav flinch. Barely visible, and yet, it’s a deep, visceral thing. It’s much more mental than physical, and the only reason the Emperor notices is because he now has the capacity to look into Tav’s surface thoughts and emotions as much as he wants.

It is only impressive that Tav has managed to hide it until now.

You should go, the Emperor says.

“What? Why?” Tav replies with convincing bewilderment. He has unfrozen, very quickly, with almost a sheepish air.

There is much for me to do. Even with a great crisis averted, many important matters still occupy me. He makes sure to add, I appreciate the visit. You are an important and competent ally, and I hope we are still able to work together in the future.

Tav pauses and then shrugs graciously. He bows with both elegance and flippancy. He is charming and likeable and there is no hint of confrontation whatsoever.

“I meant to come by earlier, but the months got away from me. I’ve missed you,” he says pleasantly.

It’s easy to respond, I have missed you as well.

The Emperor allots an hour to analyze the interaction.

It should not come as great surprise that Tav is terrified of him, after all. With the crisis over, fronts become harder to maintain, as much as they become less necessary. Even the Emperor cannot keep his forever. Tav’s beautiful dream guardian would never have risked any ugly admissions. Just as, it seems, that Tav had been so extraordinarily cordial—always suggesting it is a simple thing to get along with a mind flayer, just like anybody else, if only you try hard enough.

During their tryst, Tav displayed nothing but adventurous enthusiasm from a playful and confident lover. If there was any deep-set terror, it seems necessity had drowned it beyond detection. In this, the Emperor and Tav must have come to the same conclusion: They required each other’s favor and had therefore mirrored one another to the endpoint of demonstrative trust.

It is strange that Tav has come by at all. Sentiment, perhaps, overriding sense, the tying of loose ends, after recently returning from a gathering of his old friends.

Well, with this out of the way, it may be unlikely to expect a repeat visit. Tav is frightened by the mind flayer, and it’s reasonable. The old matter of incompatible natures, that of the flesh-eater and the flesh-bearer. A mouse does not continue to associate with the cat. If not even Ansur could do it…

The Emperor puts away that line of thought alongside the remainder of the wine. Later, when he catches a straggler of the Bhaal cult, he first forces the man to pop a bottle and taste it and show the experience of the drink through his thoughts. It is a deep red, which pairs elegantly with, well, meaty dishes.

In that gauzy previous life, Balduran was more of a beer-drinker, sailor as he was.

All of the wines Tav has gifted are reds.

Chapter 2: The Emperor is lectured about elves

Chapter Text

The joyful, seethingly mad thing within the cursed amulet turned on Tav in the end, of course, when they reached the Temple of the Open Hand. The Emperor was only peripherally paying attention, occupied as he was by the Absolute’s increased assaults, when the elf nearly traded his sanity in the crossfire.

(He picks up on the pattern later—Tav, who carries a mind flayer in his pocket, had also taken to wearing a ghost around his neck. If Tav could carry ten sentient rings and two singing swords, he would.)

“What were you thinking?” Minthara had thundered loudly enough for everyone. “Taking on the ghost’s curse from him could have had permanent repercussions on your mind! We should have destroyed it the moment we saw that the granddaughter was dead and the agreement impossible to fulfill.”

Tav laughed in response, which did not alleviate anyone’s concern. “My mind? Why, is there something wrong with my head?”

“What our drow friend is saying,” interjected Gale, “is that adding additional afflictions atop a tadpole tenant is perhaps not the wisest course of action. If none of it matters at all, then we may as well continue to cram our craniums with parasites, like our illithid compatriot keeps suggesting. But, contrary to the creature’s advice, you haven’t done so. Clearly you know better, hm?”

“You’ve opinions about knowing better, have you, Gale?”

“Yes, yes, very funny. You can’t use my past mistakes against me for every single thing from now on.”

Karlach sighed. “What were you thinking, soldier? I get that if a spirit in an amulet asks you to bring him somewhere, you might help him out, even if he’s a touch unwell, but saying yes to having his curse passed onto you? That’s a bit much.”

Tav shrugged. “I didn’t get his curse passed onto me. And even if I did, it wasn’t just because I was being nice.”

“The boon offered in exchange was tiny!” Minthara snarled. “If you need to control the battlefield, you already have many options.”

“Come, now. You of all people know the power of having an additional spell available, on demand. We can’t all be wizards, eh? Besides, I’ve wanted this one. For the sake of the mission, I’ve been prioritizing the most optimal options, but now…if nobody finds my jokes funny, well. They will have no choice but to laugh, right?”

Karlach said, “Gods, you’re just still mad that comedian at the Elfsong called you a flop.”

“My jokes were good!” cried Tav. “The audience just didn’t appreciate them, because they are plebians. I am a funny guy! Not as funny as you are, though, dear Minthara. There, there. We’ll go back down to the sewers and make mincemeat of our foes ‘til their blood runneth up to our knees, and then you’ll feel better. I’m fine. The curse failed to take hold because I was stood right next to you. How could I come to harm when I have you at my side?”

“Hmm,” grunted the drow.

“I can’t believe I’m the one here being reprimanded for risk-taking behavior. All of you are hypocrites!”

Tav has the hoarding instinct of all adventurers, though he usually sells what he cannot use. In this case, he keeps the now powerless amulet in his pocket. When he eventually recovers the empty Astral Prism, he puts that on a chain, too, like he is starting a collection of trinkets with twice-departed ghosts.

Three weeks after Tav's last appearance, there is a thump behind the back door. It sounds like banging on the hatch that leads to the sewers at first, but quickly becomes a rattling of the door itself.

A strange thing akin to hope fills the Emperor, and, without thinking, he extends his senses to that mind…only to feel, as always, a buzz of absence.

With the parasite gone, Tav’s mind does not remember how to reach out and entwine with the Emperor’s on instinct. It has become like everyone else’s—a distant muffle that is always confused about itself. The Emperor can easily identify Tav through the door, of course, but without illithid connection, even a half-formed one, they are so cleaved. What that connection could have become, if only Tav had evolved…

It is such a loss of potential. An unborn, history-shaking greatness, gone when the Astral Tadpole withered alongside all of the others.

Of course, there is no way to ever make Tav, who built a pyramid of unopened parasite jars at his camp for decoration, understand what this loss is.

Another knock, impatient this time. If the door is not answered, Tav will pick the lock, no matter if he fears the mind flayer lurking behind. Evolved or not, the hero of Baldur’s Gate is a storm sweeping everything into his wake—the Emperor can admit that much. He gets the door.

Once again, the bard is dragging something beyond his physical capability to carry; since he has snuck through the sewers, his cargo must be precious indeed. But he waves the Emperor’s help off.

“Wait! Wait! Watch this.” Excitement palpable, Tav extends a hand and begins to hum. A song permeates the very bones, a changing of the vibration of the air. An arcane magic that tastes so different to psionics. The luggage begins to lift itself. “Not bad, right? And I didn’t even have to sprout tentacles to do it with my mind.”

And it seems Tav is determined to remain difficult about that, even months later. Instead of rising to the bait, the Emperor says, New spell?

“Old spell,” Tav says, stretching his arms and brushing off his hat. “You know, before a tadpole scrambled my brains, I used to be a lot more powerful. Everyone else was griping about that, too—I forgot to do my share of complaining. I am saying this because you still seem to think it was hubris or something that caused me to refuse my latent illithid potential. I wasn’t being overconfident against the Netherbrain! I’ll have you know that I’ve been a veteran adventurer, and have rightful assurance in my abilities.”

I know. That is why I chose you.

“And I suppose that means you know everything there is to know about me, then? Found it all boring, did you?”

No. I searched your mind aboard the nautiloid, of course, since I needed to find someone with the skills for our undertaking, but between being chased by the gith and formulating my plan, I hardly had time to watch every candidate’s life story.

Tav jabs his finger triumphantly. “That’s what I thought! If you did, perhaps you’d appreciate me more.”

The Emperor is not touching his thoughts at the moment, but still follows the conversational leap. Amused, he says, I see. I acknowledge there is much I do not know about you, other than your profession and that you live in Baldur’s Gate.

“And this is because you’ve asked me no personal questions, whatsoever,” Tav says smugly.

You’ve criticized me for keeping my history to myself, accused me of keeping secrets.

“Because I’ve asked many personal questions about you, which you absolutely refuse to elaborate on,” Tav returns. “The asking part is what I’m emphasizing. Keep up,” he adds, eyes twinkling.

The mind flayer plays along. Very well. Tell me of yourself.

“Oh, I’ve lived a long and storied life,” the elf intones.

As you’ve said.

“You realize Tav is not my true name, right?”

This is an intentional non-sequitur. The Emperor considers this and remembers that many high elves have a specific tradition. Elven children tend to be given short names, and then choose their own upon reaching adulthood. You still go by your child-name, then?

“It’s much easier to pronounce and remember in Common.” Tav suddenly laughs. “Despite everything, you are so very Baldurian, aren’t you?” The Emperor stares at him until he continues, “Our city is in the extreme majority, human-centric. In all the important ways, from the customs to the taxation policies. The dukes are all humans, as are the majority of the patriars, who make the laws. That’s the culture, for better or for worse. I’ve made my home here for over a century. For better or for worse. So yes, I’m Tav.”

And?

“These are not proper questions,” Tav says. “Listen, I know you might have misplaced some of your social graces back in the Astral Prism. But as you keep reminding me, you’re very clever. You can do it!”

The Emperor is almost annoyed enough to see if stepping closer will menace Tav enough to make him drop whatever this is. Instead, he says, What is your true name?

For a moment, Tav stares at him, somewhat startled. His eyes are the sort of gray that can look any color, depending on the lighting. Then, he grins and tuts. “Amongst elves, that’s a terribly blunt thing to ask. Names have power.”

You only brought the subject up to entrap me, then?

“I brought it up to tell you something important about myself, since I am already in the habit of helping you when you are struggling.”

Tav would have made a magnificent illithid indeed. It is such a waste. But there is amusem*nt to be found in playing these sorts of games. Where did you go, on your very first adventure?

“Icewind Dale!” the elf says. “Cliché, I know. But it was much nicer back then. How excited I was—taking off nearly the very hour I came of age. And how utterly disappointed when I got there and found so, so many frost zombies. And my very first dragon, of course!” In elaborate fashion, he goes on to describe what was in reality just a panicked glimpse of an ancient wyrm winging past.

Even a bard’s words are limited, by virtue of being words. The Emperor musters himself, crosses the chasm between them, and joins their minds—and it’s almost like before. Perhaps by habit, Tav welcomes him in.

They see the beautiful boreal expanse of a faraway sky, the curtain of eternal snow. The Emperor actually recognizes the dragon in question: Arveiaturace, the White Wyrm, whom every sailor knows to fear, as she still ranges the Sea of Swords to this very day. Mountain peaks. Log cabins. A pair of laughing human faces, a tiefling, and a halfling. Pink cheeks, roaring campfires, the new-ink smell of a document stamped with an adventuring guild’s crest.

Your very first adventuring party, I take it?

Tav’s smile twists sadly. “Friends of mine.”

You did not lose anyone on this journey, did you?

“Ah, no. Well, not permanently. It was a resounding success, everyone survived that part, more or less intact. Riches. Heroism. People got married. It was a hundred and seventy-six years ago.”

Ah. There had been no other elven or even half-elven faces among that party. I’m sorry.

“Don’t be. It’s commonplace for my kind. My parents were rather terrible about it, though. Candles and moths, they always said. Like the length of time determines some greater worth. They would've told me to stop associating with Karlach.” His mouth curls. “I’m being unkind. They came around eventually, to better attitudes. Everyone does, given the opportunity, and perhaps a long life is a blessing indeed, since some people need more time to get there than others. So now do you understand why I do not consider becoming a mind flayer an ascension?”

Of course this story has a point. The Emperor is now concluding that the hero of Baldur's Gate simply loves to bicker, enough to travel to a mind flayer’s lair to continue debating their big point of disagreement throughout the journey. Perhaps that’s not a surprise. Thaniel’s shadow twin, Oliver, had once accused Tav of being a poor winner.

“All of those friends of mine are gone, and I alone remain to carry them,” Tav says solemnly. “To tell their stories. To sing their songs. If my feelings about them change, then an important part about it is lost. The same goes for you, when you’re gone. You, too, I shall remember.”

What a strange thing to say. Oh? You plan to outlive me?

“Considering I know you are already older than me, it’s more than likely,” the elf replies with a grin. “I’m sure you’ve got your tricks, but mind flayers are shorter-lived than elves. In fact, I should have been arguing with you about elven superiority. My parents certainly equipped me with enough talking points.” He sighs. “I just don’t wish you to think I wasn’t taking the situation seriously. I was! If I had to die in the final fight against the Absolute, like everyone kept saying, because I wasn’t strong enough, because I didn’t take you up on the Astral Tadpole or any of its lesser cousins previously…then, so be it. It wouldn’t even be the real end of me, technically speaking. You, um, know about that, right?”

I see. The Emperor nods slowly. I did not address that set of implications when I asked you to give up your current form and become illithid. Since high elves reincarnate, by virtue of being Corellon’s children, I was asking for more than your current lifespan. I see now how my rhetoric, which did not acknowledge a major part of your culture, identity, and nature, could have been refined.

“Is that what you’re drawing from this?” Tav snorts. He shakes his head and then looks down at his feet. “Anyways, sorry. I’m boring you. I came to return what I looted.”

The Emperor flips open one of the lids and looks inside. This is yours to keep. All of this.

“I can’t wear the Helm of Balduran out on the street!” the elf exclaims. “Someone will recognize it.”

The Emperor says wearily, I have no use for it.

“Neither do I. It’s certainly exceptional gear, but my face is definitely not the right shape. And this is no better.” With a clang, Tav heaves Balduran’s giant-slaying greatsword onto a nearby rack, alongside the Emperor’s old armor, neatly folded and freshly polished. “That, I can’t wear. Firstly, it’s too heavy and secondly, I really can’t pull it off. I am keeping your longsword, though. It’s very beautiful.”

The Emperor stares for a while at the weapon last wielded against the final remnant of his heart. Take them back, then, to Ansur’s resting place. Or sell it all for coin. I care not.

“You care not? I find that hard to believe.” Tav straightens and sighs. “Do it yourself, if you really wish.”

I am not going to perish within the timeline you suggest, the Emperor says. Having absorbed the power of the Son of Gith, my abilities and vitality are enhanced. I have ascended beyond even the greatest of my kind. Given the nature of your adventuring, I may just outlive you.

Tav brightens. There is sudden, true joy in his mind, and then he remembers to snipe back, “Oh, you’ve ascended beyond grief, is that it? Since you care so little? How’s that going for you?”

I have never said that. I told you very clearly that Duke Stelmane’s death greatly affected me.

Just as quickly, something in Tav’s expression abruptly shutters, as does his mind. Perhaps there is something true to what they say about the quicksilver moods of elves.

What?

“Nothing,” Tav replies. “I tried your recipe.”

The Emperor could easily reach past the mental shield Tav has constructed, but even with the tadpole's loss, the elf has learned how to notice such things. That will not end well. The fiddlehead soup? Was it to your taste?

“I’m not a great cook. That was more of Gale’s…well, it turned out alright, I think. I liked it. It was very homey.”

They are saved from whatever this is by a sound from the hallway on the other side of the room—the direction of the Elfsong.

The Emperor reacts immediately, throwing open his hidden door and revealing an armored figure standing awkwardly at the threshold.

“Wyll,” Tav says, blinking. “I said I would be over in a half hour.”

The man’s hand twitches in the direction of his blade, but carefully does not leave his side. “Well, since we were visiting Shadowheart, I figured getting there early would be no hardship. Imagine my surprise when I spot you walking in the opposite direction from where she lives, and then down a manhole.”

“Because I have somewhere else to be,” Tav replies. “And here we are.”

Wyll circles in from the doorway, counting exits—there are still two—scanning the shadows for ambush. “I thought it was strange, after months of not seeing one another, that you would suddenly bring up the topic of Balduran’s artifacts, asking me if I wanted to have any of them myself. If I had known this was what it was about…I would have said yes.”

“Since you didn’t, I’m returning them to their owner.”

“You should donate them to a museum.”

“That wouldn’t work. If you give this stuff away, people question if it’s even the genuine article. You’ve got to dangle it for an exorbitant price, turn down twenty offers, and then sell it to an eccentric patriar’s private collection for a million gold.”

“Ugh. Symbols of hope should not be locked away in some nobleman’s vault. They should be guarded, but not inaccessible.” Wyll blinks, as he realizes he has neatly fallen into Tav’s verbal trap. His eyebrows pinch and he averts the Emperor’s gaze, looking instead at the bricks slightly to the left of the mind flayer’s head. “I see that you’ve returned.”

I have, the Emperor says cordially.

“I would’ve expected you to go elsewhere, since this location is arguably compromised, isn’t it?” Wyll, the Blade of Avernus, will never let his fears cow him into not speaking his mind. “Perhaps to a quieter part of town. People bring their families to the Elfsong.”

The Emperor had prepared a soft landing here—look, he had a mother, he had a dog, he kept a friend’s portrait next to his desk!—but it only takes a moment of the mask slipping for his nature to shake someone, forever. It cannot be avoided. He calms himself and speaks slowly.

Despite your diverging paths, I see that you and your father are very alike.

“Alright, enough,” Tav says lightly. “There’s nothing to hide, Wyll, and I’m not creeping around enough for you to stalk me. Cease this and allot your energies elsewhere.”

Wyll nods curtly to the mind flayer. “I don’t have any intention to harm or hunt you. I have seen true evil in this world, and until you slide into its shadow, you have nothing to fear from me.”

How generous.

“I’ll see you shortly, Tav. We don’t want to run late. You know how Shadowheart’s mother tires quickly if the evening stretches on—and Karlach’s time up here shouldn’t be wasted.”

“And I thought I was nosy,” the elf complains. He makes a face at the hidden stairwell where Wyll has departed. “I suppose it is time for me to go, though. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be such a good idea, but next time, you should come with me and visit Shadowheart’s family. She would be glad to see you again, truly.”

I doubt that. If anything, I’ve heard that her parents’ constitutions are quite frail, so I imagine alarming them in any capacity would be unwelcome.

“Shadowheart likes you. She said so.” Tav puts his hands on his hips. “You know, only three out of the entire old party really has major issues with you at all—Wyll and Karlach had so many problems with devils that they struggle with anyone who isn’t upfront. And Lae’zel, well. You know. But it’s mainly that she pinned her hopes on Orpheus—even then, it’s never been personal towards you, specifically. The whole thing with Vlaakith and Orpheus proves she actually is quite receptive to having her beliefs challenged, even fundamental ones. If you make the effort.”

I will keep that in mind, should I need to closely work with her specifically in the future.

Tav heaves a sigh. After a moment, he seems to rally himself. He straightens and smiles. “I am serious about it. Just…try. It won’t be as challenging as you might expect. Consider how greater compatibility with your allies would benefit you, right? When I next visit Shadowheart, I’ll come get you beforehand. As for the others…Think on it.”

I will.

At least Tav has concluded that alliances remain valuable enough to overcome the barriers. This knowledge is pleasing; despite his bouts of frivolity and arguable insanity, Tav has always been reliably pragmatic, enough to win the respect of Minthara and Jaheira alike. While the Emperor has doubts about the value of attempting to befriend Lae’zel, of all individuals, continuing to display concordance will please Tav.

“I’ll see you soon, then, yes?”

Until then, keep well.

Tav winks as he goes. “I always do.”

Chapter 3: Tav hangs out with Omeluum

Chapter Text

“It would certainly be the strangest alliance I’ve made,” Jaheira says, rubbing her chin. “But then, our tentacled compatriot is quite unique among his kind, I would say. Especially since those documents we found suggested that he could lie to his masters even while held under the Absolute’s thrall.”

She refers to the interrogation transcript they had recovered from the late Lord Gortash’s possession, and how the contradictions are fascinating. In the interview with his captor, the Emperor made several questionable claims, including that he escaped the elder brain the first time by himself…notably, there are no mentions of Ansur in this great escape.

“Of course he could lie to Gortash,” Tav replies. “Gortash couldn’t read the truth from anyone’s minds.”

“But at that point, these Chosen of the Dead Three controlled the elder brain. They were the masters of his master. Why are you arguing with me? I’m telling you that I’m contemplating writing to an illithid. If you told me this a hundred years ago, how I would have laughed. And then mustered every Harper I could to the Elfsong.”

Inevitably, Jaheira has returned to Baldur’s Gate, after taking her time away. She is picking up where she left off, and that means she is bothering Tav all the time about the Good of the City. Tav hopes that by suggesting she leverage the Emperor’s burgeoning network, the two of them can bother each other with their secret spy-work instead, and Tav can spend less time in meetings, especially discreet ones that require searching out the location first. It was fun at first, until it wasn’t. As always, he is itching to grab a horse and ride for a day straight somewhere far—visit Halsin again, maybe. Or follow those rumors, go look for treasure along the border of Elturgard.

“I’m not arguing,” Tav says. “I’m just glad you’re not dismissing the idea out of hand. It’s why you’ve always been my favorite, even with the constant worry that you’re about to fall over with a heart attack. I don’t think he will completely outright lie to you about things—he might reserve that for people he dislikes.”

Uncharacteristically, Jaheira does not go along with the jokes about her age. “It’s a little late for you, of all people, to have doubts about your mind flayer’s trustworthiness, is it not?”

Tav sighs. “Contrary to what everyone is thinking, I’ve always been perfectly aware that his behavior was full of subterfuge, and probably still is. One extremely insane, terror-packed month is enough for us adventurers to get along nicely, but even in the end…I think he didn’t really trust us. I just mean he’ll probably be a little cold to you, so don’t be surprised.”

“Ah, should I show up with flowers in hand?” the High Harper laughs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve wooed. And I would never purport to have greater skills than you. Perhaps you’re right and I should bow to your experience, especially when your results have been quite fruitful, hm?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Tav says, grinning.

“Oh, please! I did not need a psychic connection to figure out you have somehow managed to sleep with the mind flayer. Was it any good?”

“Of course it was good. It’s mind sex.” Tav wiggles his fingers dramatically.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask if you are still sleeping with the mind flayer?”

“You know, I haven’t brought it up. Things have been very busy these past few months, and I’ve only seen him about twice since the Absolute’s fall.”

Jaheira’s voice is very dry. “Not a great, sweeping romance, then? Too bad. You could go around telling everyone you’ve won the heart of the legendary Balduran himself. He has returned from the dead out of love for you.”

Tav quirks an eyebrow, refusing to be embarrassed. “That would be quite a tale, wouldn’t it? No, I think he was just pulling an Astarion on me. I tried my best, of course, but he may well have been faking enjoyment the entire way through—I honestly can’t tell. Now that I think about it, I don’t even know if illithids seek out physical pleasure of that nature.”

“Hah. Of course you would be concerned about your performance!” Jaheira says. “You should be flattered you drove him to try that! I would ask why you didn’t turn him down, but then again, I am speaking to a bard who is determined to be a stereotype.”

Tav smiles. “I am only too happy to describe to you every filthy detail if you want, but…?”

She folds her arms. “You’ve simply been very helpful, great hero. I suppose you’ll go on saying you’re just doing your part like any other responsible citizen of our fair city?”

“Exactly,” Tav replies. “Just doing my part. You should know that I’m not a particularly great harpist. People assume bards play everything, but that’s not entirely the case.”

“You say that, and yet I’m sure your skills surpass nine out of ten people I will meet. But no, depleted as the ranks are, I haven’t fallen so low as to throw silver pins at those-who-don’t-harp.”

“That’s good, since I’m much more of a…lute-er. Eh?” Tav jingles his sleeve, which contains at least four purses and a small wine carafe.

“Ugh. They will arrest you for those puns more so than your sticky fingers.” The old druid is quiet for a moment, and turns somewhat serious. “Nowadays, it’s frowned upon to ask a Harper to seduce a mark. You are not one of my Harpers, of course. I’m not asking anything of you.”

Tav puts his hands on his hips. “What a roundabout way of asking something of me.”

“I’m…suggesting, nothing more,” Jaheira says thoughtfully. “Whatever the relationship is between the two of you, it’s useful. If anything, I truly have started to believe that your renegade illithid is tame, and you have a part in keeping it that way.”

Tav shrugs.

“Don’t mistake this as an invitation to take any risks. It’s still an illithid. I can stand to send some letters and exchange some information, even with the creature that wanted Minsc dead. Nine-Fingers wants Minsc dead as well. But you are the one paying house visits to the mind flayer’s lair.”

Tav makes a face. “For all his faults, he’s never harmed me. I don’t think he’s dangerous.”

“He needed you as much you needed him,” Jaheira replies. “And now, this is not so much the case. Now, we come to this freedom we have all fought for, which has its own risks. Of course, I’ve seen Bhaalspawn overcome their Father’s bloody legacy. Anyone with a mind of their own can choose to do the right thing, but by that same coin, they can choose to go the other way. So, keep your eye on the mind flayer, since you are in the position to do so, but be careful. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Tav echoes dryly.

Jaheira folds her arms. “You’re still coming to dinner?”

“Ah, Jaheira, I wouldn’t miss it even if the city were dragged into the Shadowfell.”

“Somewhere new and interesting, at least!” The Harper tilts her head. Her gaze turns meaningful. “You know, when you come over you could stay for a few days, or longer. As long as you’d like. We wouldn’t mind.”

Tav shrugs again. “I’d love to, but you know how it is. Adventuring to do. It never stops. Good night.”

“Right. Good night, cub.” Jaheira looks as though she might say something else. But she merely nods back as Tav throws a wave over his shoulder.

One of the first things the mysterious dream visitor said into his head was, “Try something else”.

Tav had startled, remembered his odd, not-quite-dream the night before, and said incredulously, “What do you mean ‘something else’? I missed. It happens.”

At the time, Tav was in a terrible temper. He had a crossbow taken off a corpse that didn’t pull back all the way, and it was badly weighted. His legs still shook, though it had been two nights since the nautiloid crash. He hadn’t felt this feeble since the first time leaving home with only his mother’s old sword, a knapsack, and bedroll. There was a mind flayer tadpole in his brain!!

And now he was being micromanaged on how to fight.

The voice had another comment, of course, when Tav again failed to execute what he intended against half-drunk goblins; it did not reply to any retorts. It was one-sided micromanagement.

Eventually, Tav was glad to be annoyed—that was the reassuring part. Because otherwise it was difficult to not like his dream guardian, who was so valiant and lovely and sad. It was easy to be kind to someone who trembled just the slightest within an embrace, like he was afraid to hug back. And it was certainly easy to forget that the main goal expressed by this alluring figure was to convince them all to put more parasites into their heads.

So, annoyance was grounding. And it was a relief when the game was over, and the Emperor could stop batting his eyelashes, since he didn’t have any. Then, they could have nice, honest disagreements on which courses of actions were best, and which were insane things to do.

Well, mostly honest.

And then, that night when they reached the Elfsong Tavern, which is funny in retrospect.

Despite what people say about bards, Tav did not set out to collect the Emperor as a notch on the bedpost or the crown jewel of exotic experiences…but since the opportunity arose, it was easy enough to offer that kind of comfort during a stressful time. Keep the mind flayer happy and all, so he doesn’t eat anyone.

Tav is very beautiful—if he doesn’t say so himself!—and usually a smile from him is enough to salve the loneliness of anyone, from broken-bird maidens to battle-beaten paladins. If not that, then a song; they will weep and then feel better. And if not that, the trick is to give them a kiss on the forehead. This essentially cures all angst and later, they will describe the encounter as “sweet”, even if considerably spicier activities are done after.

It worked on his companions, who all carried entirely separate burdens aside from the tadpoles, and were all too glad for any type of friendliness.

It was strange, almost heartwarming, that it worked on the mind flayer as well—or so Tav thought. About three seconds after getting dressed, the Emperor was somehow already talking about the Astral Tadpole again. This was amazing. Tav was truly impressed at how thoroughly a mood could be killed.

When the Netherbrain crashed into the harbor, the mind flayer watched them squeeze the water from their clothes and then declared he was off onto his next endeavors, which did not include hanging out.

And that should have been the end of it, really. The Emperor fulfilled what he promised to do without any last-minute devilish twists, and everyone was too relieved to think any more about it.

But even as six months passed, Tav wondered about the illithid living underneath the tavern, without any carpet or windows, haunting cobwebbed wine racks, shuffling papers and…what? Influencing tariff laws? Hiding from people in the sewers and the shadows, Astarion’s personal hell?

The Emperor said he was content with such an existence.

During the chaos of the climb up to the Netherbrain, a volley from a passing nautiloid had knocked them all about a little. Tav had stumbled into his illithid ally and blindly grabbed at the Emperor’s quarterstaff for balance. When his hand made contact, Tav suddenly smelled salt and heard waves and felt the memory of love for the ocean—the limitless grace of skies so blue they were devastating, the joy, the freedom, oh, the freedom, it was all so far away now.

Luckily, between the bombardments and the grueling climb, Tav could say his eyes were watering from the smoke.

The aftermath of disaster seems to stretch on, forever. Even after eight months, they are still fishing mind flayer bodies from the harbor and clearing the rubble from the streets.

“It’s why you really shouldn’t be up here,” Tav mutters, peeking around the next dock like thorough scouting alone could prevent Omeluum from being chased with torches and pitchforks.

The researcher seems to be in cheery mood, if illithids have those. In case my disguise fails, I have you to reapply an illusion. And if that fails as well, I have you to defend me. But I agree. You are one of the few people amenable to taking risks like this, for someone like me.

“I don’t mislike an adventure, not after months of tedious and inglorious clean-up. But what could be so important?” Tav says. “You said it was a bad idea to get involved with surface matters.”

Yes. This is not a surface matter. You see, the Society has extended its aid to a large group of vampire spawn who have taken up residence in the Underdark.

“Oh.”

As a part of our mission statement, we strive to carry out acts of philanthropy and charity, when we are able. Of course, it would be wonderful for recruitment. Having a diverse group of minds increases the quality of our research as a whole, and expedites our goals for creating a better Underdark for all.

“I’m sure there’s bound to be a scholar or two among those seven thousand,” Tav agrees. “After they can overcome their ravenous bloodthirst and the overwhelming frenzy of freedom, I’m sure they might even become interested in reading books again. Is that what you need help with?”

The mind flayer waits patiently as Tav opens every single crate they come upon for useful or useless-but-sellable contents. Securing a stable food source for an entire society has been challenging. Even if they wish to live in peace, hunger drives any creature to violence. To ensure they have the chance to overcome their natures, the matter of logistics must not stand as a barrier.

“Good enough for me, I suppose.”

Clearly. You’ve only asked why we are doing this now.

“Omeluum, you’re one of the most responsible people I know. Don’t give me that look. It’s true. Unfortunate, but true. I’ve been elbow-deep in rubble and Harper correspondence and people’s missing dogs and I’m going crazy. I will do anything for you.”

I am only too pleased to leverage your boredom.

Tav grins. “But you’re absolutely correct, my friend. I’ve forgotten to do the pleasantries that you must have missed so much: How have you been?”

I have been well, Omeluum says, amused.

“And Blurg? How is he?”

The very same. I understand it is expected that I elaborate, except I fear you would be uninterested in the specifics of our research, which make up the bulk of our daily activities.

“And it is entirely true that I probably wouldn’t understand half of it,” Tav agrees. “But you should still talk about it, if you want; that’s half the fun for me.”

Omeluum has come up with a formula for some kind of iron-based serum that mimics the contents of blood. This is, of course, only half of the problem—closer to a quarter, maybe. Vampires do not just drink blood for its nutritional content, which is apparently close to nothing anyways. The question of instilling this nutritional supplement with the necessary vitality to quell the vampiric thirst is a question for another day. But it’s a start. Tav believes all problems are solved the same way: One step at a time.

There are only three bored-looking guards about the shipment, dicing and drinking. They are Nine-Finger’s people, in a technical sense, though the Guildmaster has a list of people who stayed loyal to her during the Stone Lord conflict—and for the people who didn’t, she’s made it clear that if they die in some mishap, well. Bad luck.

It would be quite trivial for Tav to take them out, even entirely alone. But out of an abundance of caution, he sits with Omeluum atop a crane that overlooks their target, waiting for nightfall to blind the all-human crew, and for the accumulating alcohol to make it that much easier.

Besides, Omeluum is pleasant, interesting company. It has better manners than a certain other mind flayer, who shall remain unnamed.

Psychic closeness is natural to our kind, and necessary. The hivemind is what we were created for, Omeluum is explaining.

“Mmh. I don’t miss the headaches from having a worm tunneled through my brain matter, but I miss…the connection.” That’s the easiest way to describe the ringing silence he feels. It’s like walking alone in a vast cave. It’s like making camp in the wilderness after being in the city for a while. It’s like…

Well, it’s exactly like that one time at Sharess’s Caress when Raphael had offered the deal. Of course, Tav told the Emperor afterwards what a relief it was to get some peace and quiet.

Omeluum is waiting, without interrupting, for Tav to continue his thought. How courteous of it.

“You know, I don’t think it would have been possible for a group like ours to build so much trust so quickly without a literal telepathic bond to facilitate it. The party was filled with clashing personalities, cultural chasms, and enough moral disparities to diversify a philosophy school. And among them, it was decided for some reason that I was the sole peacemaker to be found.” Tav chuckles. “Being able to have your point of view become understood in a single instance…that alone prevented a great deal of physical violence. The fact that Shadowheart and Lae’zel still managed to fight all the time is truly impressive!”

I don’t think what you’re feeling is a lingering side effect from the parasite, Omeluum says reassuringly. But when you remember what it is like, it is only natural to miss the positives.

“Do you miss anything about before? Before you changed into a mind flayer, that is. Or evolved. Whatever.”

There is not quite a “before”, as I did not exist then. Omeluum hesitates. You have been surrounded by a plethora of unique cases. You must remember that I began life as a tadpole in a brine pool, and I was placed within a host. When I was born as “me”, that host died.

Tav winces at the memory of screaming from the Rivington windmill, and the newborn horror he’d discovered within. “But you—that host—was probably a wizard or something, and a fairly good one at that. Those very arcane talents stayed with you and let you break free from your colony. But you remember nothing about them?”

Nothing of any significance. Typically, the illithid’s identity is entirely separate from its former host, though occasionally superficial habits may transfer over. Foot-tapping or humming, for example. Small psionic residuals, nothing more. But nothing of the essence, as you would understand it, of the host, as that would be counterintuitive to the colony’s function—such individualism, the cause of so much conflict in humanoid societies, is poison to a hivemind.

Omeluum is quiet again. Tav waits patiently.

From your descriptions, it appears that the Emperor retains much of the individual known as Balduran. This is considered most aberrant.

“He has always been quick to describe how very special he is,” Tav says wryly. “But he made me think all the stories about mind flayers losing their past identities were exaggerated, because while he clearly has issues with being accused of being Balduran…well, I don’t know. How are mind flayers named? I assume it’s different than your host’s, since you’ve gone on about being separate beings.”

Omeluum blinks, but answers, It’s different, yes. We choose a moniker to go by. I do not know what my host’s name was.

“Mmh. He didn’t take on the name ‘The Emperor’ until he had built up a big enough secret spy network that other people gave him such a pompous title. Before then…I have reason to suspect he still called himself Balduran. Names have power. If he’d lost his, then why hasn’t he lost his?”

You speak of something impossible, but this may very well be the case. In a colony, such an illithid would be immediately destroyed. You see, it is one of the greatest fears of an elder brain—for a great Adversary to arise with all the superior powers of our kind but retaining the nature of “lesser beings”. If such a process could be replicated, it could mean a fundamental shift for my kind.

“Oh? Mind flayer revolution?”

That concept should be inherently impossible. The very process of how we are created serves as the failsafe for any notion of large-scale rebellion against an elder brain. The Grand Design was formulated intentionally and meticulously for its purpose. And yet…here I am, sitting here and contemplating if my kind could evolve.

“True. The original mind flayer empire fell to the gith within a ridiculously short time, didn’t it? A single year? Anything can happen.” Tav grins. “And you’re researching vegan options. Perhaps I’ll even live to see it, some centuries ahead—the day when mind flayers walk around in bars as much as dragonborn or tortles.”

What a statistically unlikely image, Omeluum says, but there is delight trickling from it like water from a spring. Even without the parasite, Tav feels it without utilizing thought-detecting magic from his end—is Omeluum projecting, or does Tav retain some miniscule psionic ability? He is about to ask, when movement catches his eye.

He straightens. “Is that a smokepowder barrel that’s being loaded next door?”

Omeluum follows his gaze. You aren’t thinking of…

“Mmh. We may have to do much more running than we planned, but improvising is the heart of all plans. Surely those guards will be entirely occupied if there is a ship burning down nearby. We can walk right in. Well, run.”

That seems very loud, Omeluum says, alarmed. I was under the impression you preferred to be discreet. Hence, our patiently waiting.

Tav stands, laughing, “No, I can be direct. I can use force to solve problems, I can be crazy. Let’s get a little crazy and silly.”

That’s—

“Ignis!” shrieks Tav.

“Is that enough, to test your serum with? I suppose we could come back next week.”

Smoke rises in the horizon. The din of shouting is distant, by now. A piece of rudder flies past them. Nobody questions them as they walk down the street with a large barrel.

It’s enough. The meekness of the mind flayer’s words makes Tav cackle.

“This is just what it’s like in the big city, my friend. This is why no matter where I go, I always have to come back home.”

Perhaps I misjudged you. It takes someone of equally tactical and daring disposition to have undertaken the gauntlet of rescuing every prisoner at the Iron Throne, including myself.

“You’ve already thanked me for that. No need to revisit it.” Tav glances over. “You’re not disappointed, are you?”

We have secured what we have come for, in an efficient, if not unorthodox manner—although perhaps I should defer to the adventurer as to what is considered unorthodox. What would I be disappointed about?

“If it came down to a fight, I might have had to kill the guards,” Tav says. “Since we walked for free, you might have missed out on a meal.”

Omeluum is honestly quite easy to read. Tav meets five people like Omeluum whenever he enters a library or university. He's fetched alchemy ingredients and the like for completely human scholars who are less emotive than the illithid. (Ha, that's a good one. I know mind flayers nicer than you.)

The researcher essentially shrugs with its tentacles. The possibility did occur to me that you revised your initial strategy in order to cement the avoidance of casualties, the mind flayer says serenely. And yes, had it been opportune, I would have fed. I came with you on this endeavor to both aid you, and for my own interest in that regard. I will not hide that from you.

“And now that the opportunity has passed?”

Others will arise. There’s no need for your concern, child of the sun. You have done what is right.

“Well, I’m glad somebody thinks so.”

Omeluum must be reaching out, somehow. Its mental voice projects the impression of sunlight through leaves to Tav—which is a nice gesture, since mind flayers dislike bright light. I have never met anyone like you. I can see why you would draw in another member of my kind. Perhaps, if my research permits me, I could find some time to correspond. It is always interesting to speak with another renegade.

“Maybe,” Tav says, grimacing a little. “I haven’t suggested it sooner, only because…well. It’s just that the Emperor can be a little imperious. And if he starts acting snobbishly towards you, I think I really will have to kill him.”

Chapter 4: The Emperor hangs out with Shadowheart

Chapter Text

Like he acted with all allies, dubious or otherwise, Tav was cordial to Raphael. This was a great source of vexation for the Emperor, especially after he learned that the elf had backtracked from the city proper only to meet with the devil at Sharess’s Caress, a conversation that had been blocked from him.

At least Tav had been immediately upfront about what Raphael wanted, a deal which he said he turned down. Perhaps it could have been left to rest. But after that conversation, the Emperor could not help but notice that Tav was thinking very loudly about the Orphic Hammer. His thoughts were patterning alarmingly into intent. That night, the Emperor took a moment during downtime to once more remind Tav who his real protector was.

“Why, are you seeking reassurance from me?” Tav said, staring up at the Wrym’s Crossing night sky from his bedroll. He had taken the Astral Prism from his pack and held it between his hands. “You don’t have to worry. Do you think I like Raphael sincerely?”

The Emperor mustered some more attention away from the Absolute to sift through that statement. It seemed the elf was being earnest.

(But so was Ansur, until the very end.)

You have worked with him before, for Astarion’s sake, and now he is purporting you do it again for Lae’zel’s. But this is different. It is over for all of us if the prince goes free. You must not have any doubts. I need to know that you are committed to our cause.

“Or what?”

Perhaps he was pushing too hard. The Emperor started to withdraw, and then felt Tav reach after him, mentally.

“Do you want to see the conversation that you missed? Maybe that will help.”

You have already summarized it to me. I told you, I appreciated your honesty, despite an opportunity that you had to lie to me. As I have never lied to you. I don’t want to belabor the point.

“But I said something very funny. Come on, take a look.”

The Emperor assented. He found himself looking at Raphael through Tav’s eyes, standing in the room where the githyanki Voss had just stormed out. The devil gave his offer: The Orphic Hammer and the promised salvation for the githyanki, in exchange for the Crown—for a devil to run away with immeasurable power.

The foundation of his argument, of course, was that the Emperor could not be trusted. It was the optimal angle. The devil was practiced at this, and knew what a fragile thing it was, the alliance the Emperor had painstakingly built, how easily that thin trust could shatter.

Then, Tav replied, with an air of building smugness, that he trusted the illithid more than the devil. Raphael sneered. Tav waited for the devil to finish his soliloquy, before delivering his punchline: “The Emperor is my lover.”

The memory was capstoned by the mirth in Tav’s mind at the expression he had finally shaken from the unshakable Raphael. The devil spat in genuine disbelief—he went on about oxen and carrots and sticks, but Tav remembered little else of it.

“His face! Did you see it?” Tav curled up on his bedroll, chuckling. “Gods, even devils can be scandalized.”

I doubt that was it. He thinks you were mocking him, which you were. As were your companions who were with you. I could even return the memories to those who witnessed us unwittingly that night, and still they would only think you were being…adventurous.

“Adventurous. Is that what you think?”

This was dangerous territory. The Emperor could little afford to alienate Tav. As I said previously, we have communed in our minds at the deepest level. I don’t require anything specific from you. It’s quaint that you want to put a name to it, but if you need some kind of reference point to what I think of you…Halsin put it sufficiently, when he offered himself to you. You have something like similar attitudes, do you not?

Tav burst out into laughter. “I don’t think the comparison is quite apt. You are very different to Halsin!”

The Emperor had to take more care, if he did not want to be roped into more conversations like this. You are important to me. Be assured of that. I must focus now.

“Right,” Tav said, staring up at the moon. “You do that.”

This was all, of course, the week before he ventured into Ansur’s lair.

Tav has been away from the city for some time now. The Emperor’s informants last spotted a cheery elf laying on the top deck of a barge going up the Chionthar, legs dangling over the waters below, dappled by the morning sun.

Upon Tav’s return, he has been telling everyone that he slew a manticore; this is why he was stopped at the Old Gate for attempting to smuggle in a pair of large, suspicious eggs. After two weeks of his complaining, the City Watch compensated him for confiscating “the best omelettes that would have arisen from the Heartlands”. Shortly after that, Tav vanishes again.

After all of this, Tav does remember to send the Emperor a note. Tonight, as the Emperor emerges from the Elfsong, Tav slips from the nearby street intersection and falls into stride with him as they travel down the street.

“I confess, I’m still unused to seeing you just wear…trousers and a shirt. I like the cloak, though. Very mysterious. You’re early!”

Yet I have found you already waiting for me.

“I just got back faster than expected. I’ve been in Waterdeep for the past week,” Tav tells him. “I visited Tara, and Gale’s mother. Lovely woman. Like him, except, much more sensible.”

I thought you were slaying manticores.

Tav is surprised the Emperor knows this. He recovers by huffing, “That was three weeks ago! Aren’t you keeping up with my celebrated exploits?”

How did Gale’s mother take the news?

Tav looks away. “We didn’t talk much about Gale, actually. I don’t know. She just…wanted to hear about our adventures, and about living in Baldur’s Gate. Understandable if she doesn’t know what to think. How has our horrible cesspool of a city fared under your authority? Have you made the locals care about orphans and a minimum livable wage yet?”

You make comments like this often, the Emperor observes. He could provide a list of tangible progress made towards rebuilding since the Absolute’s fall, but this is obviously not what the conversation is about. Besides, Tav has made complaints in his thoughts about the Emperor’s tendency to “monologue”, which was only necessary for conveying information in the past. The Emperor is a perfectly capable listener.

“Have you been to other cities?” Tav replies, grinning. “Do you know the reputation that your little pirate-cove-turned-port has upon the entire Sword Coast? Where the poor and downtrodden are fed upon by Guild members and patriars and vampires and cultists, and the only policing force is a corrupt mercenary group? Well, it’s so terrible that Waterdeep, which sits atop a twenty-floor mega-dungeon run by Gale’s colleague, who is an insane immortal wizard, is charming in comparison! Jaheira has the right of it, though I doubt it’s because this place is cursed by Bhaalist blood or anything. It’s more fundamental than that.” As he speaks, he has plucked woman’s purse from her pocket as they walk past.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Yes, I would feel badly about pickpocketing somebody from the holy city of Elturel. And I’m sure the considerably greater emphasis on law enforcement would also make me feel badly.”

You feel badly about a great many things. They are walking down the street with a certain intent, though they have quite a bit of time. The Emperor says, An errand?

“I’m familiar with this street. I figured I’d busk for a bit, and then buy dinner with it tomorrow.” Tav pauses by a crate, peers under it, and then swipes a pair of pears.

Surely there’s no reason for you to live like a vagabond any longer. You’ve amassed quite a large amount of funds during our journey together.

“Yes, mostly by peeling armor and infernal metal off of bodies and selling them back to the Fist,” Tav replies, laughing. “A single set of plate is nearly worth an artisan’s wage for a year. Inflation’s out of control, am I right?”

Are you staying at an inn? The Emperor stares at him. You’ve lived in the city for longer than a human lifetime. Surely you own property somewhere.

Tav shrugs, his tone overtly casual. “You know how the Guild starts street wars on the daily.”

There are better neighborhoods. Are you saying you don’t have a house?

“Of course I’ve got a house,” Tav says peevishly. “It just got…misplaced, in the midst of everything. I hope to get it back soon. Besides, there are plenty of options. I was a freeloader for about twenty years or so—my old friends reserved a room for me in each of their homes, whenever I was in the city. After they passed, I stayed for a while with their children. But at some point, it was time to move on. You can’t bother people’s descendants forever.”

The Emperor had once prepared a speech about how a home is where one can exist without guile or deceit; Tav listened with rapt attention and his eyes glittered, like he could greatly relate. And there was sorrow in his thoughts.

The Emperor may not seamlessly live in Tav’s head anymore, but he does not need to reach back in to notice that the adventurer has never ceased moving, even with the Absolute destroyed. When he is not flying around the city solving reconstruction issues or playing fetch for the Harpers or the Fist or the Guild or the City Watch, he disappears on a ship or a wagon. Even now, they are walking while talking, as if Tav would die if he stops.

Do you have somewhere to go for tonight?

“Are you feeling sorry for me?” The elf smiles. “There’s no need, I promise. In the wilderness, I’m happy foraging berry bushes and laying under the stars. The urban jungle is much the same. I do hop in the tavern for the baths, and I can usually get away with several weeks of room and board if I play for them each night.”

I see. I’m not questioning your self-sufficiency or your competence as an adventurer. But if you require accommodations at any time, do not hesitate to call upon me. We are allies, after all.

“Don’t start embezzling funds from your organization just for me,” Tav says, waving him off. “Save it for something important. Besides, half of the thrill is getting something for free.” He has a skewer of fish in his hand, somehow and has also swiped three more purses on their walk. “Also, I’ve an open invitation to Rolan’s wizard tower now. The rooms are nice, although it gets very loud and…explode-y.”

Very well. If you are determined to require no upkeep and if you desire more quiet, then you are welcome at my hideout, if you do not mind the lack of privacy or the minimalism of the space.

This surprises Tav. “Does having an occupant nosing about without supervision not defeat the purpose of your secret hideout, full of your secrets?”

I have nothing left to hide from you, the Emperor says wryly. We have shared each other’s minds. You have already demanded all of my secrets, even ones I wanted to bury for good. And when our paths cross, I am glad to see you.

He expects Tav to find the offer amusing, but the elf turns and looks at him with a serious expression. “I cannot refuse your hospitality, should it be freely extended.”

Then consider yourself invited, although I expect you will let yourself in, as you’ve been doing so anyways.

“Don’t worry, I’ve broken lockpicks against your door. I’ve got to keep in practice.”

Though his tone turns facetious again, he does not ask for a key, and so the Emperor does not offer one.

Tav finds a nice open area, where many people are milling about towards the end of the workday. Then, he brings out his lute. Even before he begins, the citizens take notice and begin to come closer. Everyone recognizes a bard at work.

Tav plucks the strings with long, graceful fingers. Within three notes, the Emperor realizes what he is about to play.

“O sing a song of Balduran

Who founded Baldur’s Gate

Empire golden built on trade

Could not avert his fate!”

It’s a popular choice. Many immediately recognize the Elfsong’s tune, and the ghost haunting the tavern has only sung a new song once before. It would be in character for Tav to make the selection to get a rise out of the Emperor—who could, of course, verify if this is the intent, but reading Tav’s thoughts over that feels like falling for bait.

When he is not giggling madly and shouting insults across the battlefield, Tav has a melancholic voice. It befits hymns and ballads. Throughout his voyages, Balduran knew to be wary of such voices wafting from the ocean fog, promising safe harbor and warm arms. Promising to guide his ship past the treacherous rocks around the estuary, because that meant he was so close to shore, to home after so long, to the mouth of the river…

Shaking off that thought, the Emperor notes that he has not, in fact, heard Tav sing out loud that often. During their journey, the bard only played his lute. Otherwise, he liked to fill silences with the music box he kept in his pack. It was only sometimes, late at night, when Tav whispered lyrics to himself as he worked on a composition in his head—a silly thing called TheBallad of Brains, Brine Pools, and Balderdash.

Tav has raised a point about asking personal questions. So when the crowd eventually disperses, the Emperor presents his inquiry. Tav’s smile is as bright as the sun.

“I had to save my voice,” he answers. “During battle, there’s plenty of casting and shouting and taunting to do. Otherwise, I would’ve liked to sing in camp to unwind. Too bad it was all very stressful. Oh, here.” Tav hands over a few coins. “Royalties,” he says, grinning. “I’m not Volo, you know—I don’t just steal people’s names to use without credit.”

Then you owe the Elfsong coin as well, for utilizing her lyrics.

“You’re right! The song works better on the original harp, I think. Let’s go and patronize her some other time.”

Tav has optimized their route to Shadowheart’s house so that they’ve passed the street at peak busking hours, and then swing by a shoemaker who accepts a package from Tav—a disguised Harper agent, it seems.

The Emperor has accepted an unofficial partnership with the High Harper of Baldur’s Gate, as it would be foolish not to. No doubt Tav facilitated this goodwill, and no doubt the conditions involve him reporting on the Emperor’s good behavior. The elf has been disciplined enough to never think about this while in his company, but the Emperor has been doing this for a long time.

You seem to be keeping busy.

Tav watches the Harper go. “As are you! I’m glad you could find a place for us on the calendar.”

There is no need for me to keep a calendar. A perfect memory for appointments is among an illithid’s many talents.

“Did you just make a joke?” Tav says, delighted. The Emperor looks at him, saying nothing, and enjoys the frantic whirl of Tav’s thoughts.

As they near their destination, the Emperor devotes a part of his focus to refining his disguise. Walking down the street, he’s wrapped a subtle psionic field around himself that encourages most to look away and causes those who don’t to perceive whatever they expect, which means Tav continues to see him as what he is. When interacting more closely with people, however, he risks Tav breaking the illusion for others, should the elf touch him in a way that looks to everyone else like he is touching air. It’s better to show a consistent form to everyone in this case.

Tav glances over, when he sees the shift in his companion’s silhouette. “I haven’t seen you look like this before.”

The Emperor makes a show of tucking curls of raven hair behind a pointed ear. “It was the form I took when I entered Shadowheart’s dreams. I visited all of your companions at first, if you recall.”

“Before you lost interest in all of them and would only bother me, you mean?” Tav says lightly. “Nobody will admit it, but I bet they all missed having dream guardians of their own.”

He reaches out and feels around the illusion’s discrepancies until he successfully takes the Emperor’s arm. They are not around anyone currently. The Emperor lets himself be tugged close.

Tav draws him within the distance to kiss, tilts his head, staring openly and for long enough that another humanoid would find it discomforting. The Emperor waits, unmoving.

“Hmm,” is Tav’s verdict. “I suppose Shadowheart’s tastes are good. But not as good as mine. Come along, then.”

Shadowheart looks well, if not a little wane. “I’m surprised you made it,” she tells the Emperor. It seems the Emperor’s guise has the intended effect; her tone is warm. “Come in.”

Tav has made some kind of excuse to explain how they have arrived precisely after dinnertime, so that the Emperor does not have to contend with pretending through that. Instead, they bring some more of the wine yet leftover from Wither’s party.

Upon the doorstep of the little cottage, Tav immediately launches into verbal sparring. When Shadowheart’s father roundaboutly inquires if the Emperor is his partner, Tav replies, “This one? Only if I wanted someone perpetually disappointed in me!”

“I have never been disappointed by any of your decisions,” the Emperor drawls.

“I thought you weren’t a liar,” Shadowheart says in an encouraging tone. “Go on. You can be straight with us—Tav made some highly questionable calls at times. Like that time you licked the drugged spider meat…”

“Well, what if Yurgir was dosing his pet with something beneficial?”

What a wonderful role he has been given. The Emperor unrepentantly piles on, “You’ve taken great risks for minimal power and refused minimally dangerous potential at great risk.”

“Oh, now it’s about wasting my potential again! Who are you, my mother?”

As desired, Shadowheart’s parents are laughing. Tav lets the other two bully him all the way to the dining room table, where he pours the wine. He hands the Emperor an empty goblet.

Even with spirits raised, Arnell Hallowleaf, an elf, looks deeply tired, especially next to the eternally, brightly shining Tav. But it is nothing in comparison to Shadowheart’s mother, a thin, gray-haired wisp of a woman who occasionally drifts away in the middle of conversing; everybody politely ignores this.

The Emperor does not have to look deeply to see that her mind is fractured, and more than that, she is afflicted by the terminally human condition of old age. The damage will only progress; she will last for a handful of years at most. The spite of a dark goddess is unyielding.

An hour in, Shadowheart’s mother suddenly doubles over and the Emperor has to withdraw mentally in order to dodge a cascade of dizziness and (delicious) pain. Shadowheart’s father murmurs apologies, supports her by the arm, and leads her away.

Her face pale, Shadowheart asks to speak to the Emperor alone in the hallway. Tav, looking at them both, says nothing as he collects the cups and goes to the sink to wash up.

Outside the dining room, Shadowheart twists her hands together and says that while the first half of the year was promising, her mother has nightmares every night. She asks, in a low tone, if anything can be done.

The Emperor answers, “The source of her ailment is a divine curse, which I can do nothing about. She will never make uphill progress in her health. But her dreams take her through dark memories, which appear to linger with uncanny clarity. If you are amenable, I can excise those.”

“To make her forget things?” Shadowheart says, sharply.

“At this point, I doubt she has long enough to live to process everything done to her. I will be precise, of course. She will not forget her time now or her life before. I will simply create a blank wherever I find unpleasant events during her imprisonment; her mind has already created some of those on its own, as a protective measure. It would be nothing she would regret losing.”

Shadowheart looks at him bitterly. “You make it sound so compelling. Like the old messages that I once believed—relief in oblivion.”

“Suffering for its own sake is pointless. I have told you what I can do for you. Speak with your parents, and then make the choice.”

Shadowheart hisses and clutches her hand. At the same time, her mother gives an agonized twist. As Shadowheart leaves to find her father, the Emperor hears Tav’s voice through the wall as well. He wonders if the cleric will do as Tav suggests, like always.

“Are you Shadowheart’s friend?” Emmeline Hallowleaf says, when her spasms cease. This is the third time she has said this.

“I am,” the Emperor replies.

“Oh, good. I’m glad she has found more.”

Shadowheart returns, her father in tow, and informs the Emperor of their decision.

The Emperor kneels before the old woman who stares back so blankly that she would probably be unafraid even if he drops his disguise.

Gods place their brands on souls. Divine magic touches the body that way and it often circumvents the brain. There is no physiological interference for the Emperor to untangle, only the damage of life.

Memory is simple. He can put in a block instead, but it may as well be a permanent solution. He scours them as easily as ripping up weeds—ugly memories stand up to his power no better than sweet ones.

Now, since he is already here, he may as well clean up a little. Emmeline Hallowleaf has an intact neurology that has blown itself apart with the stress of decades of torture, like the remains of metal fused together in an explosion; he pries apart those connections—now she should stop flinching at certain loud noises, now she should cease her association with being touched with agony. He can’t reshape too much, lest she come away with larger personality changes. That would likely be unappreciated.

She jerks reflexively, eyes rolling, which is probably alarming for their audience. The Emperor sends her into slumber. There, that looks better. For the first time that evening, her face clears entirely of tension.

Shadowheart and her father exchange wide-eyed looks.

“Is it done?”

The Emperor rarely gets such looks cast at him, tearful, grateful.

“Yes. Have you decided if you would like to undergo the same thing?” the Emperor inquires.

Arnell Hallowleaf hesitates and answers, “I will decline. I may bear the pain of my own memories for countless seasons to come, but when I go, I will return to the Moonmaiden’s embrace. Her touch will heal me, then, and the burdens of those memories will lighten. I thank you, friend, for what you have done for us.”

Actually, this type of gratitude is familiar. The Emperor has simply not experienced it in a long time. But once, it was abundant. Once, Balduran was called a hero with great, terrible frequency. His statues haunt every corner of the harbor like so many ghosts.

“What’s the matter?” Tav says, while they walk back. If he is smug, he is doing an excellent job of hiding it.

The Emperor asks, Was this your intention, when you asked me to come with you tonight?

“Would that be bad?”

No. I can hardly chasten you for arranging for an optimal outcome.

“I didn’t say anything at all,” Tav replies. “You chose to help, of your own accord.”

I see that you are coming around to a point. Make it.

“Mmh. I don’t think I will.”

They pause at a street corner. The Emperor knows where this is going, but reaches out to see into Tav’s thoughts…only to hear a loud, raucous tune, one intentionally made to get stuck in the head. Tav smiles at him knowingly. He wants to know if the Emperor will push in. He dares him to.

Instead, after a moment's consideration, the Emperor brushes his mind past Tav’s, like a shark sliding past a diver’s legs, just enough to make him shiver a bit.

Tav closes his eyes briefly and then drawls, “It’s more fun to figure it out yourself, isn’t it? Which I’m sure you will, my very clever friend. Now, then, aren’t we going home?” The elf is sharp with mischief, silvered by moonlight, as he saunters ahead.

The Emperor allows Tav have the last word, since it seems he savors each opportunity.

Chapter 5: The Emperor spectates religious debate

Chapter Text

Tav drifts in and out of the Emperor’s hideout like the wind or the tide. Most of the time, he only stays long enough to rest for three or four hours as he needs, and once finished with his meditation, he vanishes before the dawn. Sometimes, the Emperor is sleeping from his arrival to his departure, and the only physical hint of the elf’s presence is a small gift. Tav has brought him paintings that are probably stolen and glowing potted plants from the Underdark, as well as a long maroon rug that the Emperor has seen before in a patriar’s manor.

Most often, Tav brings seashells, each unique from the last. In a fit of sentiment, and since there is plenty of shelf room, the Emperor has allowed them to consolidate into a collection.

Balduran’s helm and sword sit quietly in the corner, always watching.

Tav continues to vanish from Baldur’s Gate for weeks a time, visiting Halsin or Waterdeep or the Underdark or because he is simply off doing something. He has begun notifying the Emperor of his absences via the Sending spell, which is the closest thing he has these days to speaking into the Emperor’s mind.

The most amusing thing is that Jaheira—on behalf of her network or certain patriars or the Grand Duke—will inquire about when Tav is expected to return, as if the Emperor is the expert on the matter. Tav has contributed greatly to the rebuilding efforts, and the favor of the great hero is constantly being courted by the gentry and the Guild alike; and it is clear that Tav will help, but could otherwise not care less. Even when his friends in the city ask him to stay to facilitate this project or that, there is something within Tav that beckons him beyond, away, out. To keep running. The eternal call of adventure.

Though the Emperor does not feel this any longer, he understands.

When Tav next returns from a brief quest in Amn, he wishes to go carousing. This idea is absurd. In an effort to appear personable, as is desired of him, the Emperor has humored Tav with his company. But partying is certainly the limit. There is a reason the Emperor left the victory-drunk adventurers on the harbor docks as they beelined to a bar to celebrate, chunks of imploded Netherbrain still drying on their armor.

The Emperor politely declines, and Tav merely smiles and says maybe next time. And then he says he needs a cat-sitter.

Friend, the intellect devourer lets out the approximation of a feline chirp. Won't you stroke our pretty fur? Won't you admire our long whiskers and sharp fangs? See how our tail swishes!

It has advanced its illusion-making to an unusual capability, and feels the need to show it off, even now to its allies. In the Emperor's opinion, Tav has gotten the creature to behave more like a dog in its boundless demand for affection. But the psionic euphoria that intellect devourers emit does have a soothing effect on him, and one of the toys it comes with is a resonance stone recovered from the Moonrise colony. The Emperor had lost his own cadre of intellect devourers in the Astral Prism and attempting to create new ones within the city at this point will draw no small amount of attention and ire.

Do you know why our friend has become so silent? Us suddenly asks. Before, we could hear such a beautiful song. When will the song return?

A part of the Emperor does not deign to chatter with it. But the creature is occasionally amusing and somewhat pitiful—it is considered defective and can never be returned to a colony. On its own, it might go mad from a lack of connection and then get swiftly killed when it inevitably does something foolish.

The Emperor says, Your master made his choice.

Ohh… Grief. Horror. The intellect devourer’s mind cannot fathom such a thing. But how will he be loved? How will he feel the joy as we do? Its small claws scrabble at the floor in thought, and then a strange resolution projects from it. How terrible. We must remedy this loss. We must become an even better kitty, so that our friend may still experience a portion of our love, even if he will never hear our song. We shall be the best! The best kitty in all the planes.

To make clear its dedication to this role, Us hops onto the Emperor’s lap. It kneads his knee with its front legs, perfectly emulating soft paws in the process, does a turn and then sprawls over. This attention to detail is impressive enough that the Emperor allows it to stay.

After chasing off a force of giants from Scornubel, Tav invites the Emperor to some kind of gala in the Upper City, the celebration of a minor noble’s anniversary. The Emperor politely declines.

“Not your type of scene, then?” Tav says lightly. “If you hate crowds, I’ll stop asking.”

I have no feelings against crowds. I attend plenty of public events, if that is what you are asking, but only when there is some purpose to the effort.

“Ah, an introvert,” the elf says sagely. “A most daunting sort of beast. Luckily, I am an adventurer most intrepid, and have experience dealing with even the trickiest sort of monsters, including those who are frightened of fun.”

Careful, the Emperor deadpans. Every socialite I’ve consumed has left me wanting. If you spend too much time around them, you’ll catch their contagion.

“Patriars do have a very special type of brain-rot, I’ll give you that,” Tav says.

Sure enough, Tav returns to the Lower City rather quickly that night, citing boredom. He sweeps into the hideout, bringing vestiges of party music humming in his mind, briefly greeting the Emperor at his desk. Tav brings, also, at least three silk pillows that he adds to the pile atop a futon he procured last month. He then flops onto the pillow pile with a sigh.

The Emperor reads the last of his reports for the night, and listens for a while to the mawkish dance music continuing from Tav's head. At some point, this transitions to a different tune, something dramatic and sweeping, with organ accompaniment. This is one of the occasions when the Emperor is the one awake while Tav takes his rest. Out of habit, perhaps, he takes the chance to slip into the bard’s head.

Between the four full-blooded elves at camp, Tav’s meditative trances tended to be the most present and interesting; Minthara pragmatically thought about restful nothingness, Astarion either imagined his revenge on Cazador or compulsively reviewed two hundred years of dark memories, and Halsin’s mind at the time was always on his childhood, the days he spent with the fey spirit Thaniel.

Tonight, Tav is replaying his fight with Raphael. The Emperor enters the memory of the foyer of the House of Hope and contemplates the dilemma that Tav was faced with: Raphael in his full devilish fury, a grinning pack of cambions, four soul-sucking stone structures, the dwarf warlock Korilla, and the orthon Yurgir.

The Emperor is, to this day, unhappy that the scenario even occurred, but he cannot dismiss the admiration he feels as he watches Tav take these odds and snap them in half. With nothing but words, Tav turns Yurgir against Raphael in his own house.

Meticulously, the elf reviews each kill. Raphael’s face twists with rage and fear over and over, with the realization that this mere mortal is ending him forever. From beginning to end, Tav kills Raphael again thrice. Then, he starts again. There are differences in each scenario—once, he has asked Shadowheart to strike with radiant magic, at the midpoint of the battle. He sends her left, and in another replay, he has her stay put to focus on defensive utility. In the memory, he is frowning.

You are being very critical of yourself, the Emperor remarks. You were victorious. That’s what matters.

The scene fast-forwards. At the end, Hope gazes upon the ash-stricken room and says, quietly, “But my sister Korilla is dead. And that is not right.”

You could not have saved her, no matter what you did differently.

In answer, Tav presents an entirely absurd scenario: Beforehand, the party has deposited an enormous supply of smokepowder and runepowder at the mouth of the exit portal, at the very area Raphael confronted them; when the battle breaks out, Gale creates a Globe of Invulnerability around the party, Karlach darts in and out long enough to snatch Korilla to safety, and Tav then sets off a spectacular explosion that melts nearly everything outside to dust. Then, they hack the wounded Raphael to pieces.

Clever, if you had the power of foresight. I would have thought you would be contemplating a more peaceful time nowadays. The Emperor pauses and asks, Show me a memory of what you were doing before you came to live in Baldur’s Gate.

The scene shifts. The hidden vale-city of Evereska, nestled within golden spruces and azure-leafed trees sculpted into the buildings. A young elven boy is plucking at a lyre. Around him, richly-garbed elves discuss theories about music and magic. The boy’s eyes dance with restlessness. They dart towards the mist-rolled moors, the towering city-sheltering hills, and beyond it all, the horizon.

I did say once that we are the same, the Emperor murmurs.

The elf child grins at him. “I couldn’t stay trapped with all my relatives forever! What a nightmare. I had to go out and see the world.”

The Emperor thinks of the sea. And did you find what you were looking for, here at Baldur’s Gate?

“Your city is a trap which promises possibility and delivers death in a gutter with a bottle in hand,” Tav says gleefully. “It’s a nightmare that you cannot fix. If you attempt it, you will be here for a century or more. I have always admired you for that.”

For my persistence?

“Naturally. You try very hard,” Tav says. “That’s all anyone could ask for, right?”

When Tav next asks him for his company, the Emperor says yes so that he can maintain an approximately one-in-three acceptance rate of consecutive social invitations of the frivolous nature. He suspects he can get away with a lower one, but if he has the attention of the city’s beloved hero, it is advantageous to maintain it.

Tav has prepared a speech about opportunities for information-gathering, which is all very logical. It is still not a good idea. They are walking openly through the heart of Nine-Fingers’s territory.

Don’t become overconfident, the Emperor warns, looking around the dark alleyways for Guild crossbows, and for other lurkers like cultish assassins. You may have accomplished great deeds, but it only takes underestimating a single foe for it all to end.

“You’re so anxious,” Tav merely laughs. “It’s a bar crawl. Nothing is going to happen. You’re hardly drinking—you can supervise.”

You may be developing some kind of complex. Your victories have gotten to your head.

Tav shrugs. “I don’t worry about things outside my control. Anything can happen, yes. Rocks fall, everybody dies. Having a plan is good. It’s also entirely impossible to plan for every contingency, though I know that won’t stop you, saer mind flayer. But you can still stand to relax!”

I am relaxed. Against my judgement, I have agreed to come with you on this recreational outing.

“So please enjoy it! You know how beholders spend all of their time and energy having nightmares about imaginary people plotting against them? They’re so deranged about it that they can be tricked into thinking their reflection is a rival, so that’s an understood tactic? What a dismal quality of life. Don’t be like them.”

At least Tav is fully armed and geared. He blends in well with the crowd, loiterers around the hole-in-the-wall establishment frequented by Guild members. Astarion is already inside, leaning against a nearby counter, playing with a knife and pretending to sulk into a drink.

“And here I thought we had something special,” he whines. “You brought the squid?”

Tav chides, “I’ve invited my friend to have a night out on the town with me.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. But this is just the first time I’ve seen you since Withers’s party.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Tav is never purposefully obtuse with the Emperor; if anything, he is overtly incisive, especially recently. But this tactic works on Astarion, who is forced to admit, “Well, clearly, the two of you have been talking, which is nice, but I wanted my turn to catch up. I missed you, alright? There, I’ve said it.”

“Aww,” replies Tav, who leans in and kisses him on the cheek. Astarion grumbles about it, but even without looking into his thoughts, the Emperor can see he is pleased.

Fascinating.

“I really didn’t mean to offend you, darling,” Astarion says to the Emperor. “Unlike some others, whom I shall not name, I never had a problem with a few tentacles. At the docks when we last parted, I called you a friend, remember?”

Is appeasem*nt an elven tactic at large? the Emperor says dryly. Astarion freezes a little, as do his thoughts, withdrawing like a turtle into its shell.

Tav tuts. “It’s too soon to make jokes like that. Minus two points.”

Astarion is likely less receptive than Tav to having his thoughts read nowadays. The Emperor forays for an appropriate display of body language—he both tilts his head and shrugs. I meant nothing by it.

“Happens to the best of us, darling,” Astarion replies, recovering.

“Wonderful. Now, that’s out of the way, and we are the three of us just harmless people here to have a good time. Shall we?”

It’s Astarion and Tav who are having the good time: Tav, who is drinking from cups, and Astarion who is drinking, sip by sip, from Guild members snoring in their cups. The Emperor heard that the vampire spawn, an adventurer by his own right now, has done a favor for the Guildmaster to win this treat, but he suspects that Tav is here to watch Astarion as much as enjoy the company. While the spawn has gotten a much-improved handle on his control and subtlety, Nine-Fingers is bound to be upset if one of hers is drained dry.

Dreammist wafts through the air almost like smoke, and there is a pipe steaming between nearly every pair of lips. Hazy music plays from somewhere in the thick curtain of debauchery. As he drifts behind his companions from bar to bar, the Emperor is able to ask questions to the carousing Guild members, easily plucking information from drunken lips or highly suggestible minds.

For the most part, the two elves do not rope him in; Tav makes an effort at first to include him in conversations, but the Emperor encourages him to spend the time with the vampire spawn, reassuring that he is perfectly content watching them do the socializing.

In a certain way, he is. Around Tav, Astarion is different. It’s interesting to compare their dynamic now to when they had first met. It’s interesting that Astarion will speak of things that he has never shared, not even to the dream guardian that the Emperor shaped for him.

As the evening winds on, however, and Astarion indulges more than he usually does, he transitions away from happy drunk.

The vampire is slouching against Tav, thinking very loudly and sadly. “I don’t remember much of my previous life, as you know. I may never grasp just how much I’ve lost.”

“One never does,” Tav mumbles. He seems uncomfortable, and there is an urge in his mind to find a joke and move away from this moment, lest he become mired in familiar melancholy—a heaviness like a wave he is always surfing ahead of.

“I…wanted to ask you something.”

The Emperor understands it would be appropriate to let them have a private conversation. But given how intense it has suddenly become, snippets of it would be psychically leaking from either or both of them for the rest of the night, so he would hear it anyways.

“What is it?” Tav says gently, and also resigned.

“Well, you’ve always been good at remembering history and your own roots. It’s a part of your bardic vocation, I suppose. Compared to me, you’re much more…elven.”

“Don’t know about that. If I were really that ‘elven’, I would move back home or to Silverymoon or sail to Evermeet or something. What did you want to ask me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Our people’s history or something like that.”

“Well, now we’re talking about eons. But I suppose I could start at when our ancestors opened a gate up from the Feywild. That is, by the way, when dragons ruled the planet. So, there was a great war...”

Astarion sighs. “No, I don’t suppose I care about any of that. I don’t know what to ask about, specifically. I don’t even know where to begin, or if I count as an elf anymore.”

“I’m quite sure you do. I’ve checked, you know.” There is a wink in his voice.

“You know what I mean. When we visited the Stormshore Tabernacle for the first time, you prayed to Corellon Larethian, the supposed god of all elves, yes?”

“Ah, yes. I suppose I could start at the very beginning, in which the first of our people sprang from the blood that ran from his arrows. Or from his tears, depending on who you ask. There are many versions of the story, but I do have a favorite.”

“You know, I asked you once how you could be so incessantly cheery even when we all thought we were going to die. I hear you expect to reincarnate upon your death. To actually return to life, just like that. Do you truly believe that?”

“I’ve experienced it,” Tav says, amused. “When I was a child, I dreamt of my past lives, and could recall my experiences if I really tried—spouses, children. I had a grandfather, you know, who was previously my niece. Yes, it gets very complicated! Personally, I found it annoying enough that I had to get away.” He laughs. “These memories faded around my third decade. But they happened. They happened to you as well, Astarion, even if you don’t remember.”

“But no longer,” the vampire spawn says quietly. “There’s nothing else awaiting me, after this. If I’m not careful around curtains at noontime or if a powerful cleric holds a grudge against me, that’s it.”

“Astarion, I’m not an expert on vampires, but I think I am in possession of reading comprehension. Cazador wanted to ascend with a rite, the terms of which we read, that required the sacrifice of thousands of souls. That’s what he wanted from you. If that’s not proof that you still have yours, I don’t know what is. What’s brought this on?”

“But what’s the state of it? Everything points to nothing being left except for something hollowed-out and twisted…but maybe you’re right. I’ve likely just been reading too many books recently.”

“Books. Pah. I think nobody really knows that much,” Tav declares. “There’s a big debate over this souls business, you see. Some think there’s a finite number of elven souls that exist and new ones don’t come into being since we’re so neatly recycled. But what about half-elves? Which one are they? Some people insist that they don’t have true elven souls, and so they will never be reunited with the Seldarine. And of course you’ll also find extremists who call them soulless or impure or some other sort of insanity.”

“What about me? What do you think?”

“This really is a better question for a cleric.”

“I don’t care what a cleric thinks.”

“Why do you care what I think? I’m a fool.” Tav laughs with a bit of an edge. “With the Absolute business, Corellon was responsible enough to chip in—but the very next day of our victory? Back to regularly scheduled silence, and the inescapable feeling of having misplaced something important.”

“And?”

Tav sighs. “And I think your soul is probably fine, maybe a little scuffed by the whole undeath situation, but that’s not your fault. I see no reason that you’ll be any different than me when you die—if you want. We’d make a little trip to the Fugue Plane and say hello to our old friend and then off we go to Arvandor for a while. Then, onto something new. A different life, a different opportunity, even a different world, sometimes. In the meantime, if you’re feeling forsaken during this life, well. It is said our people will be forever sundered from Corellon’s embrace until the day Lolth the Betrayer is forever destroyed. I don’t see that happening very soon, so you’re stuck with the rest of our kin in the meantime, in unyielding existential lament. You’re in good company! Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re always able to put things so simply. Just don’t worry about it!” Astarion says. He scoffs. “Hard not to worry when every time I learn something new, it's another example of my fate being out of my hands.”

“That is everyone's fate,” Tav says tiredly.

Astarion sighs bitterly. “So that’s it, then? After two hundred years of nothing, I still have to crawl before them and find an elven god if I want to get into elf heaven?”

“Not necessarily. My family is very traditional, but people do turn to gods outside the Seldarine. Especially if this version of the reincarnation thing sounds more like a pain than a blessing. You know an elf druid, after all. But that’s besides the point. You saved the world! I’m sure Withers would not let you get ground up and stuck in the Wall for eternity, all because you aren’t in the mood to worship.” Tav raises his hand at the bartender for another drink. “Also, nobody is saying you have to start memorizing the pantheon in order to practice your Elvish.”

Astarion’s voice rises in indignation. “Did you try to pickpocket me?”

Tav’s tone is merry again. “You did it to me first. Why don’t you buy me a drink with my coin, and I’ll help you practice?”

The vampire snickers and then brings out the dictionary from his bag. “Language is supposed to be one of those more…fundamental things, right? But half the time, I can’t remember what a word is supposed to be. I must have the vocabulary of a grade schooler.”

Tav waves him off. “It’s grammar that’s the killer. And it’s the accent that will get the elitists on your case. My relatives once told me my time here has made me speak like a gangster.”

Later, when it’s the two of them walking back, the Emperor comments, The lack of my soul does not perturb you, then?

“I don’t know what I expected from tonight, but it was not that we would all become theologians!” Tav laughs.

It was an intellectually stimulating conversation, the Emperor replies. I have missed those.

“Oh? Are you saying it was a good idea, after all, to come out with your friends?”

As I have said, I have come to enjoy your company in many ways.

Tav’s eyebrows go up. After a moment, because he cannot pass up the opportunity, he says, “Fine, I’ll bite. What makes you think you don’t have a soul?”

You know this, since you were rather explicitly told, it is a defining trait of an illithid. You think it a loss, of course. But your identity does not lie in your soul, which only gods have a use for. It lies in your mind.

Tav gives a mock gasp of horror and then lights up with a grin. “Alright, heretic, I’ll take you on! First of all, minds can be destroyed, snapped like a bone. And then they can be completely healed by a good enough cleric, and that person goes on like nothing even happened. Souls, on the other hand, are a core thing that…”

Baldur’s Gate never quite sleeps and even at this hour, there is light and noise surging from the Elfsong Tavern two blocks ahead. Tav has sobered up through walking, which has only increased his enthusiasm for debate.

“…and there’s a lot of scary, people-eating creatures out there, like mind flayers, and liches, and mind flayers that are also liches. Now, Volo is an absolute liar in every regard—except to the accuracy of the abilities of the creature he has documented in the field. So if he describes the existence of illithid liches, then I believe him. From my inexpert understanding, liches need to put their souls into phylacteries, in order to preserve their immortality. Unless you could tell me mind flayer liches have a new, special, groundbreaking way to achieve lichdom?”

That is entirely unknown, the Emperor says grudgingly. Illithid arcanists are generally rare, and those able to achieve the status of alhoon, let alone true lichdom, are highly reclusive or only whispered of in legend.

“There you go. Nobody really knows! Except for Withers, but everything he says is so vague and obfuscated, he makes you look like a small village’s most reliable gossip in comparison. Apostolic souls, he says. The hells does that mean? On the other hand, he was announcing to the entire High Hall that he recognizes you perfectly despite an ‘appearance change’, which is very ungod-like behavior towards a soulless creature, hm? Regardless, in my opinion, everyone should not stop worrying about their souls and start worrying about their actions.”

A reasonable conclusion. I do not know if you needed to talk for thirty minutes to reach it, however.

“You started it!”

The Emperor feels a cold, voracious hunger too unabated to be his own. He stills his mind, narrowing his focus down to a crystalline pinpoint about half a block behind them.

There is an illithid following us. A survivor from the Absolute attack, it seems.

“I don’t suppose it’s friendly?” Tav says dryly.

It has just eaten, and yet thinks that you look very sumptuous. It seems you are intended as dessert.

Tav smiles. “Oh? What about me is so appetizing?”

I can hear it, sometimes, when you are composing, the Emperor tells him. Your talent is bright enough to taste. You think of it as a subjective thing, but there is a great deal of mathematics within music. It is quite beautiful.

“Huh,” Tav says. “Thank you?”

As the illithid-shaped shadow stalks forward, the elf shrugs his glowing golden bow from his shoulder and shoots two consecutive bolts into the alleyway.

The would-be hunter screeches in pain. It’s a testament to its ravenous stupidity that it has not noticed the Emperor’s presence this entire time. And to its blind luck in surviving so far, that the thought did not occur to it to run from Tav, from the moment it laid eyes on him. Greed above sense, it seems.

And now it has been shot, twice. What will it do? The enemy illithid considers fleeing. Certainly, it is in a good position to do so, though Tav is likely to make the effort of following. Nonetheless, that’s the wisest move.

The wounded mind flayer unleashes a psionic blast. Tav freezes, his expression glazes over. However, his eyes track the enemy coolly.

This is a clever idea, especially if they don’t want to spend the night chasing the creature. The Emperor projects the static-stillness of a stunned mind, the animal panic of muscles locking up.

As the mind flayer eagerly flies forward, Tav turns at the last moment and shoves his mailed fist past the tentacles, right into the lunging illithid’s mouth—and then his entire arm, past the elbow.

It squeals in surprise and bites down, but not even a mind flayer’s teeth can pierce adamantine armor. Tav smiles pleasantly and stage-whispers his incantation.

Flame splits the back of the illithid wide open, from skull to spine. It gives a wet shriek. Then, it twitches, gurgles, and slides limply off Tav’s arm.

The elf is now baptized in brilliantly silver illithid blood. It is caught in his hair, glittering like diamond. A bright bead runs down his cheek, past the corner of his lips.

Tav walks over to the Emperor. His hands are on his hips. “You seem to enjoy watching me murder your brethren an awful lot.”

You fight well, the Emperor says. And I have little sympathy for a creature that’s wasted its gifts as a pointless animal. The only thing to be mourned is the potential squandered on a rabid beast with no self-control.

Tav laughs at him. “Every other time I learn something new about you it’s always the blandest type of centrist utilitarianism. Not everyone can just drag themselves above the circ*mstances of getting turned inside out, and then go on to make contributions to society!”

You have a lot of opinions, for somebody who avoids participation in politics.

Tav sniffs disdainfully, makes his armor spotless with a spell, and they continue on their way, leaving the dead mind flayer as a surprise for the dawn patrol.

The moon is a large and silver disk, making the street around them bright. They pause as a drow greets them at the door to the Elfsong. She seems neither a patron nor a staff member, but she lingers there at the entrance expectantly. Tav, an incessantly friendly creature, will not be pulled from his socialization even after an entire evening of doing that already, so the Emperor has no choice but to wait it out.

They start up a conversation and Tav flirts with her, something that makes a slow, deeply amused smile spread across her face. As the conversation continues, the drow says something that the Emperor is not paying any attention to, at this point, but Tav turns the shade of milk and abruptly drops to his knees.

“Ah, Lady,” he says, “you can blame me for it. I thought it was funny, yes. I was the one who turned Astarion invisible so he could pick the lock to the temple basem*nt. And then we all snuck in to egg him on in stealing all the offerings. And then, when he was cursed by the gods’ ire—reasonably—we lifted it.”

“I know. I was watching.”

“And then when devas came down to punish the transgression, we knocked them over the heads. I hope they’re doing alright.”

“Yes,” says the drow, eyes glittering. “And?”

Tav says, sheepishly, “Then we also took back the gold I had donated to earn a blessing for myself. And then, we went back upstairs and tried offering it all right back, so another party member might benefit from the same thing.”

“At least you did not go back downstairs and do the exact same thing all over again.”

“I do try to keep only my toes over the line,” Tav agrees. “I’m not so eager to lose my leg entirely. Those offerings I will return to the Stormshore Tabernacle—they were useful at the time for the fight but I’m swimming in too much gear now anyways. Anyways. Forgive me, Lady.”

“The very same argument that was made to let you off.” The drow shakes her head, smiling. “That’s enough groveling, little singer. I’m only here to bid you return what was taken.”

“Right. Well, at least I have this with me.” Tav unsheathes his singing sword, drawn from a rock in the Underdark, and presents it with both hands.

“No. That was a gift. You have wielded it for its purpose, to honor the fallen, to sing their stories. There is none worthier.” Tav protests; she smiles and ignores it. “Fare thee well, kinsman. I shall look for thee when next thou passest by and, at the end of it all, when we are reunited.”

The drow nods at the Emperor, and then as quickly as she arrived, she is gone. Tav rises and brushes his trousers. He nods once and says very formally, “That was the Dark Maiden, Eilistraee, the Lady of the Dance.”

A moment passes, and Tav begins to look quizzical, but it is best that the Emperor say nothing. He has certainly seen Tav on his knees before, with great enthusiasm, in fact, but this is starkly different from cheerful sexual gratification. It is supplication. Devotion. And his illithid instincts are forming some sort of wailing chorus in his head: Make. Him. Yours.

Tav is still awaiting a response, so the Emperor comments, How unexpected.

“How ‘unexpected’, he says!” Tav cries. “Humble a form as she takes, it’s not like you’ve only met my cousin or something. That was Corellon Larethian’s daughter. The goddess! Appearing on the surface just to say hello!!” Tav pauses and then squints. “What’s wrong with you?”

Nothing is wrong.

“You are giving me a look.” The corner of Tav’s mouth tugs, even as the Emperor hurries to put whatever body language he is inadvertently displaying to rest. “Are you…hungry or something?”

No, the Emperor says coolly, floating past.

Behind him, Tav sighs and throws his hands up in exasperation.

Chapter 6: Tav finds a date for a ball

Chapter Text

When it comes down to it, Tav prefers to slum it in the Lower City; that’s Baldur’s Gate at its most honest. There are the same number and proportion of cutthroats and murderers beyond the Old Gate. They just do things with elaborate social rituals, and under a different name than the Guild. The Upper City is also less fun and unique because every metropolis in the world has their classy, murderous rich people.

Still, the glittering, gilded ceilings of the rebuilt High Hall do look lovely. Tav wishes Astarion were here, so they could talk about how Cazador was minor nobility at best—anyone with a manor in the Lower City is essentially exiled from the truly respectable and elite. That sounds like something stupid and petty to gossip about.

The Upper City has been entirely reconstructed. Naturally, it is the only part of Baldur’s Gate that can boast of that fact, and naturally, there is a large celebration being held, as the nobility congratulate themselves on their hard work being finished. Minthara would find things comfortingly familiar here, and Halsin would seethe.

And Tav does not currently have a date, which is not his fault, because he was only asked to this thing at the last minute.

There are, of course, several reasons for that discourtesy: The patriars don’t think he will recognize the slight; somebody was trying to keep him out of the party for as long as possible; those who have an interest in the matter want to publicly present the hero of Baldur’s Gate as single.

And probably a dozen less interesting reasons. Anyways, Tav is only attending because Duke Ravengard all but begged him to, for the sake of morale, and Jaheira thinks there may be remaining Gortash sympathizers making for an assassination attempt. And there is free food.

Because of the Harper intelligence, Tav can’t even arrive fashionably late. The next best thing is to exert every ounce of his charm to win someone onto his arm at the door.

He hovers vaguely near the entrance, pretending to admire the upper windows. Here, prospecting nobles descend from their carriages. Eventually, an unescorted woman, announced as Lady Katya Sashenstar, approaches him.

“So here is the hero. What are you, some kind of minstrel? You stand about like one, and you have a hat,” she says. She is wearing the eccentric fashion of the rich, the kind beyond all critique—it’s almost like funeral garb, except purple and gold, complete with a broad-brimmed hat of her own and a veil that somewhat obscures her face,leaving a glint of intense eyes.

“Ah yes,” Tav says with a flourishing bow. “How can I trust? How will I ever know? / How can I show myself, my darkest me?”

“And a poet,” the lady drawls. “Impressive.”

“Isn’t it?” Tav laughs. “I didn’t write that. A cleric by the name of Lenore did. She has a magnificent arcane tower in the Underdark alight with blue flame, powered by the petals of beautiful blue flowers. If that sounds fanciful, it’s because of magic.”

“Friend of yours?”

“No. I’ve never even met her, in fact.” Tav almost regrets using this as a florid story; there’s something about it that makes him sad. “In her notes, she meant to return to her tower years ago, but apparently disappeared somewhere…I only found her tower abandoned, in lonely ruins, with little left except her poems and her favorite plays.”

“Which you’ve committed to memory.” The patriar’s voice is dry. She tilts her head. “Are you looking for her?”

Tav blinks. “Well, yes, whenever I have a chance. Her last whereabouts were in Baldur’s Gate, actually. How did you know?”

“You heroic-types do this sort of thing. Talk about people likely dead, as if they are still alive. Go on searching for those who are lost.”

Patriars are quite a cynical bunch, aren’t they? “If someone’s lost, then they can be found again.”

A veiled smile. “If you are the one doing the searching, I could almost believe it.”

That’s a good one. Tav is going to steal it and use it to flirt.

Though she has quite a haughty air, Tav kind of likes Lady Sashenstar, because she does not butter him up too much. She merely asks if he would desire accompaniment to the event.

Now, they enter the ballroom proper, aglitter with resplendence that is being put into the stairway railings instead of supplies for people starving in Rivington. Tav tries not to grimace at the filigreed candelabras, or think about how much he could fetch for them, or how he is cursed to put his hands on everything.

"The hero of the Gate!" Tav smiles like he recognizes this man perfectly. The patriar comes over and shakes his hand. "We were just wondering when you might put in an appearance. Perhaps you could come and enlighten us. We have heard the wildest of rumors, from the Flaming Fists, from the City Watch, even. Is it true that you had a friendly mind flayer with you during the great battle against the Absolute? A renegade that turned against its own kind?"

Right. It's not like Tav tried to hide the Emperor, whom Withers kindly announced, as they blatantly strode through this very High Hall previously, nor had the mind flayer wasted energy disguising himself before the final battle. At least fifty people, including Ravengard and Counselor Florrick and civilians and all of Tav’s allies called atop the Netherbrain, saw or fought alongside or fled past the illithid in the party at some point. Nobody stopped to discuss it at the time.

"Oh, yes, him," Tav answers. "That was my companion.”

"Your companion! An illithid! Now you must tell us more."

"Certainly," Tav replies. "It all started when I valiantly rescued the poor creature from the astral sea..."

A small crowd of a dozen gathers to hear Tav spin a tragic backstory for this unnamed mind flayer, the uncelebrated hero of the city. In honor of Volo, he adds a dragon to the tale: A great wyrm with good intentions who nonetheless hunts the renegade illithid to this very day, which is why it dares not show its face to anyone, even if people suddenly became very accepting—so, of course, nobody should go looking for it.

"Ha!" the noble says. "What a tale indeed. We won't forget that one in a hurry."

Someone in the crowd actually wipes a tear from his eye. “Yet another unsung hero amongst many! So many sacrifices for our hard-fought victory. Yet in Balduran’s name, our city always endures!”

Tav keeps a straight face. “By Balduran’s grace, we will always prevail.”

"Tell us another," someone else calls.

"You are a bard, are you not? Surely you've made a song about your deeds."

"Now, then," Lady Sashenstar pipes up next to Tav,her voice cold. "The savior of the city is not here to work for you. On the contrary, you all should be laboring to entertain him. Step aside, if you've nothing to offer. We have others to greet."

That does the trick. They are able to make their way across the room.

Some of the patriarswear ceremonial armor with emblems of the Flaming Fist. One of them has been fit in a custom set of brilliant gold. Save for the brighter red of its trimmings, it reminds Tav of his dream visitor.

The Emperor would still look elegant in metallic plate armor, as long as there is either a long coat involved or it's a breastplate fixed over battlemage vestments—either way, coattail or robe flowing behind his long legs as he floats is the key. Silver might be more his color...but perhaps it's myopic to lump illithids into silver-and-black jail, just because they are pale-hued. Besides, gold and purple are very royal shades, aren't they?

“Ah, look who it is.” Ravengard approaches. “I’m glad you could make it.” He then turns and greets Tav’s date very formally, with the lowest a man of his station bows at. “Lady Sashenstar. An honor.”

A gracious curtsy. “The honor is entirely mine, Duke Ravengard.”

The surname Sashenstar does ring a bell, now that Tav thinks about it. That’s a patriar family that made its fortune in mining or something.

Ravengard continues, “Now, I don’t think there will be trouble, despite the rumors. For such a high-profile event we have nearly the entire Fist garrisoned here. Every entrance is monitored, all of the staff are vetted. There is a perfectly good chance for you to simply enjoy yourself for the night.”

“I’d like that,” Tav replies. “But I’ll keep my eyes open. In the event that you get killed, I think Wyll would be terribly disappointed in me.”

“Would that he could attend himself,” Ravengard sighs. “How is he?”

Tav thinks of the last time he saw the Blade of Avernus a few months ago, charming Shadowheart’s parents with great tales, his chair pulled up close to Karlach’s—their hands just short of touching.

To say he misses Wyll and Karlach and all the others is an understatement. But life moves fast, especially human ones. It’s different than being joined up together in an adventuring guild. People have lives to return to after the crisis ends, or else personal problems to solve, or a new self to discover…

“I think he’s happy,” Tav replies. “Doing what he does best, which is slaying evil, watching a friend’s back, and being very heroic. While he’s fending off devils in Avernus at every hour, I get to put my feet up here. He should be the one getting acclaim.”

“He’s asked you to keep an eye on me,” Ravengard says wryly.

“Well, you are prophesized by Mizora to die at the hands of your enemy. It’s reasonable for him to be concerned. He feels responsible, having broken his pact for it and all.”

“And such a death will likely happen one day, devil or no devil. It’s simply the kind of life I lead, one I’ve chosen without regrets. Still, I appreciate your duty to the city, though I understand many things demand your attention.” Ravengard claps a hand on Tav’s shoulder and apologizes to Tav’s date for stealing him away. “Enough business, then. Please enjoy the night, as you richly deserve.”

Tav does try, though he sticks to the periphery so that he has a good view of the entire ballroom. He also tries to pay attention to his date—fortunately, she seems content for now to people-watch. In fact, she evades his attempts to make conversation, only offering a dignified half-smile to usual topic jump-starters. Or perhaps she is being mysterious on purpose.

When Tav was younger and co*ckier, he liked to poke at such people armored in self-composure. The more uptight the paladin, after all, the more fun it is to dismantle them with jokes or provocations or a kiss.

He's still got a little of that habit…for example, the Emperor being what he is makes him the world's most alluring puzzle box. A puzzle box full of fascinating secrets—like the Balduran thing, yes, but also that the illithid has kept bent silverware from hundreds of years ago, and that he often avoids eye contact when forced to talk about himself, and that he bruises easily and prettily when bitten.

Anyways, needling a mind flayer so much couldn’t possibly be a good idea, and Tav certainly shouldn’t indulge in thoughts of pinning one down and taking it apart piece by piece. He is here for a reason. Duke assassination—bad if true, important to prevent!

Lady Sashenstar, his date, is looking at him through half-lidded eyes and Tav flashes her a smile and refocuses.

At least he has chosen well, because she is both well-known among the elite and apparently has quite the intimidating reputation. The most empty-brained patriars are chased away by the disdain she levies in her voice, and the conniving ones that come with knives in their smiles—she meets them head-on, with gracious contempt, and saves Tav a lot of verbal sparring, which while not unwelcome, would take away from assassin-watching.

“I must thank you,” Tav tells her sweetly. “I find myself quite intimidated by all the glamour here.”

“Do you?”

“I’ve spent much of my time in the Lower City,” he replies demurely. “I’m usually only hired at events like these.”

“Absurd,” the lady says flatly. “These fools should plant their noses onto the floor in front of you, for all you’ve done for them.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” he laughs.

“Come. You should make an appearance on the dance floor.”

Tav smiles. “As the lady commands.”

There are no dance cards distributed for this ball, which is why not having a partner would have been very noticeable. They go down the stairs, where Sashenstar abruptly stops him. A pair of servants hurry to his side and suddenly Tav is presented with jeweled boxes upon small pillows, which contain bright gemstones. The lady gazes at Tav like he is a doll that’s just been unwrapped.

“It would not do for anyone to think you are any less than a guest of the highest honor.” She unclasps an elaborate necklace and lays icy metal around his neck. Tav holds very still, without expression, as cold fingers brush his throat, as her lips come close to his ear. He is reminded, suddenly, of how people touch prized horses.

“There. How lovely.” She draws back and the corner of her mouth tugs. “You may also keep the boxes, if you’d like.”

Well, Tav can certainly be a pretty set piece. If a patriar wants to show him off, he might as well get something out of it—for some reason, he thinks of Astarion’s glaring judgement, but Astarion has a complex about these things. An absolutely justifiable one, but a complex nonetheless.

So he stands there and lets her decorate him and then take his hand. They go to the center of the ballroom. Sure enough, there are many admiring and envious eyes upon them, as the light must gleam off the gems.

“You’re an exquisite dancer.”

“I have several relatives who taught me as a youth,” Tav tells her. “Though the dancing back then involved more swords. The principles transfer over, though. My friend Wyll did an excellent job tutoring me in the customs here. Who taught you your lessons, my lady?”

“I am self-taught.”

“That’s very impressive!” Tav says, lacing amazement into his tone. He keeps his eye on a waiter carrying a tray who is walking past Ravengard up on the balcony.

As the dance draws to a close, to Tav’s relief, his partner does not insist they stay for the next round. “Even now, you continue to be watchful. I was right to choose you.”

Tav tries not to squint at her. “Thank you.”

Now that they have departed the dance floor, another wave of patriars has rallied itself to come and bother Tav. Sashenstar gives a cool half-smile. “Don’t worry about them. I will hold them off for you.”

“Ah yes. They are kind of annoying, aren’t they?”

Now, she raises her eyebrows and for some reason, she seems highly amused. There is a pause, like she is coming to a decision, before she says, “They should be whipped and made to bow in shame.”

“…Huh?” says Tav.

Lady Sashenstar brings him to the foot of the stairs and then excuses herself “to the powder room” and as Tav watches her move through the crowd with a nearly liquid grace, he finally says out loud, “Oh!”

Then, assassins!

They are not hiding among the staff members or infiltrating the Fist; they detach from the nearby columns of the wall entirely, melding from the marble like it’s liquid, and wielding glinting crossbows in concert.

Of course, all of the shiny, armor-wearing patriars in the room become just as much a liability as all the others. They flail and panic as soon as the hooded figures are spotted. Tav has to shove past someone in order to get line of sight on all five assassins.

He shouts, “Grovel!”

His voice rings out like a chime, and hangs there in the sudden silence. Authority. All five figures aiming at Duke Ravengard freeze and then fold and bow themselves to the floor, chained by Tav’s will.

He can’t help his smile. Who needs illithid powers? Not him!

Tav glances around, but his date does not seem to be around to witness this.

By now, Ravengard’s aids react and usher the duke out of the room and to safety. The guards pour in, and Tav lets them have at the would-be assassins. Distressed patiars are assuaged, staff members are searched, the building doors are locked. Duke Ravengard does not die. All in all, a success.

Later that night, they find two more assassins in the ladies’ powder room, with their heads crushed to a pulp, like somebody went to the trouble of somehow lifting up an entire wardrobe to set atop these two bodies.

Lady Katya Sashenstar, of course, is still nowhere to be found.

When his date fails to make another appearance, Tav heads back to the Lower City. A thick fog has rolled in from Grey Harbor, blanketing the world in soft, muted white.

The fireplace-brightness of the Elfsong shines through the fog ahead, like the guiding light for a ship. Tav thinks about it, and then follows it in to find the Emperor.

Ducking past the Knights of the Shield hideout, Tav half-expects to find the illithid absent, but there he is at his desk. He looks very ordinary, softly lit by the candlelight, the fearsome mind flayer sitting in a chair and using a tentacle to turn the pages of a book floating in the air. The only thing missing in this scene is a pair of glasses, perched over those violet eyes.

The Emperor must catch this thought, because his gaze turns sharply to Tav, in irritation, or amusem*nt, or perhaps both.

“You ever hear the story of the mysterious princess who fled the ball at midnight, leaving her dance partner to wonder about her identity?”

He saunters over, dramatically takes the Emperor’s hand, and places a kiss upon the back of it. The illithid doesn’t flinch, or yield to Tav any reaction, for that matter. This only makes him grin.

“I’m sorry about what I’ve said,” Tav tells him. “You are funny. I can admit it! But I thought you didn’t do parties, let alone ballroom dances.”

I am glad you enjoyed the evening, the Emperor says calmly. I attended for the same reason you did, though you did well to see to the Duke’s safety. He withdraws his hand in order to hold it up as Tav draws out a pair of jeweled boxes. Those are for you. I insist.

Tav very carefully does not think of cold hands against his neck. “How long has Lady Sashenstar not existed?”

She did exist. She was lost at sea three months ago. But fortunately, she has recently made a most miraculous return. Her penchant for long periods of disappearance even before made her a perfect candidate for keeping watch on the Upper City when I need to.

Tav nods at the cleverness of this arrangement. He has stopped an assassination tonight and is too tired to wonder if the Emperor somehow arranged for this convenient shipwreck. Asking that will certainly make this rare atmosphere between them vanish. Tav is aware of the gemstones gleaming in his hair and around his neck and on his wrists. But he is not Wyll Ravengard. Sometimes, he is tired of searching for monsters.

Instead, Tav dutifully brings up, “Won’t a coroner notice if the two you got are missing their brains?”

I have always appreciated your attention to details. Don’t worry about me. I can arrange for the reports to leave out irrelevant information.

Right. The Emperor is less messy than Astarion, and Tav doesn’t need to make excuses to anyone when a particularly unfortunate body is discovered. In Astarion’s defense, he is following his new moral code—but there was an incident, when he drained the necks of a few important villains, of the extremely moneyed status. The vampire spawn laughed darkly at being advised to keep his heroism strategic.

“It is kind of discouraging, though, that though you’ve gained access to the peers of Baldur’s Gate, they probably won’t make headway in rebuilding anything past the Old Gate any time soon.”

Change is slow to enact, and Gortash’s little stunt set us back by a decade.

Tav snorts. “The betterment of the city always crawls at snail’s pace. I do hope that’s what you plan on doing, by the way. I’d be awfully disappointed if all you did with this power was perpetuate the economic inequity that your city is already infamous for.”

The Emperor tilts his head. The patriars alone cannot be blamed. It is in the Guild’s interest for the divide between the Upper and Lower City to widen, and for corruption in law enforcement to spread.

“Ah. So even you think that it’s hopeless.”

The illithid is quiet for a moment. Your idealism is...important. It gives you a vision for a future. But it is simply not realistic to worry about the higher principles at this point. Many systems make the Gate operate as it does—the constant military threat from our rival city-states, the unremitting series of disasters that have peppered the Sword Coast, the remaining fallout of the Second Sundering, the culture of the city, as you have pointed out.

“Hmm,” Tav says. “You know, I heard from the party that Lord Verrick’s dock workers are all going on strike over working conditions.”

He was very interested in your capabilities as a strike-breaker, yes.

“Someone ought to suggest to him that he give his workers their terms,” Tav drawls. “They sounded quite fair to me.”

The Emperor looks at him. I am quite busy. But he doesn’t say no.

Tav circles back to his original topic. “Are you sure the risk you took tonight was worth it? You ate some assassins people are glad to see dead, yes, but an attempt on the Grand Duke’s life is going to be high-profile. You’ve a higher chance of getting caught. You could have told me beforehand, and I’d have chopped their heads off or something, and gotten you take-out.”

Despite what you seem to think, I do not spend all my time lurking at a desk. When actions must be taken, I take them.

“Oh, are you saying you actually enjoy danger? Even if it gets you into trouble?” Tav says. “Why, saer Balduran, I would never have imagined.”

The Emperor glares at him halfheartedly. Tav has learned at least to recognize the many types of illithid glaring.

“Sorry. Saer Emperor, Your Imperial Majesty.”

You shouldn’t make such an offer.

“What?”

If you start decapitating your enemies, it will tarnish your reputation, the Emperor says patiently. No matter how much they deserve it. Even if the dead care not, the living often do.

“I’ll pull the quirky adventurer card on them. I will tell everyone that I have a secret condition that requires me to make offerings of my enemy’s heads,” Tav replies. “Or that I have taken up necromancy—they’ve let a mummy lord into the city!”

Your image as a hero is to your benefit. Do not squander it.

“Oh, but what if I want to wield my fame in order to have scandals?” Tav says, grinning. “Wild rumors flying around, the front page of Baldur’s Mouth! The hero of Baldur’s Gate has mild to moderately dark tastes. He chops heads off. He takes illithid lovers. There are so many terrible jests I can make about Baldur’s Mouth and how one goes about opening Baldur’s Gate.” He waits for an irreverent beat. “Eh? Get it? In this case, the ‘Gate’ refers to your—”

I am not laughing, because you are not funny.

He snickers. “Alright, I won’t tease you about that.”

Tav avoids allusions to Balduran when he can, but he is feeling somewhat thornier than usual.

Right now, the Emperor continues reading, keeping Tav at a polite periphery of attention. Tav ventures a cautious thought about “Lady Sashenstar” who had called him lovely and essentially wrapped her hands around his neck and genuinely frightened him a bit, making him wonder if he should be looking over his shoulder for the next week—patriars have done worse than kidnap people who catch their eye.

Apparently just an amusing little prank the Emperor was playing. Right?

During the fight against the Absolute, the mind flayer had at most been pushy or condescending or outright angry. He’d never been possessive. In fact, Tav would categorize the aftermath of their night together as on the cooler side.

The patriar was another disguise. Yet as far as play-acting went, the dream visitor had never been all that far off from the Emperor, who is so proud of never telling lies no matter his form…

Tav reaches quickly for a different line of thought, because the one he has suddenly queued up is not fit for being overheard. He dares to suggest that they go out some other time and dance properly, free of air-headed company. Because he wants to see what the Emperor will say.

The illithid acknowledgesthis noncommittally, in the manner that anyone agrees to vague future suggestions. And Tav isn't sure whether he's joking, either.

Chapter 7: Tav initiates combat on the beach

Chapter Text

They have put new silver plates out on the altar of the Stormshore Tabernacle. They’re filigreed with little stars and vines, and could probably sell for—Tav looks at the wall and sticks his hands in his pockets.

Vicar Humbletoes had crossed his arms sternly when Tav lugged in a chest filled with everything he’d help rob from the temple cellar in the first place. But besides that, he didn’t have much to say, besides instruct Tav where to set Helm’s stolen offerings versus Mystra’s.

Upon arrival to the Lower City during the fight against the Absolute, Tav was a daily visitor. He needed all the help he could get, as the Emperor was swift to remind him (so he would be lying if he claimed he didn’t at least consider the Astral Tadpole out of said necessity).

Towards the end, he and Shadowheart had gotten into a habit, and together enjoyed the quiet of the early morning walk over together. They formed a most surreptitiouspair of sheepish devotees, that the vicar had all but coaxed in; probably why the halfling is holding back on lecturing Tav now.

Tav would make a terrible cleric, but even he feels badly that his attendance has taken a nosedive since the Absolute’s defeat. And, of course, for breakinginto the temple basem*nt. But that bit of impious behavior seemed to cheer Astarion, so it was worth it.

The vicar has gone round to the back—apparently trusting that Tav will not steal anything else—which leaves a long, heavy stillness and silence in the temple. This is uncomfortable, because Tav was already feeling uncertain about the prayer he had just offered up.

"Busy, are you?" Tav says. "Typical."

He's probably being unfair. There are very real and concrete rules binding the gods when it comes to freely chatting, otherwise clerics would be out of a job. But perhaps Tav had hoped Gale, who had deigned to physically visit for Withers’s party, holder of the domain of ambition, had found a way to subvert them.

It's more than likely that a fledgling god simply does not have enough power or influence within this space to hear, and Tav certainly does not possess any divine channeling power. The alternative, of course, is that godhood has made Gale not care enough to say hello.His attitude at the party had certainly been…very different.

"I feel like you should be making more of an effort," Tav mumbles. "If I became an illithid, many things about my personality would probably change. I would still try to make conversation, though.”

No divine witticisms are returned. If anything, Tav would have expected Gale to make a fun god to argue with.

Oh well. It's not like silence is something Tav is unaccustomed to.

He sits up in a better posture, as he was properly taught, and prepares himself to be gently ignored by Corellon Larethian. At least that is not personal, and expectations have been set for eons. There's a certain kind of serenity in knowing there is nothing to be done to close that immeasurable distance—though if he teared up a bit when his first offering in this very room was answered with the splendorous shine of Corellon’s crescent moon over his head, his companions were kind enough to say nothing.

Tav formally greets the rest of the Seldarine as well as Eilistraee, and then, just for fun, rounds out morning prayer by skipping about five pantheons to the left with an offering to Jergal, Scribe of the Dead. There is not much one cheeky bard can do for forgotten, faded gods, but he's still working on a song prayer for Milil. It’s slow going since he hasn’t done one before, and if it turns out his is the first in some time, Tav wants it to be decent. The irony about these sorts of things is that you would pray to the creativity deity in question for inspiration, but in this case, it feels like asking his parents for coin to buy them a gift.

He’s caught up now. The brazier cackles. Tav wonders again how Karlach and Wyll are doing, down in Avernus. And Minthara, who is in a similar situation, though she is only too happy to go it alone in the Underdark. And Lae’zel, battling across the stars—she’s sent word of victories, of the tide going well for the Knights of the Comet.

The world is always turning. Perhaps it’s time to leave the city again. The horizon looks very beautiful this morning, a blazing coronet of rose gold sunrise.

Nobody wants anything from him today anyways. Barcus Wroot had initially sent him a message, but then another one followed soon after—he had managed to solve whatever problem he was having by himself. There was some nebulously informal dinner thing with Counselor Florrick, but that was rescheduled to next month.

Soft, light footsteps. A round calico waddles up the temple stairs and meows loudly in greeting.

Friend! I bring correspondence. News. Activities!

“Oh? And what news does the world’s best kitty have for me?” Tav reaches out to scratch behind the soft ears, and marvels how he really can’t tell; his senses tell him he is touching the fur of a cat and listening to its purr. Perhaps he should be alarmed. But he’s glad that the intellect devourer is finding a way to entertain itself, wherever it goes when Tav isn’t around.

Us sits, long tail curling around its paws, and happily announces a message from the Emperor.

“I’m sorry, what? He says he wants to go to the market?” Tav says.

Yes! The market, where the sea air whistles through the pier. Where many little tasty rats scuttle, quick-footed. Where many feet tread, always in a hurry!

Tav is not sure if the intellect devourer has misinterpreted the message somehow. But it beats sitting around, so Tav puts a fresh layer of polish onto his longsword and then goes.

“What’s the matter?” Tav says when he sees the Emperor awaiting him next to the docks of Grey Harbor. The illithid looks relaxed enough, floating regally right above the water, watching tiny flashes of fish below him. He is wearing an elegant, sweeping gray cloak that has a hood. Metal gleams under it. Is that new armor?

A ship has docked from Chult. It makes a round trip every three months or so, often carrying rare magical items, which are then sold at an exclusive open-air market.

“That’s neat.” Tav tilts his head. “What do you need me for?”

I require your opinion.

He supposes there are not a lot of people the Emperor has to consult about adventuring gear. Perhaps the mind flayer is starting an emergency stockpile or planning to travel. Or perhaps the Emperor is just hanging out—that would be nice, even under the pretext of “their alliance”. Tav has coaxed bookish or reclusive friends out of hiding before, but the process with the illithid has been months in the making, and he’d thought the surprise ballroom dance would be the biggest step in a while.

They reach the ship in question, where they are stopped by a burly dwarf woman, who tells them it’s a restricted area. The Emperor gives her a withering look and starts dropping names and titles and possibly locations in the ocean that Tav has never heard of. The guard, looking taken aback, steps aside as the Emperor glides past without a second glance.

“Your friend a sailor?” the woman grumbles.

Tav pauses, delighted. “What makes you say that?”

“Knew a prissy navy admiral just like him,” she says. “Bossy sort. Marches onto other people’s ships and starts barking, then throws a fit if his shiny boots ain’t licked within the minute. What’s the phrase for it…Passive-aggressive, innit?”

“Was he a good sailor?” Tav asks, grinning.

“That’s the real f*cking annoying thing,” she replies. “Bastard knew he was and couldn’t keep his mouth shut about it.”

Inside the belly of the ship, there are indeed tables laden with blades, gauntlets, jewelry. It’s clear this is stuff picked off of adventurer’s corpses. There is dried blood caked on some of it. Unfortunately, this means most of it is only marginally enchanted gear Tav himself would only sell. Still, perhaps there’s a pearl here somewhere, and he goes down the aisle, nearly bumping into a large woman with an axe strapped to her back, which spits red sparks.

In fact, there’s an awful lot of well-armed people looking at mediocre gear, isn’t there?

“Nice bow. Shiny,” the woman tells Tav. There are three others by the exit.

“Thank you.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Not in Chult,” he says with a tight smile. Nor does it seem that the source for all this gear is necessarily Chult, either.

He feels the Emperor brush up against both his back and his mind.

How fortuitous. It seems our selection has widened, the illithid says from behind, showing a mental image of a enchanted weapons worn by these individuals. Well, that’s one way of looking at it.

Tav sighs, as the sound of steel being drawn rings around the room. A dragonborn starts to enter his personal space. Tav inhales deeply and then puts on his sweetest smile.

“Hear me.” Attention snaps to him, as moths to light. “Won’t you kindly count every grain of sand upon the beach for me, out loud and without ceasing?”

It’s different compared to when he tried out the parasite for the first and last time, when his mind was reaching out to psychically wrestle against people’s willpower. The arcane power in his voice is more pull than push, like a performance. There is a hushed beat, like the anticipation of applause, a row of faces staring at him in awe, soaking in his authority. The bowstring-tightness in the air, as their wills tremble, attempt to resist, and then shatter before him.

Then, seven of them—ignoring their companion’s shouts and shrugging off their grasps—swiftly file outside. The remaining thugs stare through the portholes, dumbfounded, as their companions drop to their knees, taking pinches of sand in their palms.

A chorus of strained voices from outside: “One. Two. Three. Four…”

Tav lets out a satisfied sigh and then grins at the others. “And what shall I have the rest of you do?”

As the rest of them flee, Tav turns and notices the Emperor staring at him with violet-bright intensity.

He says, smugly, “Enjoy that, do you?”

Yes, the illithid answers matter-of-factly.

Tav winks at him. “Why, thank you. You aren’t so bad yourself.”

Then, there’s an explosion.

It throws Tav across the room and for a moment, he worries it has deafened him—but no. The silence isn’t accompanied by pain or ringing in his ears. It’s magical silence.

He crawls to his feet in time to start ducking under blades. Everyone who just fled has now come back, with reinforcements. That was fast. How many people are on this ship?

They are mage-killer types. Tav does have a spell that requires no verbal component—as he raises his hand, he spots the enemy on Counterspell duty start to make the sign. Tav echoes the gesture right back. His own Counterspell successfully supersedes the enemy’s…only for a second opponent to cast a third Counterspell.

Well, that’s that. He retreats steadily, fending swords off with his own.

The Emperor is nowhere to be seen. That’s not entirely a surprise.

If Tav can step out of the silenced zone, he can escape as well, if his armor and his quick feet can hold out for long enough…

A hammer swing from somewhere behind him.

Tav finds himself flat on his face, his arms as useless as his first attempt ever to do a push-up. Footsteps come upon him. He rolls the final meter, out of the silenced area, carefully draws forth a healing potion, and holds it against his chest. Then, he sets a vial of leftover runepowder on the floor. Then, he casts Firebolt.

Tav blacks out briefly at the force of the second explosion, until he feels the cold splash of shattered potion soaking him. Now there is ringing in his ears. He picks himself up, wiping the blood from his face. The silenced zone is gone. Fortunately, his enchanted armor has protected him from getting obliterated instantly.

Unfortunately, one tiefling woman remains standing, shrugging off the fire with a screech, and charges him down.

She goes flying across the room, slammed by an invisible force.

"What in the hells are you still doing here?"

The Emperor soars through the newly made hole in the wall, absently picking a bent crossbow bolt out from his armor. I would expect you to be glad to have my aid.

"You really have to pick one." The Emperor’s power floats Tav off the floor; he kicks the air irritably. “Either you commit to the knight commander motif, where you getto put yourself into the fray and blab on about being my protector and my shield, or you flee back to your little emperor-ing throne, far from danger, and leave the fighting to the pawns. You can’t have it both ways.”

I can appreciate the imagery, but what you are describing is a false equivalency.I can, in fact, have it both ways.

“You’re a false equivalency.” Tav is set down gently, with a moment’s lingering weightlessness for his legs to re-establish their function. He feels a cool touch within his headspace a moment later, like a hand on his chin turning his face from side to side, only it’s within his mind. Satisfied with the examination, the Emperor withdraws.

The other day you implied I was being reckless, and now you think me a coward. You’re the one who should decide one way or the other.

It’s still difficult to tell if and when the illithid is offended. Tav grimaces, as he digs into his bag for another potion to chug. “I don’t have any expectation for you to throw yourself in front of me in dangerous situations, if that’s what you mean.” He does not mention a certain conversation they had regarding Orpheus and abandonment and self-preservation, and he tries not to think about it either.

Certainly, I would avoid hopeless or pointless conflicts. I should hope you would as well, though perhaps I ought to know better at this point.

“Hmph.” Tav empties the potion bottle, and for some reason asks, “Why did you face the Netherbrain at all? Why didn’t you just fly the Astral Prism onto a ship across the ocean, or shift to a different plane, or tell us all to get aboard the nearest spelljammer? At some point you’d be far away enough from the Absolute to not need Orpheus anymore, even if you had to leave Toril behind for a time. It would have been the freedom you wanted.”

There’s a moment when Tav is unsure the Emperor will answer. Only for a time. The threat of the Absolute was such that it had to be ended.

“Someone would have done it,” Tav replies. “Someone always does. Perhaps Drizzt Do’Urden would have descended from the sky. The gods wouldn’t let the world end.”

Perhaps. But not before the city was razed to the ground.

They look out at the harbor. “The city,” Tav sighs. “I can understand that.”

And I wished to destroy the brain, which is why I fought with you up to the Crown, among all the other things, the Emperor says. Does this not assure you that I will not flee a battle and leave you to your death for no reason? I would have hoped that you would trust me by now.

“I never know what you’re about to do,” Tav says dryly.

The illithid is quiet for a moment. I see. Perhaps this will serve to elevate your opinion of me. I have discovered what I hoped I might find here.

“Have you now? Good for you.”

I asked for your presence so that you could make a selection for yourself, but I am fairly sure you will like this one. The Emperor holds out his hand, where a beaded pouch floats. Your name-day occurs in a month.

Tav stares at him. “Is that…a Bag of Holding?”

Yes. Although you are, of course, welcome to choose something else.

“How did you know it’s my…never mind.”

You are unaccustomed to receiving gifts annually, the Emperor observes. I suppose that is understandable, considering you expect to live for many centuries.

“I’m—thank you. You know I’ve always wanted one of these.” Just like that, near all inventory problems are solved.

Yes, I know.

Tav manages to recover from his shock. “How very sweet of you.” He is genuinely touched. Nobody mentions that illithids are quite thoughtful. And when the fight got ugly, the Emperor had indeed fought his way back instead of flying away.

More are coming, the illithid comments. Perhaps you should refrain from blowing yourself up with runepowder alongside them, this time.

Tav looks at him for a long moment. He puts a hand on the Emperor’s forearm, which the illithid allows. “Well, what have I to worry about? As you’ve said, I have you to be my shield, don’t I?”

As they step outside, the Emperor answers by putting a psionic shield around him. This becomes immediately relevant, as the tiefling that was just thrown out the window comes charging around the corner again. She’s brought two friends.

These wear emblems on their sleeves, which explains everything: They are Banites.

Tav backs up to keep the Emperor close on his flank, since a mind blast comes out in a cone shape. It sounds similar to thunder as it cracks past his head, except it makes his brain tingle, not his ears.

Tav follows up. He has brought a different sword today, exchanging Eilistraee’s singing one in favor of an elven blade he’d taken from Creche Y’llek, a deadly thing of razored dance, reminding him of his siblings, who whirl with their swords like steel cyclones.

The half-elf before him sluggishly raises a falchion in response, but the man’s grip is so weak that just the impact of crossing Tav’s blade sends the weapon flying.

Then, the illithid besides him pounces and tears through all three enemies. The Emperor wraps around the half-elf, grip squeezing around the head, and the man screams through a crunch of shattered skull, a back-spray of pinkish mist, and a tentacle curls back around and then shoots towards his eye socket—

Afterwards, there isn't a speck of blood on the Emperor. For some reason, Tav remembers how after eating Orpheus, the mind flayer had delicately dabbed his mouth on the back of his gauntlet, dainty as a wine connoisseur trying not to smear lipstick.

A strange suspicion comes over Tav. Had the Emperor known about this ambush beforehand, after all?

You suggested we dance properly, the Emperor says. Here we are. Not attended to in a gilded ballroom, being polite to patriars. But within your element at last.

A hand weakly grasps at Tav's ankles.

"Please..." the tiefling wheezes.

The Emperor stalks forward. Tav shoots him a look, halting the illithid in his tracks.

I see this extends past ‘moderately’ dark tastes for you, the Emperor observes with grim amusem*nt. You feel guilt over the natural results of your own prowess in battle. You shouldn't.

"It's not about guilt," Tav feels the need to say. "It's simple decency. When someone yields, you should let them live."

Honorable and admirable. A point of view driven by emotion,however. How well someone begs for mercy should not determine whether or not you need to end their life. The necessity of the situation should always come first.

"You sang my praises for saving the druid grove," Tav replies, raising a brow. "Or was that just pretty flattery?"

No. But you shed a necessary amount of blood to secure the safety of your tiefling friends. You drowned goblin children in it, so much so that word of your deed reached even the githyanki creche. Minthara got lucky, and she knows it; she, too, admires you, because she knows it was what had to be done. You understand this perfectly, of course. I know you. When you secure the kill, the victory, your heart soars.

The Emperor looks down at the wounded tiefling again and...what is Tav going to do? Stop him? He's not wrong.Tav has paladins in the family, and no doubt sanctimonious fury has rubbed off on him whether he wants it or not. Killing slavers is one of life's great delights.

The Emperor studies Tav for a moment, and then leaves the tiefling be. Instead, he nods towards the beach, where a half dozen new people are shouting at the ones still counting the sand. These are the ones I left outside. Should be the last.

The psionic shield around Tav hisses, seethes around him, like the murmur of many voices.

The Bag of Holding is buttoned securely in his pocket. He thinks of “Lady Sashenstar” adorning him with jewels like collaring a favorite hunting hound, and a gold-clad figure made from dreamstuff offering a hand and a beatific smile and a handful of parasites. He thinks of those deep-sea fish with the pretty lights dangling from their heads, right above their sharp jaws. Of being aided and bribed for the sake of maintaining alliances. (But people also just give each other presents. That’s a perfectly normal thing to do. Isn’t it?)

"Fine," he says. "Let's dance."

Orin, and Bhaalists in general, sound deranged, and of course they are. But the first clean kill of the fight, the moment the tide turns favorably and the enemy is routed, is like the swell of the choir, the high note hit. And in that moment, when danger screams around him, when the thread of life is cut at his command…There is a reason people call upon the god of murder as lord.

A whirl of steel and magic. Blood pools at Tav's feet. There are fingers strewn here and there, like scattered jam-biscuits, like somebody has upturned a tray of hams. The Emperor absently runs a talon alongside the hollowed-out bowl of a woman’s skull, as if sticking a finger into the honey jar.

But perhaps being a hero suits you better, after all.

Tav laughs, and tells him that with sixteen less Banites around, they have technically done a very heroic deed for the city. Sixteen Banites sliced down to ribbons, as easily as snipping the stems of flowers.

The Emperor tilts his head, glides back over. A tentacle reaches out to dab Tav’s cheek, where a spot of viscera has landed. It traces down to his chin, feather-light, brushing over his mouth in the process.

Hollow-eyed, the seven remaining Banites on the beach continue to count sand.

But the thing about heady power trips is that they are about as real as spending the night at Sharess' Carress, or watching a play. When morning comes, when the curtain drops, real life resumes. In real life, you can't go on a rampage and cut short other people’s lives and hopes and dreams, at least not regularly. You have to be careful with these things.

It is quite different for somebody with unfortunate dietary requirements. The Emperor and Astarion are probably allowed to enjoy murdering people. Wolves have to like hunting, otherwise they would starve.

It's a matter of different natures. Through the metallic tang of blood, Tav smiles at the Emperor and thanks him politely for the dance, even as he carefully wipes his sword until the steel shines pristine.

But for the very first time, Tav understands why the Emperor desires him to peel his skin off and tear open his jaw in favor of tentacles.

Chapter 8: Tav is lectured about illithids

Chapter Text

There’s a tune Tav has forgotten, old enough not to be written down anywhere, knocked out of his brain when the parasite burrowed in. Most of his bardic abilities returned within that mere month of getting tadpoled, while the remainder followed after the splinter’s removal. Tav has all of his spells back except for one. Sometimes, he almost gets the opening notes, only for it to slip away like mist under sun.

A year after the Netherbrain’s destruction, the lack of progression is starting to bother him, an anxiety that there are heights he can no longer reach due to permanent damage. Would that be terrible? Compared to how it could have gone, he’s likely gotten off easy.

He’s being impatient. Perhaps if he adventures enough, it’ll come back to him, and he will feel less like he needs to clamber over the mountains to scratch an itch.

After receiving a missive proclaiming that some of Vlaakith’s forces are making their way to the Material Plane, Tav rents a horse and rides out to where Lae’zel is reportedly camped. Surprisingly, Shadowheart accompanies him; it seems her father has expressed that she should get out for a little while, and that he can do some of the caretaking.

There’s not much chance for initial greetings, as the battle is in full swing when they get there. At least it’s a short one, more a skirmish than anything.

“I hear that some congratulations are in order,” Tav tells Lae’zel after their victory. They are sprawled out in a clearing in the woods. Tav is trying to get the blood out of his hat. “A promotion, is that right?”

“Yes. With this victory, my tally has earned me an audience with a cohort of dragons, each of whom search for a worthy pairing with a rider. I will choose and be chosen,” Lae’zel says. “A dragon to pair with my silver sword. A knight, in title full. In the old days, I….I would be kith’rak, in my own right.”

Tav studies her expression. “And are you happy with it?”

“It is a burden as much as it is an honor,” she admits, something she would never have done when they first met. “There will be a responsibility to lead a larger contingent of warriors than I have ever been given before. But I will do what is necessary. I learned to parlay as the chosen envoy to the githzerai, as it was necessary, and so I will learn to act with broader vision for the greater good, as it is necessary.”

“You’re up to any challenge, certainly.”

“Yes. In the name of the Prince,” she says. “We shall have our victory.”

Tav winces. “I’m sorry, you know. About that.”

The githyanki’s eyes flash briefly. “Do not speak of it.”

“I’m going to refill our water canteens,” Shadowheart declares loudly, striding away.

“Well. It’s been long enough, but we haven’t talked about it properly,” Tav continues. “I think we should, instead of ignoring it.”

Lae’zel tightens like a bowstring. “Should this conversation begin, there is no going back. We may exchange words that we regret. If it comes to blows…” Her voice, of course, lacks much of the enthusiasm she once had for such threats.

“I try not to say things that get to that point,” Tav replies. “And I’m ready for you to shout at me, if you want. Go on, then.”

“What more is there to speak of? I said all I had to say when we last stood within the Prism, when we held the Hammer in our hands. When I had but one chance and failed. Prince Orpheus is dead. You listened to the whispers of the ghaik. You took its counsel over mine.” Her tone wavers minutely. “And I still do not understand why.”

“I know. I want you to understand. I took the Emperor’s counsel over Voss’s. I didn’t know Voss well, and I certainly didn’t know Orpheus.”

“We stormed the devil’s house and crushed him under our heel! We plucked the Hammer from his cold corpse. I thought you intended to help our cause!”

Tav spreads his hands. “You know I did intend to use the Hammer, after we defeated the Absolute. Even the Emperor agreed to it—he only cared about the timing. But the way things turned out, I had to choose between an ally who had been with us from the beginning, or an unknown. Voss said that Orpheus would see reason. We only had his word about this, about any of his motivations.”

“The Prince of the Comet was honorable,” Lae’zel hisses. “He would have put the good of his people first, even if he were slighted by the misuse of his power.”

“Maybe,” Tav says. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. But you don’t know, do you? You’ve never met Orpheus. While you acted as her loyal blade, you’d never met Vlaakith in person, either. And Voss? At that point, you’d had precisely as many interactions with him as I had. Tell me, Lae’zel. How can you be certain about the honorable characters of all of these strangers?”

“So you prefer the company of evil that you know, rather than rely on faith.”

Tav smiles sadly. “Your faith is the best part about you, my friend. You inspired me. With you, I was unafraid. With you at my back, I can leap into battle without hesitation, and get away with being a little crazy. Because I grew used to having you at my side.”

“Chk!” The githyanki turns away. “I have asked myself time and again, in the moments of Orpheus’s absence, when he could have been the one to turn the tide…how I could let that happen, how I could turn against everything I knew and allow his death right before my own eyes! How I could always be convinced by you. Before, there were moments I thought it was madness driven on by the tadpoles, by the connection forced upon us. Now, I know your way with words is dangerous.” Her eyes narrow. “You have more in common with the ghaik than you know.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Word has reached me of your visits to the Elfsong Tavern. I see that you are still courting madness. Are you actually—tsk’va. One day, you will wake with no thoughts of your own in your head. It won’t be immediate. The creature evidently bides its time. But every time you go to it, you lose a piece of yourself.”

Tav shrugs. He has promised himself he will minimize arguing, and let Lae’zel air her grievance. “I’m sure you’ll let me know if that happens.”

“And I would give you a swift, honorable end,” Lae’zel finishes halfheartedly.

“Thanks.”

“Bah, it’s worthless to speak of this. What’s done is done. In the end, the mind flayer kept its promise, as you said, and the Grand Design was thwarted. That is the only reason we are still speaking.” She is silent for a moment, then says, almost softly, “I know why you are like this, because you were the very same to me. But the creature cannot love you back. In friendship or fidelity or…anything otherwise. My people have studied each of their corpses carefully, categorized every part of their brain matter, mapping out how they think. Do you know what they’ve found? A ghaik’s brain fundamentally lacks the capacity to form the bonds as we do. At best, it thinks of you as a pet.”

“Corellon preserve me, do we speak of love now?” Tav raises his eyebrows. “Well, I have heard practically everything said of the subject from the bards and poets, and funnily enough, nobody mentions that it dwells within the lobe of an organ.”

“Then what you seek is even more futile, for there is nothing more spiritually bereft than a mind flayer. They are not called aberrations because of their appearance alone. They are not called monsters out of mere fear. Soulless, warped, empty. Their very existence is heresy itself.”

Tav cracks a smile. “Must be tough, to be abandoned by the gods.”

“Chk.”

Tav thinks about Omeluum and Blurg. He’s never asked about the nature of their relationship, though they certainly seem to meet the criteria of friendship, at minimum. But Tav can tell Lae’zel is done with philosophical debate.

There are new burdens on her now, ones of leadership and sacrifice to her cause, which Tav is no longer privy to. The distance will only grow as their little adventure together is left farther in the past—close as they became, they all only knew each other for little over a month, after all. And one day that, too, may be but a memory.

Tav clears his throat. “Right. Let’s leave it at that.”

Lae’zel nods, avoiding his gaze. “I will fetch some firewood. It will be good to camp out under the stars tonight. It is something I have missed about the Material Plane.” She starts to turn, but then stops. “It occurs to me that we do not require Withers in order to organize a reunion. And I’ve heard that in some parts here, the people celebrate the anniversary of their births.”

“Oh,” Tav laughs. “I only told Shadowheart about my name-day because she insisted. I have to do sums to figure my current age to the year.”

“Still, time moves quickly. I would not be averse to…a ‘hang-out’ as you might say, no matter the pretext.”

“I would like that,” Tav tells her. Though he knows Lae’zel is trying to make peace, he can’t help but challenge, “And who would you have attend?”

This time, she meets his eyes, sets her chin. “Any you would invite. I have little time to care about any dubious shadows skulking about the periphery. I will be too busy relishing in my ability to attend in person, during the rare time I am able. And I have…much more to say to you, that this day alone cannot hold.” She hesitates. “What do I do now?”

Tav offers a smile. “You tell me some dates in which you are free. And then we ask everyone else the same question.”

“Still collecting secrets, Shadowheart?” Tav asks the bushes, in the opposite direction that Lae’zel had gone for firewood.

“Says the one who eavesdropped in my mind when I was having a private discussion with a goddess. Not that I care about that now, naturally. Do you mind?” Shadowheart steps out into view. “I have to admit…I’m accustomed to listening in on every conversation that goes on. I do realize that in regular society, it’s considered rude. Perhaps we should both break the habit?”

“That would be the polite, socially normal thing to do,” Tav agrees. “I don’t mind. You know how I am. Wouldn’t want to add hypocrite atop that.”

“Good, because I don’t plan on stopping, just because I’ve dyed my hair silver.”

Tav smiles. “You haven’t changed all that much. They weren’t able to change you, despite their best efforts, because in the end, you broke free.”

Shadowheart sits down next to him. “Lae’zel was right about one thing, as much as I hate to admit the fact: You’re a terrible flatterer. You really know how to say exactly what we wish to hear.”

“Alright. What are we talking about?”

“What’s done is done. But Lae’zel is loyal. Despite all that’s happened, I think she’ll try to remain your friend, even if she makes threats and never agrees with your friendship with the Emperor. If it is friendship, that is.”

“Oh, you know,” Tav says airily, “I like to keep things flexible, have a little fun, without so much pressure. Lae’zel herself knows it. And I am also great friends with Astarion and Halsin and Wyll—”

“You broke poor Wyll’s heart,” Shadowheart says dryly.

“No, I didn’t. All I did was kiss him, once, after a lovely little dance. I wasn’t going to turn him down. But after, I didn’t let it get any further than that.”

“Because he truly believes in storybook romance. He thought you could, too. Listen, I don’t care. You won’t hear my judgement on the matter—and I don’t want to know—”

“Of course you want to know.”

“I do, but stop deflecting. Do you truly have no regrets about Orpheus, like you made it sound?”

“Are you also asking why I didn’t save him?” Tav says.

“I’m…I don’t know. Obviously, nobody could ask any more of you. Nobody can expect you to save everyone. Deep down, Lae’zel knows that. Which is why I’ll ask it when she can’t bring herself to demand more of you: Why couldn’t you rescue her prince for her?”

Tav smiles wryly as Shadowheart continues, “You’ve taken on absurd, monumental tasks for others—at great risk, with little reward. For strangers. And in this, the most important thing to her, you’ve just given…well, something of a cold answer. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, but you didn’t let Orpheus get his brain eaten because you were afraid of taking a risk, right?”

“Oh, I understand what you want me to admit.”

“Everything you said was true. I may have made the same decision if I were in the position; it was perhaps the most logical one. But Lae’zel deserves a better explanation from her friend.”

“I said what she would hear, at this point,” Tav says. “Of course I am biased towards the Emperor! Of course that colored my decisions. And of course I regret Orpheus’s death! Do you think I enjoyed keeping a prisoner in my pocket, promising I would free him after I was done using him, and then going back on my word? Do you think I liked having a prince in chains while we fought for ‘freedom’? Do you think I got off on bending someone to my will?”

Shadowheart is quiet, just for a moment, but that’s enough to make Tav laugh.

“Oh, I see.”

“Do you think I’m judging you?” she snaps.

“I don’t know. What’s the conclusion?”

Shadowheart’s tone gentles. “There’s no conclusion, except I think that I might want to let my fearless leader come down from the pedestal. Now that it’s all over, you ought to be allowed to.”

Tav fiddles with the handle of his longsword. “Do you think…I’m controlling?”

“You kept a precise tally of who was to carry what, and you told us exactly what to wear into battle down to the rings on our fingers,” she says dryly. “I think I got into a strange dispute with you about my boots once. I lost the argument, without realizing that we were arguing. You persuaded me.”

“I suppose I do like to get my way. People ought to make the right decisions and sometimes, they need to be steered to it, one way or the other. I’m very convincing. That doesn’t mean I’m out there subjugating anyone.” Tav scowls. “Yes, I like it when my enemies grovel at my feet, and yes, I like dominating them with my magic and watching them crumble under my power. I just do it with my voice and not a greataxe, but what’s the difference?”

“I’m not judging you,” Shadowheart reminds.

“Because you hardly have room to!” Tav regrets the words the moment they come out, but Shadowheart only looks smug.

“There we go. You should feel free to say all the things you were tastefully alluding to before. No more roundabout appeasem*nt. I wasn’t in the state to hear things so directly before, that’s true. What I needed then—your encouragements, your unconditional support, they were necessary to me. But now, I’ve had time.”

“I see the cleric has become wise at last.” Tav winces. “I hate doing this. With all the mind-reading that was going on before, my stance was to ignore people’s surface thoughts and impulses. My head is filled with vicious comments, yet I keep them to myself!”

“Oh, no, you were clearly bottling them up. On the battlefield, they poured out.”

“It was a stressful time,” Tav says. “There, you’ve gotten your confession, holy cleric. Are we done?”

“Not quite. You know, I do want to know about your relationship with the mind flayer. I’m not put off by disturbing details.”

“Now it’s gossip time, eh? That’s more fun. You’ll be disappointed, though. Currently, I’m getting him to go out more, but that’s about it.”

“There has to be more to it than that.”

“Why, because I slept with him once? It’s not that deep. I also slept with Astarion, which he proposed about three days of us meeting. And then stopped, when it became clear it wasn’t terribly good for his wellbeing. And then, Halsin. And Minthara! And—”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” Shadowheart crosses her arms. “You’re spending quite a bit of time with him, aren’t you? I only mean…I really do think he’s our friend, as much as a mind flayer can be. But I’ve had dangerous friends before, and I knew not to forget that fact. We weren’t all strongly against turning into illithids just because of the aesthetics.”

Tav sighs. “I know he was using us back then. Since it was necessary for him to hide in the Prism all the time, I didn’t have much opportunity to talk to him, except on his terms, which were terrible conditions for building trust. If that weren’t the case, maybe things could have been different.”

“So you think you could talk a mind flayer down, too.”

“I didn’t,” Tav says, seriously. “I didn’t have enough time to get to that point.”

“And now you’re going to make up for it by becoming best friends, since that’s what you do.”

“Just being a friend is a start. Who knows how long he was in the Astral Prism for, with how time passed in there?”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes. “And now you’re going to socialize the mind flayer, because that is what you do.”

"I think he could get it together, with a little encouragement. Maybe it will take a hundred years, but he can get there."

"You're going to spend a hundred years fixing him?"

Tav rolls his eyes right back. "I'm going to spend a hundred years getting well-acquainted anyways if I keep living in Baldur's Gate, which I plan to. And since I am an excellent influence, if I don't say so myself, sooner or later his attitude is bound to improve by itself. It's happened before."

"You really are full of yourself!" Shadowheart says.

“I don’t mean it that way! All of you lot fixed your own problems. The only thing I do is talk a lot.” Shadowheart is still making a face, and so he says, “You know how our cesspool of a city got rich?”

“Yes, I understand by now you’re a Balduran fan.”

He grins. “Besides that investment money he seeded, the locals needed to attract trade, to circulate the coin like lifeblood, make it grow. So, when pirates arrived, they struck a deal. They became business partners. You’ve heard of what that business was?”

“You speak of the ghost lights.”

“Yes. The false light houses, luring other sailors onto the rocks. They guided so many to their doom that they became rich from picking clean and bartering with the bones of those ships—thus rose the first patriars, who paved our foundation with blood. Can you imagine what that was like, as you sailed through a storm, lost in the seething fog? But what can you do when you see a light house, burning ahead? Even if you suspect a trick, can you really afford to steer away?”

Shadowheart crosses her arms. “It’s not like that now. You’re no longer blindly following his advice against the Absolute, hoping it turns out well, since you’ve no better options.”

“Yet back then, he brought me safely to shore, like he said he would. Now, everyone is telling me to quit while I’m ahead, because the light house may yet turn out to be false, if I keep giving it opportunities. To tell the truth, I still don’t know. But I’m sure you can understand why I don’t stop sailing.”

“I hope you’re right,” Shadowheart sighs. “I’ve been doing reading about mind flayers, you know. It’s only gotten me more worried, not less. There’s a lot about the necessity of a psychic connection, the hivemind—theories on why they take thralls, in order to feel that. You know that the Emperor will do anything it takes to survive. If it ever comes down to it, you can only hope that you don’t end up like his other two friends, Stelmane and Ansur.”

Tav smirks. “That won’t happen. I’m different.”

Shadowheart smacks him on the shoulder.

Chapter 9: The Emperor attends a party

Chapter Text

A marble monument to Duke Belynne Stelmane poses in the shadow of the Black Dragon Gate. She stands with a tome tucked under one arm and her other fist raised towards the sky, as if to seize the sun.

Though it is smaller than most of Balduran’s statues, she would find it terribly gaudy. Despite being a gifted public speaker seated on the Council of Four and the leader of the Knights of the Shield, Belynne actually despised attention. She considered it a necessary evil, meted out in small doses for the sake of getting real work done.

The single personal fact she allowed the broadsheets to get out of her was her taste for Sembian-vinted Ashaba Dusk over more local vintages. The closest to scandal she’d ever gotten was a suggestion she drank too much during the day, for she always had a glass on hand for meetings. There was a time, as a young woman gazing out at the crossroads of her future, when she considered departing the city altogether and purchasing a vineyard. How different things would have been.

Upon the anniversary of her death, out of respect for her wishes, the Emperor refrains from what she would call “whinging”, and brings no flowers to the monument. He does bring a bottle of Ashaba Dusk.

They have added a plaque: In memory of Duke Belynne Stelmane, the Visionary. When her mind was set, she let nothing stand in her way.

The Emperor raises the bottle to that and leaves it at the foot of the statue.

After another absence, Tav announces his return to the city by stumbling into the Elfsong cellar, manifestly drunk. Violence echoes from him; the Emperor rises, though Tav waves him off.

“Just some gutter rat who thought he had an easy mark, on my way back,” the elf says, navigating around the shelves slowly. “Oh…I don’t know if I killed him or not. Maybe I should have checked.”

I have eaten recently, but thank you for thinking of me, the Emperor says politely. He settles back down on the futon and asks a rhetorical question. All is well?

“Just...stupid. Went with Minsc to a bar. That man is a bad influence. I don’t usually do this.” Tav scrubs his temples; the Emperor feels his headache from across the room.

You are upset.

“Only because I drank too much. Minsc is…” He searches for the word. “Stupid.”

Perhaps you should have listened to me, the Emperor says. Since Tav likes it when he displays the ability to make deductions without “cheating”, he does not enter Tav’s thoughts. He said something to upset you.

“Who gets upset by Minsc?” Tav scowls. “S’like getting angry at a five-year-old for calling you ugly. He meant no harm, and he’s probably already forgotten about it.”

There is nothing wrong about refusing to endure disrespect.

“It’s not like he said anything new or interesting.”

The Emperor reaches a conclusion. I see. There’s no need to be upset on my behalf.

“Perhaps I’m tired of people thinking me a fool, as if we didn’t win every battle when they took my orders. Apparently, I’m good enough at hero-ing to heap all their problems upon …oh, but now that their lives are together, they are all sages brimming with wisdom to dispense! Off they are, on their own paths. But I should be happy for them.”

You should sit.

Tav puts both hands along a wine rack, feels along the edge, and frowns at it profoundly. He’s dropped his hat. “It’s a good thing, I suppose. When people can go far away, when they fly to the heavens or to Wildspace, it means they don’t need you to babysit them anymore. Not responsible. You don’t make them sad. If I die in some unfortunate way while adventuring, you won’t be sad, will you? I can count on you for that…?”

The Emperor moves the wine rack from his path. Triumphantly, Tav resumes his tipsy march forward.

Your friends are not entirely unwise to warn you about the practical dangers of associating with illithids, the Emperor says bluntly. You have gotten very lucky. You are about to argue that I am “changing my tune”. I am not. During our journey together, we were dependent on one another. It was essential for you to trust me, and so I asked you to look past my appearance. We succeeded against the Netherbrain because you did so. But back then, things were different. You had a tadpole.

“Not this again.”

It would be a different story if you had taken a path towards evolving. You made your choice, and I can respect that. I had only ever asked you to consider as far as becoming half-illithid, out of necessity.

Tav’s gaze manages to focus on him. “But that’s not all you wanted.”

The hero of Baldur’s Gate is not like Belynne Stelmane. His ambitions are not shackled to anyone, least of all to the Emperor.

What I wanted is irrelevant. It’s done, and now, as your friends are quick to remind, I can certainly threaten you, even if I never do so. One day, this fact will likely dawn on you as well.

“You’re really overestimating how great of a mind flayer I’d be,” Tav complains. “As if it would solve the problem of the brain-eating threat. You know, I have far less self-control than you, even now. If I turned into one, I would just try to kill and eat you all the time, probably. It would stop being funny after the first few occasions. I would be very boring! If you think something like that sounds like stimulating company…”

I would not find you boring.

“Don’t say it like that! Ah, well, I don’t think I have much of a case to make, even against Minsc,” Tav laments. "I have clearly proven time and again that I am not immune to the ghaik propaganda, hm?"

The Emperor moves over as the elf sprawls onto the futon and heaves a despondent sigh.

Very well. On the contrary, the data suggests that you only follow my counsel about sixty-three percent of the time. I can recite to you every directive, request, and instruction I have made to you since we've met, and the results each time, if you'd like.

"That's interesting. Are you giving me credit for picking up the parasite jars you pointed out, even when I was only humoring you and had no intention of using them?"

I am. I must be objective about all assessments.

"And counting each separate instance you've asked me to reconsider using the parasite?"

Each separate instance, yes. The Emperor pauses. I can understand if you found that annoying.

"I'm sure it seemed important to you at the time."

Tav has draped himself across the Emperor's legs.

"Oh. You've such comfortable knees! They're not boney at all, somehow. Seems that's the real illithid advantage. Forsooth, an ascendant species!"

From this angle, the elf stares right up at the Emperor's mouth. Tav suddenly thinks, with triumphant epiphany, that surely illithids have the jaw strength to crack coconuts.

"And yet! Soft, cuddly bones," he mumbles. "Cuddle-fish. Haha."

Then, he halfway rolls over, imagining pillows in the shape of femurs and other nonsensical, uninterpretable things.

The Emperor reaches down and lightly runs his nails along Tav's back. No response.A rare instance of an unconscious elf.

Tav’s mind, usually so calm and clear during meditation, is now fizzy like champagne. The Emperor sips the feeling, just a taste. Takes a limp arm in his hand and turns it. Tav wears one of the gem-studded bracelets gifted during Ravengard’s ball.

It would be so very easy for the Emperor to slot himself fully into the elf’s mind, to carve himself deep, binding them together. If he is sufficiently subtle and skilled, Tav’s companions won’t notice. (Yes, the chorus cries. Claim him.)

Tav must know this. Tav is no fool, no matter how many arguments he is getting into with his friends. Why is he here, sprawled over the Emperor’s legs, in this completely vulnerable state?

Because he needs to win the argument, of course. Ridiculous creature.

He considers if he should move, but Tav does seem comfortable, so the Emperor picks the elf’s hat off the floor, summons a stack of documents from the other side of the room, and settles in.

Tav stirs two hours later, and emits misery.

“Yup! Kill me. Just tear my brains out, so long as it’s quick.”

Without looking up from his reports, the Emperor lays a tentacle over Tav’s eyes; Tav puts his hands over it and presses it down like a cool rag.

“Why did I do that?”

Your judgements tend to swing between two binaries: Tactical and reckless.

“Lots of overlap,” Tav mumbles. “Do you understand just how much loot was in Raphael’s lair? I ensured the devil didn’t have so much as a goblet remaining, not to mention what else was in his vaults. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

And what could you possibly gain from drinking in Minsc’s company?

“You really despise him, huh?” The elf laughs, sitting up against the Emperor’s chest and accepting a glass of water that floats into his hands. “As you know, nuance isn’t his strong point. If someone in his circle complains about mind flayers left over from the Absolute running around the city still eating people, he might suddenly remember your existence. And if Jaheira isn’t with him at this moment of revelation, it’s up to someone else to distract him from thinking about doing anything stupid.”

I doubt Jaheira has told him where I am, or that he has the wherewithal to find out, the Emperor drawls. He lets his talons tighten at Tav’s forearm. It’s rather insulting that you believe he would pose a danger to me.

“I have said nothing of the sort,” Tav sniffs.

So you do not believe this to be the case?

Instead of answering, Tav slinks away by starting an argument. “You put too much stock in my surface thoughts,” he says. “They are half-formed, unrehearsed things. Whenever I stand atop a tall building, I often imagine jumping to my death. I have no desire to do it. It doesn’t conclude anything about me.”

On the contrary, the contrast of what you think and what you say tells me a lot about you, the Emperor replies.

“It sounds like you’re hearing awful thoughts when you don’t have to.”

I have devoured the brains of the lowest, most sad*stic of killers. Nothing you think, even in your darkest moments, can compare. But I am able to refrain from commenting on unsaid things. If you were illithid, you would understand better that I hold no judgement even when I hear them.

“What was it like?” Tav says, imagining a mind flayer colony. “To be one with something much bigger than yourself?”

That's not what the Emperor meant, but he answers, There is peace in not having to think for yourself.

“Everyone knows that,” Tav says dryly. “Just ask any Gortash follower or city square gossip.” He sighs. “You don’t have an advanced psionic hangover cure, do you?”

Open your mind to me.

The Emperor reaches out, soothes irritated nerves and over-dilated blood vessels. Tav shivers at the touch, his brain interpreting it as the sensation of cold waves lapping through his head. He sighs and slumps a little, a warm weight against the chest. The Emperor is not quite able to enjoy the elf’s reaction to his power as intended, because said elf is currently thinking: Ah, look, the ocean is still there within you.

Then, Tav stretches, refreshed. It dawns on him, at last, that he is essentially sitting in the illithid’s lap. The Emperor says nothing. Tav gazes up thoughtfully, fey-brightness in his eyes, and smiles.

“Thank you. So, given any thought to coming next week? It’ll be fun. I have performed the calculations: I’m turning two-hundred and eighty-one!”

A tenday prior, Tav sent word of another get-together of his old companions by pretending that he celebrates his name-day. The Emperor consults his mental ledger for how many social invitations he has turned down, and is grudgingly faced with objective numbers—and the objective fact that he has seldom left the Elfsong since the anniversary of Stelmane’s death. He tells Tav that as long as it’s a brief affair, he will go.

The elf beams. Carefully telegraphing the motion, he kisses the Emperor on the cheek. Then, darts away like a dragonfly.

Tav is like the late duke in one regard. Attempting to leash him would be like trying to bottle the wind, the storm. Theoretically possible with great effort, and utterly futile in the long term. If there’s one thing the Emperor has gotten out of Belynne’s death, it’s a lesson learned.

To the benefit of Baldur's Gate, the saying "you are what you eat" does not apply to illithids. It’s not to say that the Emperor is entirely unimpacted by his diet, however. He’s absorbed less passionate scholars and joyous artists compared to what other mind flayers routinely seek out. Some of the skills of base criminals are applicable, certainly, but there’s only so much diversity in their experiences. Since he has no personal desire to lacerate the world, the Emperor is just sitting on many pointlessly intimate details about sawing off fingers in honor of Bhaal, and how many parents torment and sell off their children, and every banal variety of physical, emotional, and sexual violence. While the Emperor does not interact with these memories after absorbing them, the sheer volume of their availability has likely disillusioned him to a small degree.

Somehow, the physical presence of Minsc disillusions him to a large degree.

Minsc yells, “Boo, look here! There he is! The trickster most foul who appeared in Minsc’s dreams in an attempt to sway him down the dark path. Ah, no disguise can fool Boo’s keen nose. He sees you for what you are—"

Jaheira takes him aside. The Emperor attempts to pay this no mind, and keeps walking like nothing has happened.

They have rented out the Dancing Lute, named for the enchanted lute that plays itself. The owner and barkeeper, who has devised this method to remain absent of his station, is on a smoke break that will last the entire event.

The Emperor still utilizes a light illusion in case anyone accidentally walks in from the street. Obviously, everyone present recognizes him immediately. Astarion’s face breaks out with a gleeful grin. The Emperor tolerates a brief one-armed hug from Shadowheart, since she is looking at Lae’zel meaningfully as she does it.

Minthara eagerly suggests, “Shall I say something adequately provocative to Lae’zel? I believe she once mentioned a dueling tradition among her kind, in the event of insults one must kill over. Perhaps this will take her mind off things.”

“Enough, now.” Tav lays a hand on her shoulder as he chides, “Keep the peace for me, Minthara. I will not have tonight disrupted in an ugly fashion, hm?”

With a jeweled circlet about his head and a small smile, Tav effortlessly channels the authority of any proud elf-lord from Evermeet. The drow grunts. “If that is your wish.”

Lae’zel, on the other hand, Tav goes to wrangle in an entirely different manner. He presses wine into her hands in greeting, hooks his arm under hers and drags her into an absurd dance against her protestations, laughing the entire time. He is wryly witty to Shadowheart, playfully rude to Jaheira, and very gentle with Astarion.

Their minds are like dim lights, flickering against one another. There is excitement, burning like the torches. The buzz of endorphins, the honey-sugar rush of companionship.

The Emperor keeps out of the way, observing from the bar. Halsin comes to greet him, as does Jaheira, and Astarion offers to talk about Lae’zel behind her back. The Emperor knows that they think him cold as he keeps his interactions with them curt. If he appears to engage, they will suspect he has an ulterior motive. If he channels the warmth of the dream visitor, those who had met the persona will again mourn the disguise they had clung to. And they will suspect he has an ulterior motive.

Which he does.

Lae’zel arrived dressed in light armor under her clothing. She has used the dancing to pull Tav aside and now speaks with him in a low voice. There’s a tiny psionic device in her back pocket, which prevents telepathic eavesdropping via reading surface thoughts—but only outside a short range. She hopes that the Emperor will not notice the effect from across the room, which is also out of earshot.

Underneath the table next to them, Us creeps up to their ankles in silence. The intellect devourer connects its mind to the Emperor’s.

“…Changed your tune quite quickly, haven’t you, despite what you said? Is that the true reason you suggested this in the first place?” Tav is saying. “For a mission? You really have changed.”

Lae’zel’s tone is irritated. “Of course not. Voss informed me only yesterday.”

“When you said to him you were coming here, no doubt.”

“My charge is to deliver the message to you. You need only deal with the ghaik. If you apply your powers of persuasion, then perhaps he’ll even see reason.”

“Your promise…”

“My word is my bond. You know that this is the best way, the logical path. This will repair what has been broken.”

Tav makes an incensed noise and then strides out of Us’s earshot. The Emperor dismisses it before its presence is discovered. Lae’zel stares at Tav’s back, her expression stormy with frustration or impatience.

The alcohol flows. They toast to Gale, the absent god, and to Wyll and Karlach, who must return to Avernus soon to continue their quest to repair the latter’s engine. At one point, Astarion says, “To the good times and bad!”

“To another year absent of f*cking worms in the head!” Karlach says. “And to the deaths of all the bastards who stuck them in our eyes.”

From across the room, Lae’zel makes a sound, her arms crossed. She says, “We cannot quite toast to that, since the one responsible still breathes.” Tav glares at her immediately, but their dispute earlier only causes her to glare back.

Shadowheart falters. “Oh.” All eyes turn on the Emperor. “Well, we all know he was the pilot of that nautiloid—”

“Your minds are soft and easily moved,” the githyanki sneers. “Do you not remember which ghaik infected you? Stood over your pod and placed the tadpole in your eye, personally?”

“It wasn’t…” Shadowheart’s face twists into a frown, an expression mirrored by Astarion, Karlach, Wyll, Tav. “That was a different mind flayer. Wasn’t it?”

“I thought we killed the one that did it,” Astarion says. “At the crash site itself, remember? It was already dying.”

“That one captured us…right? And the dead one at the goblin camp was too small. I don’t think we ever found, specifically, which one did it.”

There’s a sudden sweep of headaches from most in the room. “The armor…but wasn’t the eye color wrong?”

I placed the tadpoles within each of you, the Emperor says flatly. They are about to come to the conclusion; there’s no point in redirecting now.

Looks are exchanged. “Naturally,” Astarion says weakly. “I can see why you didn’t mention it all this time.”

“But when I was in the pod, I thought I already...The timeline doesn’t…” Shadowheart chews her lip. “Why didn’t any of us recognize you as the one when we first met? Or this entire time?”

“Because the ghaik played with your memory, of course!” Lae’zel says, exasperated. “Easy enough to create confusion in your recollection of that chaotic time.”

Tav ceases his glaring at the gith. His shocked gaze instead turns onto the Emperor.

“Hold on, you were the one who infected each of us here? Did you choose us?” Karlach says.

Of course I chose you. I looked into your minds aboard the nautiloid; I was not seeking to ally myself with shoemakers or bakers. I required experienced adventurers, able to survive what would be an arduous journey. And yes, I modified a portion of your memory from that time—and that decision likely saved all of our lives. When you found me fighting Orpheus’s honor guard, I was barely able to talk you down as I was. Knowing that I was the one responsible for your infection would have swayed you to attack me. And then, it would have been the end of you as well.

“Wait. How much did you change?” Shadowheart cries. “What else wasn’t real? How many conversations have we had that I don’t remember?”

"Calm down. That doesn't make sense," Tav says. "If he’s ever modified our memories, any powerful restoration magic cast on us afterwards would have restored them immediately. I know for a fact we got into enough trouble to have needed it. We would have known." He looks at the Emperor again, silently begging him to support this point.

"Indeed. He must have utilized the parasites themselves to keep your memories continuously altered, every time they could have returned," Minthara muses. “How ingenious.”

It’s no great surprise that the drow is not a skilled peacemaker.

I understand why you would find it disturbing. I did not mention it because—

Shadowheart narrows her eyes. “If we ever have an interaction you don’t like, you can just erase it, can’t you? You can make us forget. Did you really even help my parents that one night?”

I cannot fundamentally warp reality.

Minsc joins in with irrelevant nonsense. Lae’zel scoffs. Voices are raised.

“Enough!” Tav shouts. He has always carried a natural authority that he veils with his smile, but when it comes out, it silences the room. “What does it matter? This was nearly a year ago. Nobody died, except the parasites in question. The city was saved. Perhaps we’ve had our feelings hurt—are we not over it at this point? We can queue up in front of Shadowheart now, if we’re worried about our memories.”

“It’s not about feelings, or the fact that we can undo such an effect with sufficient effort,” Wyll says, arms crossed. “It’s about disclosure, and of course such a thing happening in the first place. Regularly. It’s about the recognition of reoccurring patterns.”

It seems Tav has overestimated his ability to sway his companions, after all. The Emperor says, Then we are done here.

As he departs, he sees Lae’zel grab Tav’s arm and draw him into another low, heated conversation teeming with secrets. The Emperor pauses by the door to see if the elf will pull free to leave with him, but that’s too much to hope for. Expression grim, Tav turns towards her.

And here they are, walking a frankly inevitable path. In the end, the Emperor has no claim upon the hero of the city, even if he were to irrationally wish otherwise. Tav is bound to his friends, to his gods, to his own wanderlust, a thousand opposing loyalties. The chance to change that died with the tadpoles. Drawing too close to a non-illithid being is a recipe for ruinous end.

Such is Tav's power that sometimes even the Emperor forgets this fact. And he thinks again of sirens glowing among the waves, drawing all who hear onto the rocks. Ansur, too, was beautiful and deadly, and the Emperor hesitated too long to leave his light—or rather, it never occurred as an option.

Tav returns to the Elfsong thirty minutes after the Emperor. His mind leaks unhappiness and disappointment. “So, then. You really did it.”

I have explained the necessity. Was it so unexpected?

“I never know what to expect from you, but I find myself exerting a lot of effort in your defense.” Tav has cast Greater Restoration on himself on the walk back, and now he recalls the altered memory in full: Paralyzed and terrified in the pod aboard the nautiloid, staring up at what would later be replaced in his mind as his dream visitor smiling down upon him.

This was the actual first time they had laid eyes on each other. And the first words the Emperor had said to him, before plunging into his mind: Who are you?

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Tav says, badly shaken by the memory. “What was the plan, O clever one? Just going to hope that I went the next five hundred years without ever requiring restoration magic again?”

Perhaps letting the elf get overly attached is a mistake—it creates an emotional undercutting of the bond, when revelations like these come to light, which would be absent if their relationship was purely business. It’s the unpredictability of an illogical creature driven by sentiment. A careful balance must be struck, to maintain enough connection for a useful alliance, whilst avoiding friction in these scenarios.

I knew you wouldn’t take it well. I hoped that time would create distance. And now, you’ve said it yourself: It was a year ago.

“How do I know you won’t do it again?”

That would be pointless. You have the magic to reverse such memory modification, and therefore your own insurance, the Emperor says. It’s in the past. Let it go.

“How much insurance must I keep for you?” The elf’s smile has an edge. His gaze flickers briefly over to the Emperor’s desk, where Stelmane’s portrait gazes back. “Well. As long as you’ve no more secrets, as you keep saying. Since you can be trusted.”

Chapter 10: The Emperor does not get upset

Chapter Text

After the party entered the diabolist’s portal, the Emperor spent four hours of silence in the astral sea calculating what possible means he had to bargain for the Netherstones from Raphael—if the devil plucked them from the foolhardy adventurers who’d broken into his home. If their corpses already decorated the House of Hope.

The odds were small. Even if the Emperor had something valuable, he doubted that the cambion would agree to a deal. For some reason or another, Raphael seemed to greatly dislike him.

And even if he miraculously recovered the two lost Netherstones from Avernus, there was the matter of the third. Little time remained to slay the final Chosen. The brain was close to prying free.

With the Astral Prism physically within the Hells, there was only darkness where his connection to the party’s tadpoles shimmered. At least it also meant the Absolute’s voice was silent. Among all its thralls, the Netherbrain hunted for his mind specifically, seeking him out. If the Emperor so much as strayed a few meters for a few minutes from the Prism, in the physical world, the brain would have him again.

Though now that the Prism was in the Avernus, that wouldn’t be the case.

Raphael lacked the means to enter the Prism himself—he would have to bargain with a stronger devil, or more likely, he would sell it off to the gith. Whether it was brought to Vlaakith or forgotten in a vault in the House of Hope, the Prism would be far away from the Netherbrain…far enough that the Emperor could in theory exit the astral sea without immediate enthrallment.

And then what? He would have to run. He would survive. And Baldur’s Gate would fall.

Then: Like the popping of ears during a sudden altitude change, his connection to the adventurers’ snapped back into place as abruptly as it had vanished. The Emperor surged forward into it, seizing every detail of their little misadventure, and came away with a sense of dark irony. Of course.

“I do trust you. I just like to have insurance,” was what Tav had to say for himself, as he clutched the stolen Orphic Hammer tighter in hand.

That is not my definition of trust.

It all came back to Orpheus. Tav asked if there was anything he could do to change the Emperor's mind about the gith prince’s freedom. An absurd notion. The bard was used to getting his way by performing the right errand or spilling the right secret or playing on the right emotion. The only errand the Emperor needed him to do was to destroy the Netherbrain, and despite all that they shared, Tav was determined to test their alliance.

The Emperor had the sudden impression of a conversation held in the Wyrmway less than a tenday prior: When Tav expressed wary condolences for the circ*mstances of slaying Ansur in self-defense. The Emperor said he hoped he would never have to do such a thing to a friend again.

If this party betrayed him, the Emperor decided, he would not, in fact, roll over and die. As long as he had one option, even if it was the least pleasant one, he would take it.

The Emperor has, for the most part, fended off memories of Stelmane for the past year by keeping all parts of his mind exceedingly busy with endless work. But just like that day a year prior, when he first received news of her death, he is harried: By relentless flashes of her voice, her half-smiles, even the way she leaned back in her favorite chair.

In this scenario, she would rap her knuckles on the table and advise him to watch his back carefully.

The night after the party, Tav is gone for nearly the whole day. When he returns to the Elfsong at a fairly late hour, he nearly vibrates with caginess, and he announces his abrupt intention to leave the city for a few days. When asked, he cites that he’s going “north”, without specification.

It’s strange, the Emperor remarks. You’ve only just returned. What urgent business is it, that you wouldn’t wait to see Wyll and Karlach off before they must return to the Hells?

“Nosy, aren’t you?” Tav says flippantly.

I’m interested in your whereabouts.

The elf bats his eyelashes. “How flattering. Do you keep such close track of all your acquaintances?”

Only my favorites.

Tav laughs. It is a sweet and disarming sound. It stirs some dormant inclination within the Emperor to mirror the positive expression, and to be liked.

(Balduran would have fallen for it long ago, hook, line, sinker, with a smile, without fear for consequences, because he loved beautiful things, whether they were glittering jewels or glittering ocean or glittering dragons, and he loved—)

This is why the bard is dangerous. Without a tadpole to provide automatic access, the Emperor must actively reach out to pluck the elf’s deeper thoughts, something that must be done sparingly, and there are things that can be missed in the interim. But that’s why the Emperor has reserved other means of gathering information.

You are meeting with Lae’zel.

Tav startles a bit, smile dropping. “Yes. I…” He clears his throat. “She had a proposal for me. It’s not all hashed out, so I was just going to get some details.”

Interesting. Tav’s mind radiates anxiety. He’s not yet constructed a way to talk about this subject to his satisfaction. The Emperor presses, And what does this proposal have to do with me?

He drills his gaze at Tav, until the bard looks away.

“It’s…regarding Orpheus’s power, which you still hold.”

Everything falls into its place.

The sudden loss of an ally is difficult to predict because such betrayal is sometimes an in-the-moment decision, occasionally even preceded by warm feelings before, or vows to the contrary. Reading the mind beforehand does not necessarily offer clear insight or certainty. But certain behaviors serve as signs.

In Lae’zel’s case, she is characterized by her awakening to the novelty of kindness, for which she feels deeply indebted to Tav for. It seems the brittle extension of that allyship to the Emperor for Tav’s sake is at last crumbling.

The answer is no. I am not giving the source of my protection away.

Tav protests, “Even if taking it back won’t cause harm to you, and then the githyanki swear to leave you alone forever, and even grant you another means of protection against elder brains? Normal ones, mind you. But that's all you'll need."

The Emperor scoffs. As if any promises made by githyanki are immutable. This is an obvious trap for me.

“If Lae’zel gives her word, then no harm will befall you. It could be your chance to—”

She and Voss are leveraging your guilt over Orpheus’s death in order to get the outcome that they want. Do not let them.

“She doesn’t set traps with such lies,” Tav says, exasperated. “You could become off-limits to the gith for good—potentially all of them, if the githzerai end up joining their cause, and then they win against Vlaakith. Lae’zel doesn’t break her promises.”

You underestimate what people become capable of when they gain new responsibilities. Free as she is from the Lich Queen’s chains, she finds new shackles now in a cause of her own making. That is the kind of path she has been set on. No. Lae’zel cannot be trusted to uphold any bargain with what she would consider an enemy of her people.

“But if it is true, everyone can get what they want.”

You are not so naïve to truly believe that. Orpheus’s power ensures me my freedom. Even if the gith don’t outright kill me, no benefit they promise in return is a guarantee.

“At least give me a chance to—”

No. There is a small pile of unopened correspondence from this morning alone—the Guild's response to the Emperor gaining ground in the city over the past year is becoming contentious. The last thing, of course, he currently needs is to be disrupted by githyanki plots. You plan to meet with her anyways.

“What do you mean ‘anyways’? You’re being very interroga—” The elf stiffens, as his day’s memories are yanked forward.

The sewers are danker than ever, with what little maintenance done on them falling even further to the wayside for the past year. At this point, only the cleverest mind flayers have survived the fall of the Absolute. The majority of those fled to the Underdark, but a few conniving ones have yet evaded capture around the Undercity, despite what the papers claim.

Tav snaps his fingers at the ceiling and barks a command.

The spell, unfortunately, doesn’t quite take hold. The rogue illithid drops from the ceiling with a hiss. It glides over a broken grate, glides over a volley of arrows, and vanishes down the tunnel. The group follows the trail of silver blood. A pack of hunters.

For his latest campaign, Ravengard is going to nail this mind flayer’s head up or something like that as the morning edition of the Baldur’s Mouth declares “Last Mind Flayer In City Dead at Ravengard’s Hand” (This is a headline that has printed at last three times now). A half dozen of the Fist are with them, with torches and hounds brought in for the purpose. It reminds Tav of one of those early morning trophy hunts done by nobility on horseback. Though in Baldur’s Gate, the prey is somewhat fiercer than boar.

“It’s trying to lead us into the dark, split us up,” Ravengard says. “Somebody must have taught it tactics.”

Tav sighs. “You think the Emperor comes down to the sewers to give tips? You think he sets up evening lectures on evading the Flaming Fist?”

“What’s your idea, then?” one of said Fists pipes up. “Can’t you do some explosion magic to shoot it down?”

“Evocation spells are not my specialty, I’m afraid. I’m but a humble bard, here to support the team,” Tav says, as he sticks his hand into his bag and rifles around. He fishes out a metallic sphere and then hurls it. A moment later, an explosion rocks their surroundings.

Eventually, the mind flayer comes flying out of the tunnel, shrieking and aflame.

Tav draws steel and meets it at the apex of its flight, trailing silver blood like water. Its burning orange eyes fix on his.

“Good night,” he says to it gently, and his blade flashes with the easy practice of a thousand—

“Are you serious?” Tav says. “If you want to know how my day went, you can ask.”

The Emperor withdraws from the memory, satisfied that there have been no other covert githyanki meetings between yesterday and now. For now. Many in the city seek your ear, hoping to influence your decisions. You should be careful.

“Says you! You are being very rude! Is this about the party?" Tav says. "I wouldn't expect you to care if everybody is mad at you. Which is hardly even the case! Astarion might send you a thank-you note, because the tadpole was what saved him from Cazador. As for the rest, I talked to them. In fact, there’s those who have gotten back some very specific memories of walking in on the two of us, which they instantly regretted. Let’s just say they’re now thinking there are benefits to memory modification!”

The Emperor refuses to be derailed by glibness. Decline your meeting with the githyanki.

“Pardon me? My business with Lae’zel is my own, thank you very much.”

Not when it involves me.

“Then you should come with me. Speak with her yourself, and hear their exact terms. Work with them, and come to a common solution!”

I think not. No matter what she says, I will not be coerced. And unlike others you keep in your company, I am not going to simply do as you say, because it’s convenient for you.

The bard makes a frustrated sound. “Because you are so well-known for being cooperative! Just this once, lay aside your obstinance and listen to me.”

Tav can comfortably lay in the Emperor’s lap staring up at teeth, and he can practically stick his head into the jagged maw while puzzling out the angle to kiss an illithid on the mouth. But when the Emperor stalks forward in a certain manner, the adventurer's instincts are too razor-honed to ignore it. Hand flinches towards sword at hip, and his thoughts leap, briefly flicking past panicked images.

The Emperor stops short, in dark triumph. What is that in your pocket, then? What did Lae’zel give you?

“I am not doing this,” Tav says angrily.

This time, he’s prepared when the Emperor goes for his thoughts again. He tries to hide behind the previous memory.

The Fist members whistle and cheer. Ravengard turns the fallen mind flayer’s body over with his boot.

“At least I can be assured of your skills in this,” the duke murmurs.

Tav crosses his arms and thinks, wryly, that it’s too much to expect compliments without agendas around here.

“Perhaps you’re right and I’m laying blame unjustly.” Ravengard lays a gauntlet on his shoulder. “You’re a proud Baldurian, I know. I am as well. It pains me to imagine that…that he could be responsible for any ills in our city.” His voice lowers, mindful of the other Fists. “But we mustn’t let down our guard. It’s not him any longer and though goals may align for now, secrets will be kept from you. An illithid can never be trusted.” He hesitates. “What do you know of Duke Belynne Stelmane?”

Tav flinches back. “We should head back.”

“I understand why you protect him. It’s undeniable that the whole city owes a debt for the role he played against the Absolute. And perhaps an echo of the hero remains in there, the last vestige of love for his people. But a mind flayer takes thralls, Tav. That’s what they do.” Ravengard bows his head. “The anniversary of Stelmane’s death was just under a tenday ago. And when I went to pay my respects that day, I could not help but recall the circ*mstances that befall her.”

“Stelmane was killed by a cultist of Bhaal,” Tav says, but he is resigned. “I found and cut the assassin’s throat myself.”

“Yes, but even before her death, there was something very wrong with her. And Wyll shares my recounts…”

“I should go. Busy day ahead.”

Ravengard releases his shoulder but looks at him with aching pity. “You already suspect the truth. Do you think the illithid will confess? Ask it, then. That’s the only way you’ll ever know.”

Emperor says, coldly, And your curiosity has gotten the better of you once again.

Tav snaps, “Oh no. You do not get to become accusatory when you’ve just pried into my head. So! Since we’re on the subject, let us speak of Belynne Stelmane, shall we? Before she died, I might specifically add.”

She has nothing to do with this.

“That’s what I thought you’d say. It’s not about curiosity. You know what I’m asking and why.”

No. I don’t know why you ask. I do not owe you any answers about her illness. You are hardly entitled to every facet of her personal life.

"Are you a guardian of privacy now?" Tav says in disbelief.

I have always respected yours as best I can, when you aren’t keeping critical information from me, the Emperor snaps back. Not that I expect you to pay attention to my courtesies. Back to the important matter at hand, the gith—

"It's awfully sentimental of you to safeguard a dead woman's past. You know why idealistic, charitable Wyll actually doesn’t like you? He’s got a theory. He met Stelmane as a boy, told me all about how different she was before having some sort of stroke. You wouldn’t know anything about that instance of mentally crippling misfortune, would you?”

Enough.

“Why? Don’t want to admit that the extent of your ‘intimate partnership’ was enthrallment?”

Enough.

Tav’s pulse quickens. There it is: A glimpse of his true terror, buried deep down. Swiftly enough, the bard smiles placatingly.

“Alright! Alright. Let’s calm ourselves. I’m not insinuating you’ll do anything to me, of course. The past is the past. Besides, let us be honest: The Knights of the Shield were not like the Harpers, or even the Fist. Duke Stelmane was a patriar, living in privilege and power—if you used them all as tools to benefit the city, great. I wouldn’t weep if you gave Nine Fingers Keene a stroke, if there weren’t ramifications about the power vacuum. She wouldn’t weep either! To people like that, such things are fair play in the foul game.”

The Emperor calms. Perhaps Tav will understand; he has done so in every other situation, after all. Tav is his friend. I did not lie to you. Belynne was my business partner. Our ambitions matched. We had mutual goals, and grew close. When she died, I was…grieved. I am. Grieved.

“I know,” Tav soothes. “Of course you care. Why else would you keep a portrait of her around?”

But there came a time when I began to have certain suspicions. And it became necessary for me to assume control. I needed to know—The Emperor stops short and then stares for a long moment. Realization dawns. He is in disbelief. You charmed me.

“What?”

There was enchantment in your voice.

“What, that?” Tav waves it off. “That’s just how I speak. I am a bard, you know. My very words are, by nature, magical.”

The Emperor narrows his eyes. What other times have you done so?

Tav’s laughter, this time, is dark. “Oh, doesn’t feel very good, does it? Well, that’s just how I talk sometimes. You have an inherent resistance to magic, so how often do you imagine it’s happening? You have insurance against it!”

I see you’re unable to let that go.

“All I did was encourage you to talk. What sort of power do you think I have over you, the terrible mind flayer? I haven’t enthralled you.”

I did not enthrall Stelmane. I dominated her, the Emperor snaps.

“Well then! I’m sure she could appreciate the difference!”

She could, in fact, because otherwise she’d be unable to. As for her health, she was making a recovery. She was going to be fine…until I was taken back to the elder brain by Gortash.

Tav scrubs his eyes. “Gods. Do you know how you sound?”

The situation was complex. I don’t expect you to understand, and I am not talking about it. Because this has been entirely irrelevant to the subject at hand.

“I don’t know about that. These things keep coming up, don’t they? Are you going to tell me she was trying to kill you, too? It was also in self-defense? Why do your friends keep betraying you, then? You’ve been the common denominator in both of these scenarios.”

The tide wind can fill your sails. But there’s also no predicting when it will turn on you; you can only build contingencies.

The Emperor remains firm on his redirection. Because it is often convenient to do so. I will say it again: Refuse Lae’zel’s invitation. She will do nothing except pour poison into your ear against me.

“Haven’t I proven time and again that I like you, despite everyone else’s reservations?” Tav demands. “What, do you think I’m judging you for the things you’ve done? Look at the company I keep! Shadowheart has lived a fraction of your years and I’m convinced she’s killed more people than you—certainly at a greater rate than one or two per month! And at least now, she is repentant about it. Unlike Lae’zel or Minthara. You are like a kitten compared to either.”

You do judge. You’ve told them all what you think of their deeds, albeit with your silver tongue to soften the blow and to express understanding of their circ*mstances, and with the intention of gaining their affection—and now, they all seek to please you, even curbing their bloodlusts in your company.

Tav throws his hands up. “And this is a bad thing?”

It is not, the Emperor says stiffly. But if there was ever a time in which it was necessary for me to make someone my puppet, it would have been during the fight against the Absolute. Tell me, did you ever sense any such attempt against you, even you clearly disobeyed my instructions several times?

“No, you’ve been a kind and fair master,” Tav says scathingly. “I’m sorry for my disobedience.”

A poor choice of words, the Emperor allows. I'd never thought of you as my thrall. But I did tell you: You will realize eventually that I can threaten you, even if I never do. I see now it’s slowly coming to that.

“I never—”

With a wave of his hand, the Emperor opens Tav’s pocket, and out flies a strange metal device, of gith make.

So what is this for, exactly?

The elf scowls. “It’s the solution to your githyanki problem, as I keep saying, if you’ll hear me.”

The Emperor snatches the conversation from yesterday that flashes through his mind. Lae’zel told you it can safely extract Orpheus’s powers from me. And you were going to blindly believe her? That they have miraculously invented such a specific device for an innocuous purpose?

“She isn’t going to—she’s not going to trick me into murdering you!” Tav’s eyes narrow. “Wait, do you think I’m going to sneak up on you and tie you down and use it on you?”

You’ve accepted it, and you have not tossed it into the bay. What else do you expect me to think of your intentions?

“After everything I’ve done!” Tav exclaims. “You’re the one who doesn’t trust me! Because you can’t stand it when somebody else has cards in hand, can you?”

On the contrary, the Emperor says coolly, it is wise of you to keep insurance, even for your allies. I shouldn’t be surprised.

The elf’s expression pinches as he reins in a surge of hurt. “Really? Back to this, are we? Have I not always chosen you? Have I not protected you beyond what an ‘ally’ does?”

Your sentiment is beginning to cloud your vision. We are allies. No more, no less, and for as long as the situation allows it—until the day it doesn’t. And we shall see about that, shall we?

“You’re unbelievable!” Tav says. “I’m going to bed.”

A long time ago, Ansur fished him out of a pirate ambush and curled a shining tail around him, and it was like the Spine of the World itself bent to be his shelter. "Worry not. I would protect you from anything, Baldur."

"I know."

Tav walks over to the opposite side of the room, flops down on the futon and is immediately still, his breathing going slow and quiet with the ease of a practiced adventurer. But like any of his kind, he is still aware of his surroundings.

Even an illithid must sleep. In this, a trancing elf has the advantage during the night. If Tav does plan to use the githyanki device, or is ever upset enough for some other reason, this would naturally be the time to strike; he will be quickly well-rested, springing upon a groggy opponent, just like he did against the slumbering newborn mind flayer discovered under the Rivington Windmill. Tav is swift and ruthless and efficient with his blade.

Said blade lays at Tav’s right side. And he has not doffed his armor, has he?

Belynne would tap her knuckles against the table and point out the long game, also: The savior of Baldur’s Gate, a dragon-slayer twice-fold, is on a trajectory to carve his name as a hero of the age. In fifty years, in a century, Tav will only grow in power and become more difficult to deal with.

(The illithid instincts shriek: You made a mistake. Kill him before he finds his opportunity. If not tonight, one day he will.)

And Ansur, of course, would laugh derisively. How far the great Balduran has fallen.

“Stop staring,” Tav says, without moving. “It’s flattering, but not very restful.”

It is a bad idea, the Emperor tells himself. Tav is a dangerous opponent. If he must kill Tav, it should be at a more opportune time, and over a better reason. There are other ways to curtail a threat.

This whole debacle is proving to be a highly inefficient use of time and energy. Yet the active danger of the githyanki will only grow if they are emboldened by the elf’s backing in this matter.

It seems Tav will not withdraw his support willingly. For now.

So the Emperor will need to secure their alliance.

In his mind's eye, Stelmane raises an eyebrow in that precise manner. He doesn't have apologies for her; Belynne also hated those. She traded plenty of cordialities with fellow patriars every day and to her, the words all meant little.

The Emperor goes to his desk and busies himself in battle with the Guild via paperwork.

After precisely four hours, Tav rises for the day. And if the Emperor only seems more terse, the bard does not comment.

Chapter 11: Tav does not get upset either

Chapter Text

Tav really should have known better. It’s a foggy enough evening that the bright green lanterns shining from storefronts can be seen from nearly all angles. He could have gone anywhere to kill time. He could have exercised thoughtfulness and caught Wyll and Karlach before their departure and his own.

Instead, he returns to the Elfsong cellar, where a tiefling chained by the ankles lies curled up and sobbing by the metal cages.

“You!” the man yelps. “Help me. Please!”

The brain-filled jars on the nearby shelf are categorized in order of freshness, as meticulously as tins of milk. This is the first time Tav has seen the Emperor actually utilize the chains. Probably because the illithid usually has manners.

“Please! Before it comes back!”

The torches are doused, leaving only a few weak lights cast from the potted plants. In the darkness, individual dust motes float like shadowed specks in Tav’s vision. None by the bookcases—seems those have been recently dusted. Across the room, the Helm of Balduran glares down like a skull on a necromancer’s shelf.

Tav is in the middle of setting his sword down. He finishes the motion before walking over to the cages. The locks on the shackles might be tricky to pick. It would be better to use a potion that could shrink the prisoner small enough to escape. His bag of concoctions is kept in a trunk across the room. Or Tav could heat the chains until they are soft enough to shatter.

Then why don’t you do it?

Cool air brushes past him. Shivers on the back of his neck.

Tav refuses to think of the Emperor as a horror creature. The illithid is far from an unknowable terror in the night, because his mannerisms are an annoyingly common set frequently found amongst co-workers and relatives.

Yet there are moments like right now, in the pitch-dark, where the Emperor's eyes glow like an Underdark predator's.

Tav’s mouth is dry. “Picking a fight now, are we?”

I could recite to you what he has done. Mostly, to children.

“I haven’t done anything!” the man screams.

Despite purported ascension as a superior being of logic, the mind flayer seems to care about how he is perceived by others. It stands to reason he can just be a prick sometimes.

Tav keeps his tone perfectly level. “Let’s settle this part: I believe you if you say you’ve found some arsonist, puppy-kicking child-slaver to eat. You know I believe you, yes?”

Then what’s the problem?

The Emperor drifts over to the prisoner, whose screams intensify. They rise into a crescendo until the wet crunch of his skull cuts them off.

“Really,” Tav says flatly. “Really! Right in front of me?”

Well, of course. Why else would the Emperor leave this scenario here?

The mind flayer turns in the air, a coil of lethal elegance. I will take my meals as I please.

“Are you punishing me for bringing up Stelmane?”

Again, she has nothing to do with our present business. But there are indeed several other matters we’ve failed to settle from yesterday. I’d like to remind you.

“That you’re an arse? I know that already. Are you going to demand to know where I’ve been again today?” Tav holds out the githyanki device. “Testing this out, for your information. And discovering that it’s perfectly safe, and is not, in fact, a secret assassination weapon made for you.”

And I’ve given my answer. Perhaps I’m tired of begging for your trust. But I would like to get at the root of the problem.

“The root of the problem is that you don’t want my trust at all. You want my loyalty.” Tav takes an irritable step back from the spreading puddle of blood. “You don’t have to do this to find out. I’ll tell you right now: My loyalty is not to your ambitions. It’s not to bending over backwards to make you happy. And it’s not to taking this from you. Get over yourself!”

Good, the Emperor says. Now, listen closely to your own words. We are allies. This much is true, and we work well together. However, your tendency to…over-invest will only cause you disappointment. I understand that you hold a fondness for me, which I appreciate. But you seek to understand me. Ultimately, you cannot.

“And why’s that?”

You are not illithid. Our minds are not alike. One day I will inevitably do or say something that you cannot bear. In order to keep our alliance functional going forward, you should set realistic expectations.

Tav says, incredulous, “Ah, yes, pulling that out again. Very good. Have you considered that your problems are because you have problems? I do think you’re a coward, saer Balduran, thanks for asking. An ungrateful one with a superiority complex! I think becoming illithid only brought it out so hard that Ansur couldn’t be blind to it anymore.”

Keep going. You’re only proving my point.

“That you’re a condescending churl? A sh*t friend? Someone who doesn’t even have the excuse of being young? Gods, you should know better.”

The Emperor stalks forward, radiating menace and a glimpse of his teeth, and even though Tav knows the bastard is bluffing, he involuntarily takes two steps back.

Dark satisfaction permeates the Emperor’s voice. See?

Tav is suddenly hyper-aware that his sword is by the doorway. His mind formulates tactics: Mind flayers are certainly deadly to a citizen on the street, but they are not actually ideal frontliners. Tav is faster, and is excellent at dodging tentacles, and even disarmed, he has spells. It all comes down to whether or not the Emperor could stun him first, about who gets the jump…

What would you do, then? the Emperor mocks. Go on.

And now he is apparently supporting the Emperor’s point that…what, his status as prey animal is going to come between them? That negative feelings are evidence of unbridgeable chasm?

Tav says, “I bet you couldn’t land a hit on me, even if you tried. You’d miss every shot. That’s why you spend your time bullying civilians, since a stroke victim is more on your level.”

Certainly. See for yourself.

Images flash into Tav's mind: Duke Belynne Stelmane, eyes glazed, a stuttering prisoner in her own head. Nodding alongside the Emperor at a farce of a meeting. Making a jerky motion of toast with a wine glass, as if a puppet on a string.

There, since you were so curious about it, the Emperor says scathingly. I'm capable of that, certainly. I could do it to you at any moment, but I choose not to, because it's far less effortful to maintain a mutually beneficial alliance.

The Emperor’s face is suddenly close to his now, those teeth less than lunging distance away from his head. The violet eyes have a hypnotizing effect. The sort that encourages rolling over and baring his throat and offering himself up for consumption.

But that could certainly change in the future, if you cross me. I suggest for your sake that you refrain from doing so. So, let us speak of the githyanki once more.

Tav realizes he can’t move. He’s let the window to strike first pass, and now the mind flayer has gotten too close.

Dodging notwithstanding, Tav has never been particularly good at wiggling out from headlocks, physically or mentally or magically. Even that dying illithid in the crashed nautiloid nearly got him to stick his face into its mouth. He’s always relied on going on the attack and thereby not getting caught in the first place or better yet, standing next to a paladin.

He certainly can’t force a mind flayer out of his head once it’s in. The Emperor backs him into the wall, literally and metaphorically, and Tav is paralyzed.

He refuses to panic. There's nothing that the Emperor will actually do to him. Probably.

What! Is! Wrong! With! You!

You think that I won’t? the mind flayer says.

Tav has a sudden grand revelation, the greatest one of his life: He should never get angry at the Emperor, because that is the height of foolishness! The Emperor has never done anything wrong. Ever.

…What?

All efforts to think to the contrary are futile. Still, Tav struggles and the illithid lets him mentally thrash, getting nowhere. Only when satisfied the point is proven in that regard does the Emperor loosen the hold to let Tav get angry with him again.

Go and tell Lae'zel, the Emperor continues. You have decided it's a terrible idea to parlay with the gith. You've changed your mind, and you are tossing her device into the Chionthar.

Have I! Tav says. Do it, then. Change my mind for me. What's stopping you?

I am not going to make you do it. You are going to do it yourself.

Tav can't do any physical mocking laughter, but he taunts, You are really the worst example of a mind flayer ever. A proper megalomaniac would just go ahead, consequences be damned. Who cares if a hundred people would knock down the door to the Elfsong to come and kill you? Lesser lifeforms, clearly. You can take them all on.

You are aware of what protects you, the Emperor replies. Good. It’s your insurance. It is true that your own alliances preclude me from harming you. And in turn, you understand that I am a valuable asset to the city. This is how it works. As long as the balance is kept, we can continue our cooperation, and it is in everyone's benefit to do so. Which is why you should reconsider your decision regarding the gith.

It's like the immense pressure of being deep underwater. The Emperor effortlessly sifts through Tav’s thoughts, carding through his desires, and deeper down, inner feelings. It feels like water running through his brain. It's like a series of cold kisses right below the ear, the kind that tickles a little.

Hm. There is certainly something to it.

From the Emperor, he feels idle, familiar curiosity, the beginnings of a yet unformed question.

Tav says, Get out.

The Emperor lets him go. Tav leans against the wall until his knees stop shaking. He does not shout. His mother has taught him to be careful with his voice, always. He does not shout. "Do you think empty threats work against me?"

The Emperor gazes back, unreadable. An eternal enigma, into which guesswork and frustration is javelined.

"That's what this is about, eh? If I concede to this juvenile display, you give me a pat on the head and say, 'Good ally!' And if I'm bad, you start looking for a better terrier?"

I need to know if your loyalty to the githyanki will continue to put us at odds in the future. It's already happened once. He moves back.

And on the table directly behind the Emperor, two scrolls have been unfurled, with weights set on either sides to keep them from curling back up. From here, Tav can spot that one of them contains the Dimension Door spell.

Presumably, the second scroll has a Counterspell. That’s the escape setup that Tav would bring, too, if he ever needed to flee for his life.

Tav thinks of Lae’zel’s stricken face back on the docks, lamenting her failure. The half-hope in her eyes when she last spoke to him.

And he glares, trying his utmost to disintegrate the illithid with his eyes. When that doesn’t work, Tav throws his hands up.

"Fine! Fine. Have it your way! I’ll tell Lae’zel that I’ve gotten busy.” He throws the githyanki device onto the floor. “I’m trying to solve this problem for you, you ungrateful lout." He lets fury at last pitch the last few words, and the resonance shatters Lae’zel’s device into tiny pieces.

Thank you. The Emperor does not flinch as metal flies past his face. You keep saying that. But all you’re doing is assuaging your own guilt, and you would have had me give up an advantage to do so—leaving me vulnerable to a threat I have been trying to escape for a long time.

“Then you should trust in my power!” Tav snarls. He's vaguely aware that he is, in fact, now shouting. “If I had to, I would have subdued Orpheus again myself. I was always going to kill the Netherbrain for you, just as I killed Cazador for Astarion and Viconia for Shadowheart and Gortash for Karlach.”

What a boastful creature you are. The arrogance you brought against the elder brain could have been our undoing.

“Hardly! You think it was mere luck that guided us? Didn’t you notice that Withers casually has authority over life and death? The Absolute and the Dead Three made enemies of all of the other gods. We were always going to win, and you should have trusted me!” A few books topple off the nearby table.

These things are easy to say in retrospect. The Emperor scoffs. The gods did not put together our group. Your companions each required a life raft when you met; I thought the dynamic with you would serve our cause well.

“Who’s being arrogant now?”

If you think yourself Chosen, that is your own problem. But I do not find myself in need of a savior’s services.

“Clearly not! You’re busy trying to get me to kill you.”

I am making a point. Now that you know what it feels like to be dominated, your vague, imagined fears can be laid aside for accurate ones. You have little mental protection from me. Rather than continue to let you arrive at this realization slowly and unpredictably, I am ripping off the bandage right here.

“You are such a—”

Tav scrubs his eyes. This is a rare occasion where he utterly lacks the words to fit what he wants to express. But he is probably projecting plenty of emotion for the Emperor to perfectly understand. This is somehow not stopping him from acting like this.

Instead of yelling until he brings down a wall or worse, Tav goes through an elven meditative exercise he’s found helpful as far back as college days. A common tactic in old debate seminars was to enrage the opponent, sometimes through magical means, which was considered fair game.

"Are you...infuriating me on purpose?" Tav says, slowly and evenly. “Now that I’m verging too far out of the ‘Ally’ zone, you start acting like a bastard to put me back in? You think I’ve got a sliding meter or something? Was Raphael right about the carrot and the stick?”

The Emperor's eyes narrow minutely. It is enough that we are able to work together.

"Is that so!” Tav thinks back to all the Emperor’s little gifts, his subtle touches and quips. “Is that enough for you? Do you like me?"

The illithid stares, taken aback.

"Well? You, who tells no direct lies? It's a simple question. Do you think I deserve to be treated so lowly? Yes or no?"

It is not my intention to mistreat you, the Emperor says tersely. Nor do I think I need to coddle you from the truth. If that has changed—

"You are not a toddler pulling off butterfly wings," Tav snarls.“I know you understand what I’m saying. You asked for my faith. And now you’re being tetchy when you have it. What shall I say to you? I don’t think you’re a soulless abomination? I am not allowing you such a convenient excuse, actually!"

What you want is not sustainable.

Tav snaps, “Then I suppose we’d part ways, if it comes to that. Maybe forever, or maybe I’d come back. It happens. By the way, there’s no two beings out there, illithid or otherwise, who understand each other entirely—Oliver and Thaniel argue all the time, and they’re the same person!”

The Emperor is silent for a moment. You would be able to leave, then, should you find it necessary.

“Yes,” Tav says, striding past him and snatching up his longsword. “In fact, I’m doing that right now! Excellent work.”

After that fight, the party had set their gear awkwardly away from Ansur’s re-deceased corpse, and decided to break for lunch before venturing back out into Wrym’s Rock Prison.

Tav, unsuccessful in removing the static from his hair, contented himself with plucking out flakes of oxidized copper rained from Ansur’s lightning breath. Scattered around the chamber, the others recuperated and tended their wounds. Wyll had discovered a corner to manage a power nap.

Tav held the famed Helm of Balduran in his lap. “You know, once is bad luck. Twice is coincidence. Three times is pattern.” He peered down at the Helm, where the visor would be. “The others are convinced I will be your third dead ally. That’s why they are not extending the benefit of the doubt.”

No response from the Astral Prism.

“I’d like to think you would never do such a thing to me, since according to these painstakingly-wrought statues, you’ve heroism at heart. Oh, and justice and insight and all these other things. Surely they aren’t so fragile that a little worm to the brain ate it all away. If you are so ascendant. No comment, saer Balduran?”

The Emperor did not rise to the bait.

“Ignoring me now? Is your past really that difficult to talk about?”

The Emperor said nothing.

Tav snorted. “What are you thinking, with all these convoluted layers of farce? I’ll get the truth eventually. I’m very persistent. If nothing else, you must’ve noticed that.”

He stowed the Helm into his pack. In the vastness of the Wyrmway, the drip-drip of water echoed like a sigh.

Tav means to slam a door or something on his way out, but he’s walked out so fast that he’s forgotten. He storms from the Elfsong, desperately hoping that some leftover Absolute cultist will miraculously emerge from the woodwork and impale themselves upon his sword. This does not happen.

The next best thing is a long, angry walk through the Lower City. Unfortunately, by now, the savior of Baldur's Gate is highly recognizable; street rats and cutthroats prowling the night see the look on his face and scuttle out of his way.

Lae'zel expects him in less than two hours.

He’s left his lute at the Elfsong. Tav plucks a reedy flute instead from his belt, sits by the piers overlooking Grey Harbor, and tries to calm himself by picking a song to play.

In doing so, he realizes: He remembers the first stanza of the song that has evaded him for over a year. The opening notes are crystal clear in his mind. Just this morning, he couldn’t even recall the overall pitch.

"Why, that arrogant—" Tav says to the ocean, suddenly furious again.

Who knows what this means! The Emperor probably saw the hole in his brain while he was rampaging in there like a schoolyard bully, and felt the need to patch it the same way certain people are compelled to wash dishes left in the sink or arrange their books alphabetically.

Of course, the illithid could not have done this elaborate feat of mental rearrangement without Tav noticing.

“There’s no way,” Tav hisses. A couple on some predawn walk skirts carefully away from him.

Tav calls his magic, and casts Greater Restoration. Up springs a memory from less than a half hour ago:

The Emperor’s touch in his mind, rifling around. Even as he talks about gods-damned insurance again, the illithid is feeling around the dark shape of the missing memory and weaving what he can back into place. As the mind flayer delves deeper, he comes upon the little nugget of Tav’s true name, half-jokingly concealed. Instead of reaching for it, he leaves the secret carefully undisturbed.

And why would he care to know! It's not like Tav is a proper faerie—it would be inconvenient, but not the end of the world if his name gets out, and illithids don't deal with that sort of magic anyways. It’s not a realkindness!

Tav scrubs his temples, at the places where the returned memories settle in like fog over water. If anybody else pulled memory modification with this sort of timing, he would assume they were being tongue-in-cheek. Bizarre, for a creature without a tongue. But the Emperor does sometimes have a dark sense of humor. Is this revenge for calling him a coward? Is Tav being made fun of?

The nearby clocktower tolls.

Tav grimaces and takes several more minutes to draw in deep breaths. When he is absolutely sure of his composure, Tav informs Lae'zel via Sending to pass on his regrets to Kith'rak Voss, for his inability to meet. A few minutes later, a glowing projection of Lae'zel appears.

"What has the ghaik done to you?"

Tav crosses his arms. Then un-crosses them, managing a smile. "Saved us all some time, I suppose. I told you he wouldn't agree. I’m sorry to cancel last-minute and I understand I'm skipping out on formality, but elaborating to me in-person is hardly going to make a difference at this point. He said no."

"Yet you agreed to come and discuss this further. What's changed?" Her eyes narrow, though she does not outright start accusing him of being a thrall, which is an improvement from their previous confrontation within the Astral Prism.

"Because the very prospect is causing undue panic," Tav says, smiling even more pleasantly. "Anyhow, you've got your answer."

"What has the ghaik done to you?" she repeats.

"Shouted at me, mostly."

"Whatever threats have been made against you—"

"Are no worse than you've made against me," Tav says. "My innards remain un-cleaved by your blade, as my mind remains un-cleaved by his. Strange as it is."

She scoffs. "If you truly are doing this of your own will, then you are lost in an altogether different manner. I am beginning to understand that."

"I don't know why I bother with any of you!" Tav finally snaps.

Her image winks out.

Naturally, this conversation has only put Tav in an even worse mood than before. His mother would say this is what he gets for attempting to please everybody. In the end, no one is happy, least of all him!

Well, he's had it. Tav begins calculating the supplies he'll need for a tenday’s journey to any number of distant settlements, and then realizes he's left his bag at the Elfsong, and he will have to go back.

This, of course, infuriates him anew.

Swallowing his pride, a bitter thing, Tav slips in by smoothly sliding the hidden door so that it doesn’t wake the Emperor.

But he need not have bothered. Though it’s nearly dawn, the Emperor skulks at his desk, penning a letter. Thoroughly engaged in “inefficient written correspondence”. Not as unaffected as he pretends to be. How unimpressive, for a monstrous creature that everyone tells Tav is going to drown him and smash him against the rocks.

Tav grew up playing in rivers. Everyone who’s done so knows it's wise to fear them. But there are several tricks to not getting killed by currents. The first, of course, is to be an excellent swimmer. And the second is to know when to float on your back. As much as the unavoidable nature of water is to be incompatible with your lungs, so is its tendency to buoy you upwards, if you know how to direct it.

Oh, and the third option is to learn magic so that the water bends to you.

“You shouldn’t stay up all night,” Tav comments, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, looming in the doorway. Menacingly. Look, he can make threats, too! “Could make you vulnerable, especially if you haven’t been resting well lately.”

Noted, the Emperor says sarcastically.

“Only makes it easier, in fact, for me to do this. Impero tibi. Drop.”

The Emperor’s hand jerks open and his quill drops onto the desk, leaving a trailing black splatter.

He stares at Tav in disbelief. Tav stares back with no expression at all. Very slowly, the Emperor floats the quill back into his hand.

What. Are. You. Doing.

“I'm ripping off the bandage. Drop!”

Tav feels it in the ring of the air as his command clashes into the Emperor’s will, mallet striking gong. The Emperor’s resistance surges, a buzz on the back of his teeth, of psionic power pushing against arcane. He interjects, “I don’t think so.”

The illithid flinches at this new lash of magic, and while he’s distracted, the quill clatters to the desk again.

Displaying no frustration whatsoever, the Emperor picks it up once more.

Tav has forgotten how to blink. “Tell me to stop.” The Emperor only glares back. “Again, then. Drop.”

The mind flayer pushes back fiercely enough to create a subtle breeze that flutters papers. This time, he resists the compulsion, even when Tav speaks again to bolster the spell.

Tav smiles, walks over to the desk, leans over it, and then he says, “Grovel.”

For a very long time, they gaze at one another. Those violet eyes are wide. Then, floating through the air, sinking slowly as if through water, the illithid falls prone at Tav’s feet.

Even bowed upon the floor, he looks somehow regal. It is so quiet that Tav can hear the Emperor’s breaths, rapid and shallow.

"Shall I say something about how I can do such things to you at any time?" he croons. “Would you enjoy that?”

The Emperor gives no response.

Tav reaches down and lays a hand on the back of the illithid's head. Six seconds have passed, and the Emperor has not moved, perfectly still even as Tav’s touch trails down his back. This is the strangest apology that Tav has ever received.

"I'm still angry with you, you know.”

Then Tav declares that he is leaving the city for at least a few tendays—or forever! Who knows?—and departs with his gear, at least managing to storm out properly this time.

Chapter 12: Tav considers his feelings

Chapter Text

Tav busies himself with heroics! He finds a miller’s missing daughter. He solos a young blue dragon. He inquires after old songbooks, trying to find references to the remaining stanzas of that song he's missing. Maybe he will have to make up the rest and hope that’s good enough.

It would help if he had people to bounce inspiration off. Adventuring alone has benefits, but traveling with friends just has that irreplaceable spark.

Shadowheart would be willing, except she has her parents. Perhaps in a few years when such caretaking duties are lifted…no, Tav feels awful even thinking that. He likes Shadowheart’s parents, and they are certainly not barriers to their daughter’s freedom, not when he was the one who talked her into enduring Shar’s curse for their sake.

Astarion would be willing, except Astarion needs to find himself without hand-holding. Now that he won’t be extinguishing seven thousand people out of the burning gates of his own pain, the vampire spawn can go make smaller-scale and less deadly mistakes in the name of personal development.

Everyone else is busy and they aren’t career adventurers anyways, not like Tav, who started off in a guild formed around short-term gigs and one-off bounties and non-binding mercenary work. Everyone else either has causes to fight for, or wouldn’t fight at all if given the choice.

(And as for the Emperor—who isn’t even on the table, of course—all of his adventuring spirit seems to have gotten eaten by the tadpole, alongside his manners, clearly!)

No matter. Tav is excellent at keeping himself entertained on the road.

Since Tav’s party ruined their neatly laid plans, much of Myrkul’s army didn’t make it into Baldur’s Gate proper on time, during the Absolute attack. As a result, they’ve scattered far beyond the city, to be hunted down much like their Banite and Bhaalist compatriots.

Dame Aylin, who has winged to some sudden urgent business, informs Tav that the very same enclave of Selunites that had camped outside Baldur’s Gate have undertaken such a hunt. She invites Tav to participate, mentions that Isobel will be on the frontlines, and implies her worry while she is away.

So Tav joins up and annoys the paladins in charge to rearrange rosters until he’s put in Isobel’s group, and off they ride. The next tenday is a series of skirmishes across the woods of the Delimbiyr River. Tav trades his longsword, the old childhood favorite, for his current best weapon, the rapier rewarded for rescuing a child from the hag Ethel. Vanra’s mother called it Duelist’s Prerogative. He gets to invoking his prerogative.

The cultists bring: Seemingly endless skeletons. When poor weather strikes, horses are given up and it becomes a fight on foot through the rain and mud. Though they’re winning, it’s miserable and grim. The kind of battle where the blood mixes with silt and gets all under fingernails and into boots.

Later, the rain has ebbed, leaving just a heavy mist. Isobel settles herself before a makeshift mass grave for the piles and piles of formerly animated bones. Tav puts aside his shovel with a sigh and goes to kneel next to her.

Isobel’s prayers are the ones doing any actual work, of course—a single moonbeam pierces from above and tiny glowing motes lift from the grave, the Moonmaiden’s salvage from these tormented souls. Tav hums the one Selûnite hymn he knows, quietly cheerleading as always.

“We’ve done fine work here,” Isobel says, when she’s finished. “I must say, it was a pleasure to finally get to battle alongside you properly, outside of fighting off a kidnapper, that is. The savior of Baldur’s Gate is as valiant as they say he is,” she adds with a grin.

“Naturally, the Shield of the Moonmaiden has proven most dauntless herself,” Tav returns easily.

“Well, a shield matches well with a sword, wouldn’t you say? Usually mine is my Aylin, but you’ve proven an excellent vanguard in her absence. I barely needed to think to match you, and you’ve barely looked back once this entire time, always trusting me at your back. Quite the team player, aren’t you?”

“That’s me,” Tav says. “The epitome of teamwork, and swordiness.”

Of course, that’s when a trio of skeletons they’ve missed burst in to interrupt this moment of respite. These bear Ketheric Thorm’s banners.

“I don’t know what was wrong with your father,” Tav declares as he kicks one aside angrily.

Isobel huffs, amused. “It would take a tenday to even begin.”

“What was the point of this?” He gestures to the mud-choked field, strewn with bones. “Why did he act like he was cursed with singular tragedy, like he was personally wronged by fate? Was he taken by surprise? Did he look at his human wife and say to himself, ‘Ah, yes, she will live forever, and I will never come to grief’?”

“Are you saying my father was a poor example of an elf?” Isobel says, eyes sparkling.

“Not to sound like my father, but you can’t always get what you want,” Tav says. “When you pursue anything that is mismatched in some manner—and it may be nobody’s fault for that—you still have to consider and accept the consequences of it. If it all goes wrong, you don’t get to blame the gods for it.”

“Hmm.” The cleric is quiet for a moment. “Pardon my asking, but it does seem as though you’ve been blowing off steam for the past few days.”

“Destroying the undead is an excellent outlet for frustration.”

Then, she begins to channel intensive cleric insight, the kind close to mind-reading. “Yes, it is. For a heartache, perhaps?”

Tav snorts. “That’s a strong word. Hurt feelings, at best. I’ve only argued with a friend.”

“Ah, I see. Just a friend?” She pushes, because such a thing gladdens her, since she is an apparent acolyte of love at first sight.

Tav thinks to himself that regardless of their respective ages each, Isobel and Dame Aylin seem like such young lovers, dazzled by the shine of each other’s beauty and unable to name a single fault in the other. Next to Isobel, Tav feels cynical, which is strange because he usually plays the optimism role for others. She reminds him, perhaps, of when he was younger and easily starstruck—or moonstruck in this case.

Of course, the last thing Isobel or Aylin needs is for some prick to tell them to find unresolved problems in their relationship.

Nothing particularly or specifically terrible has ever happened to Tav. Well, besides the tadpole-in-brain debacle but that’s worked out. Nothing like what happened to Astarion and Shadowheart and Karlach and Aylin and—He shouldn’t be generating condescension towards someone who has suffered much worse loss, and is simply rejoicing in reunion.

“Just a friend,” Tav says, smiling. “I’d only count someone as a lover if I can hold their hand whenever I want.”

Her grin widens. "Complicated, is it? Might I guess who it is, among your many companions and friends?"

"Why, Isobel, I wasn't aware you liked these sorts of games!"

"They remind me of simpler times, I suppose," the cleric replies. "When I was without enough cares of my own so I invented interesting ones to discuss, sitting among my friends, braiding hair and spinning conspiracies out of rumors."

Tav crosses his arms. "Hm. I don't think you could guess. To that end, you may have as many tries as you like."

"Well, now you've done it! Let's see. You seem close to Astarion...?"

"I am, but I wouldn’t suit him. And the day I lose an argument to him is the day I die. Did you even meet all of my traveling companions? You and Dame Aylin were quite...busy reuniting."

"That doesn't mean we didn't speak to anyone outside of our corner!" Isobel laughs. "Alright, so was this person in your camp with me at all, then?"

Sort of. Tav decides to count it, since the Emperor always talked about his little portion of the astral sea like it was physically contained in the Prism. "Yes."

"Hmm. There was that other bard, whom you had a rather fierce rivalry with, at times."

Tav chokes. "Volo?"

"Why not?" Isobel says with perfect innocence. "He seems quite taken with you. Wants to write a book and everything, not to mention that he is apparently very famous himself."

Tav reshapes his horror into a fierce grin. "Volo's too boring for me, and also the least self-aware stereotype on the planet. His idea of creativity is simple hyperbole. Just throw more dragons at it! Absurd. You have to think outside the box. You have to throw away the box entirely and replace it with a hollyphant."

"Alright, not that kind of rivalry, apparently."

"You're not going to guess," Tav repeats smugly. "I have arguments with loads of people. And I'm rather certain you've never heard of this one, let alone talked to them."

"Oh, but by giving that hint, you narrow it down quite a bit!" She thinks for a while, possibly parsing through every camp acquaintance she has yet to exchange words with. "Aylin did mention something that stuck out to me quite a bit. When you summoned her to join the great battle atop the Netherbrain, she said there was a mind flayer at your side, fighting just as seamlessly as your other party members."

"Uh."

"Now, this is simply a theory," Isobel continues, "but I imagine you knew about it beforehand, otherwise you wouldn't suddenly trust an illithid at your back upon the pivotal battle, would you? To fight other illithids? Which means it was already a friend of yours for quite a while—perhaps hidden somewhere in our camp?"

"I feel like you're cheating somehow."

"Maybe a little," Isobel admits. "Shadowheart does write me. Lately, she's been concerned about you, and your close association with some sort of ' being', which she isn't sure can be entirely trusted. But I did put it together that there was someone inside of the artifact you showed us at Last Light Inn, the one everyone said shielded you from the Absolute. I asked Shadowheart once about what it was like having a tadpole in the head, and she mentioned a mysterious figure protecting you, but deliberately avoided many details about them."

"He's called the Emperor."

Isobel waits a beat, expectantly. Then, her brow furrows and she says, "Why?"

"Why indeed!" Tav laughs. "It's a long story that I don't know if he'd want me to share. You are very good at this game, and very nosy."

"An experienced cleric is a nosy one," Isobel replies. "When I met you, I knew at once that you were the sort of adventurer with extreme tastes."

"You've no idea."

"That's what everyone thinks about me," Isobel says wryly. "How does one argue with an illithid?"

"Persistently." Tav huffs. "Imagine the very opposite of meeting Aylin, I suppose. The first time you see him, he's already been lying to you—and refusing to admit it on a technicality—and you are struck by how terrible he is and how easily he could hurt you. Near everything he says has a double meaning. You want to take him by the neck and shake him around."

"It sounds as if you like him very much, actually."

Tav smirks. "I'm quite sure I've described Volo's flaws just as thoroughly, and I wouldn't touch that man with a ten-foot pole. He nearly took out my eye with an icepick, and his excuse was that he had a magical prosthetic as a back-up!"

"Don't play coy, or start changing the subject!" Isobel laughs. "It’s not that strange to fight. You know, there are many things about Aylin that quite baffle me. She's unlike me in a plethora of important, practical ways. I told you that time about how she vanished for a month on a 'walk'. And I know I've made us sound perfect together, sometimes—I think I'm just used to defending our relationship from people who don't understand. My...my father, for example. But he wasn't the only one."

Tav smiles wryly. "I appreciate what you're saying, but I'm not in a relationship, Isobel. I like him, yes. But I don’t know so well what I want, which is the opposite of the situation you're in, or have ever been in."

"I suspect you know quite clearly what you want." Isobel is quiet for a moment. "But I'm here to gossip, not to lecture. You're venting, aren't you?" She points to the broken bones of the undead, scattered at their feet. "Tell me what's happened with him. I promise I'll take your side, and shake my head with you at the perfect moments."

Tav laughs. He says, "Very well. You simply wouldn't believe what he said the other day!"

“Does something trouble you?” Halsin says.

Tav starts to make an excuse and then grimaces. “I’m distracted,” he laments. “Sorry. I’m being terribly rude.” He blames the fact that he is still scrubbing brain damage from his skull.

“I can venture a guess as to what it’s about,” Halsin says thoughtfully. “We did leave behind a rather lively party recently. Let me guess: Our illithid friend has been upset since, and is taking it out on you?”

“I don’t know if I am taking it so gracefully. I’ve gotten my shots in. Not my most mature moments.” Tav grimaces. He can envision his mother tutting over the abuse of his magic. A story to keep to himself during future visits to her. “Regardless, forget about him. Sorry. I shall be present.”

“Perhaps we can go for a walk first through the commune,” Halsin says, amused. “I am sure that I will be able to regain your attention with a little effort on my part.”

“It’s hardly your fault,” Tav says, putting his hands over his face. “I shouldn’t let a silly fight yet linger on my mind. It’s not worth your time.”

Halsin studies him for a moment. He doesn’t bother with dissembling. “I wouldn’t say that. Your heart clearly wants what it wants. You should do as your nature calls you to. Even if you enjoy nettles more than others expect, or can understand.” He huffs a laugh. “I certainly know my own strengths and weaknesses. Yours is a spirit that calls you constantly to excitement and danger.”

Tav protests, “You’re hardly boring. Or non-dangerous. You turn into a bear!”

The Archdruid Wisdom in Halsin’s voice only deepens in severity. “This is neither a good nor bad trait. It simply is, just as it was that our paths have diverged. I accepted that when I made my home here, knowing your ties to distant Baldur’s Gate and to more distant yet adventurous propensities. My own wanderings are sated, and that means watching the horizon over the months—and years, perhaps—for your appearances, whenever those are. I’ve always expected you to be an ever-moving wind sweeping in on its own whims.”

Tav twitches. “But I could visit more often?”

Halsin is unmoved. “There is nothing you need to do to please me further.”

“Well, surely there’s something the enclave needs, or wants killed?”

“You should reflect on your discomfort in response to that statement.”

“Corellon save me,” Tav sighs. “You know that I appreciate you, I hope?”

“And I you,” Halsin replies. “It is no burden for me to share in yours. I have only ever been an outsider looking in regarding your tadpole problems, though I can understand why some of the others hesitate to welcome a mind flayer into their circle of companionship. But I trust your judgement. Your defense of him after the party was quite ardent, you know. And presently, you look quite…despondent.”

Tav smiles. “I suppose you are going to advise me to communicate better?”

“Often the simplest answer is the best one,” the druid replies. “Of course, are you seeking advice at all, or simply a listening ear? I’ve never seen you quarrel with anyone in our group, not really. Not even when tempers grew sharp, as things looked dire.”

“Why would I? Everyone was very nice,” Tav says.

Halsin chuckles and then sobers. “I’ve been in that very position, you know. You may recall we met just as I was walking away from leadership. When it feels as though everything hinges on you, there are things you cannot say.”

“Are you suggesting I yell at him more?”

“If that would help you directly convey your desires. You might, of course, try communicating said desires and feelings. Naturally, you’ve already done that with yourself first, before you move onto the involved outside parties.”

“Naturally,” Tav says dryly.

“As for the approach to do this, I think I have a suggestion. I observed you a fair amount during our travels together, especially as you were, er, making the rounds.” Tav smirks but does not interrupt. “When you are in pursuit of someone, you have a tendency to…draw them to you. You make your interest known, certainly, but you always wait and let the other make the overt declaration to you first, so that you are the one who says yes or no.”

“Fair.”

“This may well work on many people—especially the sort you’d find on the road. It gives them control of the pacing, I suppose. You are very good at it.”

“You advise a change of tactics?”

“Just something to think about. I will venture a guess also that you may be content to leave things as is for years? Decades, perhaps? There is a good piece of wisdom from non-elven friends that I have tried to exercise: Though you will live for a long while, it hardly means you’re obliged to waste time when you are dissatisfied with something. Are you dissatisfied?”

“I’ve no idea,” Tav says. “Ah, I think I just like the prickly types—as my track record shows—and I would like him to be happy.”

“Then, there you have it,” Halsin says.

Tav makes a trip to the Underdark, to ensure Minthara hasn’t gotten killed upon her recent return. She’s not a good letter-writer and her Sending replies always imply unrealistic amounts of victory, so whenever a certain number of months pass, Tav checks on her.

He finds her battling a group of enemy drow over a fort and it’s a simple thing to walk in and put his bow to use.

“If you desire something, then you should take it,” Minthara tells him afterwards. “Without hesitation, without apology, and certainly without excuses.”

Tav looks at the fort and then back at her. “Alright.”

“Where I come from, when someone catches your eye, you inform them immediately so that they understand they belong to you, and there is no confusion about their place. If you want the illithid, then claim it. Carry it off and chain it to your bed if you must.”

“Oh. Hmm. I don’t know if that will go well,” Tav comments, refusing to think about the Emperor kneeling at his feet.

Minthara scoffs. “The Emperor only respects you for the same reason I do. I am familiar with your methods, to smile and giggle but with blade at the ready. The others mistake such agreeableness for submission. They mewl about enthrallment, about manipulation, like you are a little elfling not yet come of age. If you were so weak, you would already be a puppet. No, the mind flayer fears your power, as he should. He knows that to seriously threaten you means death at your hands. The only problem with illithids is that they are so very…” She searches for a word in Common. “Flakey.”

“Flakey.”

“Yes. As soon as your goals misalign slightly, they will often abandon your cause. Which is why when that happens, you should seize the creature by the neck and drag it where you want to place it. Do that often enough and I expect it will eventually learn to yield. Sooner or later, all things do.”

When Minthara propositioned Tav, she did not do any of these insanely stereotypical drow behaviors that she is describing, nor had she tried to kill him in his sleep or even said anything egregiously jealous after they parted ways. Surely, she can’t believe that is a normal way to go about things.

She’s giving a pep talk, Tav realizes. The thought fills him with amusem*nt.

He drawls, “I’m a little ill-qualified to be a matriarch of Menzoberranzan.”

“Yes, your posture is far too poor,” Minthara says. “Not even the lowest servant slouches the way you do.”

“I suppose I could be clearer about my intentions,” Tav says, smiling. “But I don’t know if I want to spend all that effort dominating him quite that much. I’m sure he’s had quite enough of that. Besides, as much as I love putting people’s noses into the floor, I can’t eat cake every single day.” He winks at Minthara. “Variety is the spice of life and all. With the right sort of person, you might be surprised about what you could enjoy about submission.”

He’s needling her and half-expects her to scowl and retreat or become defensive, in the face of antithesis to drowkind. But Minthara has always surprised him. If ever a great cry arises amongst all his kin that they are sundered no longer, for Lolth has been slain at last, Tav would expect to find Minthara holding the Spider Queen’s head.

“That kind of trust is a rare commodity,” is her reply. “If you think you’ve ever truly found it, that’s all the more reason to never let it go.”

Tav shrugs. “I think I’ve always trusted him a reasonable amount! It’s just not been returned.”

“Give it time,” Minthara says, almost absently. “I made a choice long ago, to not let the fear of poisoned drink and knife behind back prevent me from one day finding true companions, though I always had to be prudent about such a hope. Until now. Not everyone makes such an effort to see past their own well-honed suspicions. But your actions have always proven you true. Unless the illithid is stupid, he’ll see it.”

Since she’s so courteously set it up, Tav obligingly says, “That first possibility isn’t entirely off the table.”

Both of them chuckle sensibly as they make their way into the fort.

If Minthara is commentating, then it’s clearly just been obvious to everyone. Tav preemptively brings it up during the next leg of his trip, before somebody else can smugly point out that he’s sulking like he’s had a lover’s spat.

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Karlach says, cleaving another cambion in half. “I mean—we don’t despise him or anything, right, Wyll?”

“It’s never been about that. I feel great sympathy for him, in fact.” Wyll puts an arrow through another devil’s eye. “We spent that month terrified of turning into mind flayers. It happened to him, and he hardly had anyone to assure that it wasn’t the end of everything—rather, his dearest friend turned on him. And despite all of that, he still managed to keep enough of himself and help us save his city.”

“But?” Tav says.

“But he still did what he did to Duke Stelmane.” Wyll wipes his blade. “Maybe he had a good reason, maybe he didn’t. I don’t know. Does it matter? False memories, dead dukes. The longer you associate with him, the more ugly secrets you’re going to drag out, one by one. All while he’s saying to your face that he’s got nothing more to hide.”

“Yes, maybe we’ll find out next that he is secretly a dwarven illusion wizard pretending to be Balduran pretending to be a mind flayer pretending to be a golden dream figure.”

“And I bet you would still like him then!” Wyll chuckles. “I can respect your ability to ride that fine line, my friend. And I’ve always admired your ability to draw out the good in others. If you say you see a light there that you would reach for, then who am I to discourage you?”

“What we’re saying,” Karlach interjects, “is that it’s actually none of our business if you’re f*cking the mind flayer. Don’t feel like you owe anyone an explanation.”

Tav raises his eyebrows. “I appreciate that. You’ll be disappointed, though.”

The tiefling whistles. “Really? You can’t get any more out of him? Impressive. This Balduran fellow’s more of a popsicle than the books suggest, eh?”

“What? Of course I could get more!” Tav grumbles. “I’ve just been letting him…marinate. While I decide if it’s a better idea to have left it as a one-time thing.”

“True enough. Easier to leave things be after just the once, but after that, the snowball gets rolling, eh? Well, if you ask me, I think it’s a terrible idea,” Karlach says cheerily. “Never stopped you before.”

“I don’t believe in shovel talks,” Wyll says. “They’ve always struck me as juvenile. You know your own feelings and what you’re getting into. But you can assume it’s implicit that we’ll be displeased on your behalf if it doesn’t end well.”

Tav turns to look at Hope, hovering by the doorframe of her little abode in Avernus. She gazes solemnly out at the area right outside, strewn in devil corpses. Wyll squints, takes aim, and downs the last fleeing straggler.

“What do you think?” Tav says. He has no idea if she’s been listening or paying any mind at all or if she can. “Is what I’m thinking absolutely foolish and hopeless?”

Hope smiles at him, bright as the sole star on a clouded night. “Why are you asking me? What do you suppose I will say?”

“I’m fishing for encouragement.”

“Oh! In that case, I hope that what you see comes into the light, even if you must pluck it from the gloom just like you plucked me. And I hope you will let nothing stop you.”