Chapter Text
The heat of the day stubbornly refuses to leave as the sun sets, the night air remaining too heavy and close to afford a restful sleep. Not that your mind even felt capable of it. While others meditated or tossed restlessly on their bedrolls, you wander away from the camp. A river passes close by and the thought of cooling water to wash off the dust and sweat of the road is too tempting to pass up. Boulders worn smooth by higher water levels and the passage of time disappear below the waterline. They offer a convenient ledge to sit on without wading too deep. With your luck of late you'd probably end up disturbing a kelpie if you did. Clothes discarded on the bank, you dip a toe in and sigh, cool and perfect. You ease yourself down and find a comfortable spot to try and unwind. Illithids, confrontations between goblins, teiflings and druids. And now a devil inserted himself into the maelstrom.
You cup the cool water into your hands and splash it over your face, running your hands up through dusty and messy hair. After this you would never take bathing regularly in scented water for granted again. If there was an afterwards. Eyes drifting shut, you listen to the sound of the river, the humid breeze through the trees lining its bank. You can even hear the skitter of small nocturnal animals in the undergrowth. Had your senses always been this sharp, or was it an effect of the tadpole? You groan as the thought churns up your stomach and you scratch at the side of your skull. The lack of any sign of ceremorphosis doesn't ease your anxiety, in some ways it only makes it worse. How much should you trust this visitor in your dreams when you know your mind to be compromised? But what reason would a tadpole have to play such games, to toy with its food? Everything you knew about illithids from the college library made it clear they didn't work like that, had no perverse desires to sate. Unless this visitor really was the divine guardian they seemed to be.
Your tumbling thoughts suddenly stop at the oddest of sounds, the tinkle of small bells. Not all that dissimilar to the sort some bards wore on their performance garb. The only person you'd seen dressed like that was Alfira, but why would she leave the relative safety of the Grove for a camp of strangers?
“A fine night to reflect on your predicament, is it not.”
You don't bother to answer the devil, likely it's a rhetorical question. It's hard to believe he's actually interested in such banal small-talk. Instead your eyes slide to the right where you've left your rapier propped up against the boulders. Like making a lunge for it would do anything more than amuse him.
“You know, I have an interesting little tale to tell you.”
His smooth voice doesn't draw any closer. Without turning to look at him you could only guess that he stayed by the treeline.
“This isn't the first time we've met, so to speak,” he amended. “Lady Eunice Bourigeaud, do you recall her?”
Of course you did. A little over a year ago you'd performed at her country estate, a lavish midsummer ball. The sort where deals were made and liaisons were kept secret. You didn't recall anything unusual about the weekend and, as far as you knew, Lady Eunice was still active in aristocratic circles. “You were there?”
A soft amused snort. “That is what my words imply, yes. Your performance was exquisite, it's not often a bard of your natural talents comes along. I was quite enraptured.”
You feel your lip curl downwards, his words more like a snide critique than a compliment. “Why are you here, Raphael?” He'd made it clear outside the Grove that he had no interest in helping them, they weren't nearly desperate enough.
“To tell you my tale,” he repeated, his tone suggesting he was more entertained by your slow uptake rather than exasperated by it. “Later that night, after you had retired to your rooms. Someone knocked on your door, did they not? No doubt your mind skipping over who it could be, your heart fluttering with anticipation. Was it someone enticed by your voice, an admirer?” His chuckle rumbled deeply. “Who was it?”
You sigh with irritation under your breath. “A maid. She brought a bouquet of roses.” Freshly cut, dew still on the velvet soft petals. You'd never seen the flowers in such colours before, deepest blood red and darkest plum, thorns a rusted brown. In the morning you'd even taken a walk through the gardens to see if you could find the bushes they came from. There were none.
“And what did the card say?”
A single name, no message. “Pharela.” It was easy to see the anagram in hindsight. You'd waited up, expecting a late night visit from the sender. Someone did come to your door an hour or so later, but they only looked at you in confusion when you thanked them for the roses.
“I had wanted to speak to you in person, but alas, there were so many clients in need of my help,” he sighed dramatically. “A quite lucrative night by all accounts.”
You feel your brow furrow as you try to find the thread of his game, what linked a party over a year ago and now. Only there wasn't one you could see. It seemed more of an opportunity, an aligning of separate events that he could only now spin to some advantage.
“Why send flowers at all?” You ask despite knowing actively engaging in conversation wasn't the wisest idea.
“Why not?” He asked, feigning shock at your question. “You think me incapable of appreciating fine art or a mesmerising performance? My dear, when you have lived as long as I have, you learn to savour the diamonds you find.”
With your back to him, you don't fight the eye roll, though it's mostly directed at yourself for humouring him. Why was he doing this? To appear less of a threat? To appeal to your performers ego? You doubted he cared about anyone's ego but his own.
“You think me disingenuous,” his voice dropped an octave, rumbling deep.
“Honestly? Yes. I'm just wondering where this is going.” Devils didn't indulge in idle chit-chat, there was cold calculation to every word they chose.
You draw a sudden and sharp breath as long fingered hands curl over both your shoulders. The touch blisteringly hot, the texture of those infernal red hands strangely reptilian. The points of blackened claws press into mortal skin but stop short of breaking it.
“You already know the answer to that,” his voice purrs right next to your ear, swathed in complete smug certainty. The low chuckle that follows either a promise or a threat.
The moment that heated touch leaves your shoulders, you make the ill-advised lurch for your rapier. But there's nothing behind you in the dark to strike at. Glowing orange and yellow embers drift on the breeze, the scent of cherries lingering with them. You lift your free hand to your shoulder, expecting to find the skin raw and blistered. While tender, you find the surface otherwise unmarred.
More shaken than you want to admit, you snatch up your shift and pull it over damp skin. Still expecting to see glowing magma eyes in the dark beyond the trees you pick up the rest of your clothes and hurry back to camp.
Last Light Inn
You balance the lute across your knee and test the strings. The poor girl was scuffed, dirty and flecked with dried blood. Silently you promise her a trip to the best luthier in the upper city once you get back to Baldur's Gate. Get the damage fixed, hide the scars. No one would ever know the horrors it had seen. Most of your companions are already asleep, a few others choosing to stay up around the fires and talk with the harpers. You sort the solace of a small terrace at the back of the inn and maybe one too many tankards of ale.
You lift your gaze from the lute to the moon shield hanging above. Shimmering silver light that hid the shadow curse from view, stopped it from consuming all who rested inside. It couldn't mask the bone deep chill in the air though, a gnawing coldness that had only seemed to worsen after your trip into the shadowfell. It was better to try and not think about it, or the push into Moonrise once everyone was rested.
A softly strummed note drifts into the quiet night air, out of tune. You sigh, but it's hardly surprising. Sitting a little straighter you set to the task of retuning her, turning each peg a little at a time as you strum. The notes don't sound as sweet as they should, she really needs a new set of strings, but it's the best you can do stuck out here. Closing your eyes you let your fingers dance over the strings, giving sound to the turmoil you keep hidden. The others need you to be strong, making decisions, pressing forward.
“Quite the melancholic composition.”
You let the last notes fade into silence, taking a measured breath before you open your eyes. “Didn't you get what you wanted, Raphael?” Letting your hand slide from the fretboard, you pick up the tankard on the table next to you and take a healthy gulp. This is not how you want to spend your quiet time.
“Hardly,” he muses, the deep rumble of his voice seeming to vibrate the air between you. “It must be so wearying, to push on so valiantly and still be no closer to a cure. But maybe, just maybe, all the answers will reveal themselves before you leave this place.”
You don't bother to protest as he takes the seat on the other side of the small table. The sooner he says his peace, the sooner he'll vanish back to the hells. Still, as the ale sits heavily in your gut, there's a perverse part of you that wants to antagonise him.
“It was your doing, wasn't it? All of this, what happened in Reithwin.” You'd found enough fragmented documents to begin pulling the puzzle together, add to that what little you'd gleamed from Yurgir.
He hummed, amused or pleased with himself, probably both. “I can hardly take credit for the shadow curse, but I also can't deny my House of Hope fed well on what came afterwards. I was asked by a very concerned member of the town to intervene when Ketheric went too far, magnanimous as I am, I agreed. Some might say I saved them from the terrible fate of being consumed by the shadowfell,” he states with complete indifference, then he glances across the table at you, a twinkle of amusement in his topaz eyes. “Don't tell me you feel empathy for all those dark justiciars? You certainly didn't show any towards your companions deepest desire.”
You drain the rest of the warm ale, trying not to screw your face up at how bitter it tastes. “So let me guess; you're hoping to mop up a few more souls tomorrow.”
“Honestly, harpers are abysmal for business,” he dismisses easily. “A ragged group of teiflings aren't much better.” Then he leans across the table, eyes almost leering. “Not nearly so interesting as you.”
A musical laugh escapes past your lips, you can't help it and are more than happy to blame the lack of decorum on the alcohol. “Ar, yes. The person one misstep away from becoming a soulless illithid. Very lucrative.” You strum a few notes wondering if you could count your words as vicious mockery. You doubt the devil cares.
“I don't always angle for souls, surely my deal with Astarion proves that. A fair and honest transaction.” To most others his face portrayed the very image of innocence, but you'd spent long enough around calculating nobles and their games to recognise the slight pinching to the corners of his eyes, the subtle curve to his lips.
“I have a bet with myself on exactly how much truth you shared with him,” you mutter, remembering the dark look in those red eyes, how quiet Astarion became once Raphael left.
“Your words wound me. I'm here to help and you know well enough I play fairer than any hag, any pseudo scholar, or githyanki ghustil,” he counted off, sounding more offended than he had any right to be.
“Only because so far you've offered nothing.” Unless he counted rhymes and pretence, and he probably did.
Raphael nods, looking gravely thoughtful. “You are right, and all I can do is ask for your patience in such matters.” He brightens then, eyeing the lute. “Why don't you play a little, sooth your nerves before the coming assault. I have hoped to hear you play again, though maybe not something so dour as before.”
You bristle, but would it really be so bad? At least it would shut him up. You run your fingers over the scuffed body of your lute before shifting it into a better position for playing. There is a composition you've been working on, unfinished, it has no lyrics or even a name. You hadn't played it for anyone save yourself and your fingers hover over the strings with indecision. It feels strangely like baring your soul.
Raphael snaps his fingers and all sound deadens around you both. His lips curve knowingly. “Now no one else need hear it.”
Rather than be rattled by how he knew your doubts so accurately, you take a breath and begin to play. It's not melancholic or lively, it's soulful and haunting. But even as you close your eyes the words for the piece still refuse to come, so you hum along with the melody where it feels right. Forgetting where you sit and why. Forgetting the devil who sits so close and listens. Forgetting what will come once you wake. Only the music matters and your voice weaves through it as naturally as breathing.
You lose track of time and when the final note plays you don't open your eyes straight away, not until you feel like you have your emotions under control. You blink once. Twice. And realise your lashes are wet. Damn it. You can feel his intense gaze on you even as you studiously avoid looking at him.
“Brava, my dear. Don't be ashamed to feel the music in your soul, it's what marks you apart.” Raphael reaches across the table to brush his thumb through one stray tear, then brings it to his lips to taste. “My, but your face is a picture.”
A furious flush has burnt across your cheeks at his actions, a confusing mix of embarrassment and shock quickly chased down by anger. This devil can mock your hopeless situation, lay out his breadcrumbs and false promises, you expected it. But to mock the one thing that meant everything to you? Fury burns bright. You stand abruptly, leaning across the table and slap the conceit right off his face. Oh, fuck.
Bright topaz eyes turn wide and unblinking. Hard and cold as stone they bore into yours. You swallow sickly, somehow managing to stay on your suddenly shaky legs and wondering how in the hells you were supposed to outrun an infuriated devil. Your back hits the wall painfully, his hand fastening around your throat, strong enough to snap it like kindling.
“Tell me what you see,” Raphael demands coldly.
It's hard to breath and focus, the power that radiates off him as crushing as his grip.
“Tell me!” He repeats when you take a second too long to register his words.
It's only then you realise he's showing you the open palm of his hand. If payment in kind is the punishment for your transgression, it feels like getting off lightly.
Raphael leans in close enough you can feel the heat of his breath. “What. Do. You. See?”
His hand isn't braced to slap you, he's trying to show you something. Calluses. Ones any bard would recognise, because they mirrored your own.
You try to swallow past the pressure encircling your throat. “You play?” It seemed so absurd to ask.
“College of Lore,” he clarified. “If you think I would ever mock the beauty of poetry, of music,” he was utterly incensed.
“I....” You struggle to find the words. You wanted to agree, to tell him they were everything. Only doubt froze your tongue. Fear that you were stumbling into a well laid trap. Never trust a devil.
The last time the two of you met alone, he claimed you knew the answer to what he wanted. With his body so close to yours, the way his intense eyes tracked every minute movement you made. It was far too easy to let your thoughts run wild in places they had no right to venture.
“Is there any kindness in your heart to forgive me?” You ask even as you know the answer.
Some of his ire wanes, the tightness of his grip around your throat fading into an almost tender touch. “Kindness?” He laughs, eyebrow arched. “Never.” Raphael dips his head slightly and you feel the ghost of a brush of his lips. “But a heart?” He breaths the word so harshly it's almost a growl. “Maybe.”
You close your eyes, but the only thing to touch your lips are drifting orange embers.