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The tadpole screams. Without reason or understanding, it forces them all into the valleys of her brain, five minds reaching out into hers, digging into the holes and crevices. They see her lurching to a start, awakening to a body below her she scarcely recognizes with no memory of what lead her to that point. Blood on her hands. Confusion, horror, admiration, revulsion, pain, all swirling together to make a horrible concoction. |
The strongest is the fear, all-consuming, ever-piercing. She's afraid, she’s fucking terrified. She's terrified of herself, of what she'll do to them if given half the chance. Care-fear-devotion-love blasts through their minds. She can't hurt them. They trust her, for some stupid reason, and she trusts them more. |
In their short time together, they have given her all that she is. It’s simple, really. She will not allow herself to be the reason they all fall — so she has to die. Really, that was the truth at the core of it all, wasn't it? She cared for Alfira. She cared for her so much it scared her, and because of it, she was dead. That’s why she has to die. |
The connection is severed with a strangled cry. She's left reeling, shaking, stumbling back and gasping for air. Everyone's there, everyone’s watching her, everyone knows what’s wrong with her mind. |
"You have to kill me," she keeps repeating. "You have to. I'll kill you all if you don’t." |
"Nethandre, I..." Wyll speaks first. His voice is warm and soft, a blanket over her shoulders. No, no, no, no. Don’t be kind, don’t be gentle, what the fuck is wrong with you? "That wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t you." |
Her gaze hardens on his. No, no, he doesn’t understand, how could he understand? How could he ever hope to understand? "It is," she hisses. "Right now, I'm fantasizing about chopping your fingers off, one by one, and—" |
"Nethandre." He cuts her off. "You’re disgusted by yourself. I saw it. We all saw it. We can keep watch, I promise. You won’t hurt us." |
"What? I didn't agree to keep that..." Astarion gestures at her, sputtering. "Thing in our camp!" |
The only thing that rings through her head at his words is a hollow acceptance. He’s right — she’s more beast than person, after all. Disgust, hate, then recognition flashes in his eyes when she smiles at him, baring sharpened, bloodied teeth. |
It’s kind of fun fucking with him. |
"What, is an uncontrollable monstrosity killing our allies in the night only okay when it’s you, Astarion?" Shadowheart’s smug little smile almost distracts from how she’s defending her. It doesn’t make any sense. She feels like she’s going to vomit. "Must I remind you what we were greeted by a few nights ago?" |
(They saw her, drained of all blood, finally at peace, lying on her bedroll. Astarion was hysterical, apparently, and was forced to confess the truth and pool together the gold needed to resurrect her. They filled her in afterwards, and she defended him with her life — after all, she was the one who let him do it.) |
"Don’t compare me to... that," he practically whines. "That was different." |
"Well — well —" He huffs, arms falling to his sides. The knowledge that Nethandre didn’t want to come back, didn’t fight against him when she could so easily snap his neck, is shared between the two, a secret neither of them will dare to acknowledge again. "Look, we brought her back, didn’t we?" |
It’s odd that he still keeps her secret. A strange pang strikes in her chest. |
"Chk. She's a powerful ally, and one we cannot simply toss to the side." Lae’zel huffs. "We will keep watch and ensure no more blood is spilled." She speaks with certainty. She speaks as if this is a good idea in the slightest. "If anything else odd happens, I will end you." |
"What makes you so certain you could?" Her head tilts upwards, bangs casting a harsh shadow over her eyes when she looks down at the gith. She's so small compared to her. Athletic and lithe, surely, but Nethandre's frame is larger. Like this, she could pin her to the floor and — |
stopstopstopstopstopSTOPSTOPSTOP |
Lae’zel steps closer, meeting her gaze with equal contempt. "Do you think you scare me, istik?" |
"If I don’t, you’re a fool," she spits through gritted teeth. |
"A beast like you — it — is powerful, but not strategic. I understand your weaknesses, and I will not be sharing them. If it brings you relief, know I could take you down effortlessly." |
Nethandre shudders, relief wracking through her body. No, she — she was deluding herself at the very idea, and it brings her nothing but relief. Lae'zel is a trained warrior with brutal efficiency drilled into her very body and soul, while all Nethandre has is the muscle memory of whatever horrors she used to commit. Lae’zel could do it. Lae’zel could kill her. " ... Thank you. Share those weaknesses with the others, too." |
"Well, if we’re all in agreement that we're going to be keeping the murderous madwoman who can't control her urges in our camp, I suppose my input on the situation is hardly important." Gale finally speaks. Ah. She had barely seen him. (She still wants to tear his hand off.) |
"No, Gale. Speak." She spares a glance towards him. "It’s important to me." |
His face softens, conviction wavering. "I — Gods, you make it hard to stay angry at you." |
"I want your anger, Gale! I want your hate. Give me it. I can take it." |
"Well, that's just the problem, isn't it? I can't reconcile whatever did... that," he gestures to Alfira's body, "with what you're saying to me." |
"Reconcile it. Because I fucking did it." |
Gale’s hand threads through his hair, looking at Nethandre with those big sad brown eyes. "Don’t misunderstand — I’m still afraid of you, if it brings you some small comfort, but ... I can’t. You’re kind, and brave, and you’re dangerous, but you’re not capable of this. The beast that killed Alfira is something different entirely, and I want to know what it is." |
"No, no, no, no, no!" Seemingly frustrated with this answer, her hands ball into fists, one digging into her hair, as she begins to pace back and forth. "You're supposed to hate me — Are you all insane?" |
"You have a kind heart, Nethandre." Wyll again. Sweet, heroic, kind Wyll. Oh, she’s definitely going to throw up. "I’ve watched you save a child from being poisoned by a snake. You wiped her tears afterwards and kept her close while you brought her back to her parents. I know you aren’t some soulless monster." |
"It’s very funny you should mention that. I was fantasizing about watching the light leave her eyes." |
He startles at the admission, but with only a beat, continues his speech. "But, in, the end, what did you decide?" |
Her pacing stops, pretending the rock in front of her shoe is suddenly the most important thing in the world. "... Her life mattered more than my desires, and ... when the fog cleared, I didn’t want her to die, either." She sounds very, very small. |
"Exactly my point. Whatever these urges are, you can resist them — and if not, we’ll be here to stop you." |
She huffs out a laugh, looking back up to meet his kind smile with a very faint one of her own. "Fine. You’ve won, Blade of Frontiers. Congratulations. I will stay." |
"I hope we don’t regret this," Astarion whines. |
"Shut up," Shadowheart shoots back. |
"We should ... we should tell the tieflings, right?" Nethandre's voice warbles at the idea. |
Astarion's glare is as instantaneous as it is piercing. "No, we are absolutely not doing that. Are you insane?" |
"They deserve to know, Astarion." She pleads with her eyes, although she already knows it’s a pointless endeavor. The fucker is insanely selfish, for better or for worse - it's a wonder he's tagging along for this rescue mission at all. "She had friends. People who cared for her." |
"What are you going to say? "Oh, I'm so sorry, I killed your sweet, innocent bard because I went insane in the night?" Sorry, darling, but if you want to play hero, that's the easiest way to get killed." |
"It's the right thing to do." |
"Sometimes, "the right thing to do" and "the thing that won't get you killed" are two different things. Did whatever took your memories knock out all of your common sense, too?" |
An uneasy silence fills the air. See, that's the issue of the matter: He was right. However, nobody (except for Lae'zel, who well and truly didn't care) wanted him to be right. It was truly fucked up to hide the evidence of the murder from the people they were trying to save, but what choice did they have? Most people wouldn't accept the idea that she was out of her mind, and there was no tadpole mind meld to make them believe it. |
Gale is the first to crack, although he looks like he's been torn apart. "Gods, you're right, aren't you? I wish you weren't." |
"What are we going to tell them?" Shadowheart asks. "They’ll wonder. I’m sure she told somebody that she was going to join us." |
"We say we never even saw her. The path was a very dangerous place — it's no place for defenseless bards." Astarion weaves the lie effortlessly, using a woefully insincere voice to tell his tale. "The goblins must have gotten to her first, or perhaps gnolls." Nethandre's fist clenches. The idea that she fell the same fate as Lihala is maddening (and yet, what's the difference between herself and a gnoll?) "We mourn her, but we must move on." |
Nethandre’s gut churns, twisting and rolling at the idea of lying to them, lying about her sins, making them place their misguided trust in her. Still, what choice does she have? She can still save the rest of them. Still wants to save the rest of them. If she saves them, maybe the weight of Alfira's death will weigh less heavily on her shoulders. |
"Alright. That works." Her voice is mechanical, distant. Gods, she's repulsive. She murdered Alfira, and now she's making everyone cover for her crimes. Why do they still believe in her? Why do they still trust her? Their eyes are all fixed on her, their leader, still expecting her to lead them after all of this. She needs to go. Now. "I’m ... going to bathe. Afterwards, we should bury her. She deserves that much." |
She doesn’t look back, can’t look back, can't even comprehend if anyone is talking to her anymore, wordlessly marching off to the river. |
The bile in her stomach rises and rises and rises and she doesn’t understand if it’s because of her crime, because of their blind trust in her, or because of the plan to cover it all up. |
Some part of her is revolted at the idea of lying for all of the wrong reasons. They should know, and they should be cowering in fear of her because of it. Why hide this beautiful, beautiful brutality? Alfira’s corpse should be paraded in front of them, and then she should — |
Gods, they should have put her down. |
She kneels down by the river and once again begins to gag and heave, and finally, finally expunges the contents of her stomach into the stream. She chokes and sobs as her gag reflex finally takes effect, retching in waves until she’s finally coughing up nothing but bile. |
She sucks in deep breaths on her hands and knees, gasping for air. The vomit stained red with blood is carried away, sending away the memory of whatever the beast ate with it, and gods, she’s never been so grateful to throw up. (Granted, she doesn’t remember throwing up before this, but most people aren’t happy about the endeavor.) |
Frustration bubbles in her gut when she tries to wipe her mouth, only for her face to end up slick with more blood. Water? Water would fix this, yes. She cups water in her hands, then frowns at the sight of red seeping into it. Ah — Fuck it. Without any more thought, she dunks her head in the water, wiping away the blood and vomit from her face with her hands, cleaning both as they went. |
Next, she strips mechanically, peeling off the blood-soaked garments and tossing them to the side one by one. Something will have to be done about the clothing when this is done, but that’s a decision to be made when she’s not caked in gore. (Alfira’s gore, Alfira’s gore, ALFIRA’S GORE—) |
Nethandre steps into the river, allowing the cold sting of the water wash away her thoughts. |
She feels nothing towards her body, although she doesn’t particularly like dwelling on it at all. To Nethandre, her body is just another weapon to be sharpened and used. Another blade to be pointed at the enemy, to be used and manipulated however it will benefit her or her allies. It’s not beautiful or ugly, it simply... is. |
After all, this body doesn’t belong to her, it belongs to whatever inhabited it before her brain was turned to mush. The source of the scars, some fresh and some faded with time but still dark and raised, are unknown to her. They absolutely litter her body, both the proof of battles long past and ones that are more... medical in nature. |
See, if she dwells on why there’s an incision cutting straight down her stomach, she’ll start to spiral, and nobody wants that. |
Instead, she scrubs. She managed to find some soap in the druid’s grove, thank the Gods, and she uses it to scrub every inch of her body raw, coaxing out the blood caked under her claws and in her hair. She scrubs herself raw, until she’s sure if she had a complexion like Astarion’s, she’d still be bright red by the end of it. Then, she scrubs some more. |
She’ll never truly be clean, but this is an acceptable start. |
After Gods knows how long, she finally exits the river, putting one foot in front of the other. She wasn’t counting the time. The sun is high in the sky when she leaves, beating down on her and warming her skin. Making her feel a bit more alive. A bit more tiefling, a bit less monster. |
In the end, the decision about her clothes is obvious. They're chucked in the river effortlessly, and she begins to don her armor. |
Nobody notices her return to camp. They've all resumed their own activities, which isn't exactly shocking. It looks like Lae'zel, Wyll, and Gale are taking stock of their resources, while Astarion reads and Shadowheart does what must be some Sharran prayer. Overall, an average day, if one would ignore the brutality that happened a few hours ago — which is exactly what they seem to be intent on doing. |
Everyone’s insistence on ignoring it is disturbing, really. She thought better of Wyll, at the very least, but instead he was her strongest defender. It makes her feel repulsive again, thinking of the Blade of Frontiers bending his morals for her. What a contemptible creature she was... |
The only one who notices her arrival is Withers, who idly turns his head towards her once seen, staring. He always watches her. She hates it. She glares at him, and he doesn’t do so much as blink back. |
(Withers has brought her back before, she recalls, even when she kicked and clawed and screamed to stay. She begged to know why and all Withers said in response was, It is not your time yet.) |
Withers — Withers could bring her back, right? |
Nethandre digs in her pockets as she rushes to him, clumsily fishing out her wallet with shaking fingers. He could bring back Alfira. He could bring back Alfira! It wouldn’t undo the horror and trauma she did to her, gods knows she’d never want to stay in their camp after this, but she’d be alive. Safe to return to her friends, the people who loved her. Safe to play and sing and honor Lihala’s memory and write more songs and dance and live. |
The power sits in her hands. She just needs a paltry amount of gold. |
She can undo what she’s done. |
"Thy wheel of fate turns ever to the dark," Withers begins, always infuriatingly cryptic. Frankly, she makes her want to scream. "Dost thou require a new ally? Or, perhaps, a resurrection, instead?" |
Perhaps the strange glint in his eye is imagined, but she gets the impression he knows what she's about to ask. |
"Please. Bring Alfira back." She holds out the bag of gold as if it were an offering to a god. Alfira, Alfira. Alfira could come back. "I have the gold, I’ll do anything else you need if it’s necessary. I know I killed her, but I didn't want to, I promise, I — there’s something wrong with me. Please." |
Her eyes shine with hope for one long, horrible, aching moment. |
Then, he speaks. |
"The bard’s death is a weight for thine own conscience to bear." |
"She will be left to the peace of eternity, where the Urge shall seek her no more." |
He fucking couldn’t? |
Rage burns inside her, shattering that delicate hope, bubbling and boiling to its breaking point until a scream rips its way out of her throat. Withers just stares, almost daring her to protest. |
"You brought me back!" Blood pulses in her ears. All she knows is anger now, consuming her, its claws digging into her heart and drawing blood. "A soul can’t return to its body unless its willing, until it’s mine, and I’m shoved back into this useless husk whether I care or not! What’s different about her? I’m sure she would love to live!" |
"It is simply how it must be. Thine death was not written." |
"That’s not a fucking answer! Tell me!" |
"Then get out of my godsdamned camp." |
This argument was pointless. Letting out another frustrated scream, she tries to shove Withers as she leaves, but it doesn’t do anything besides his "Ah, yes. Well struck," that she promptly ignores. |
Astarion stands to the side when she stomps off, seemingly bemused by her little outburst. The rage rises again at the sight of him — how dare he? "I understand, darling, but could you be a little more quiet about your suicide attempt?" |
"Will you shut the fuck UP?" Lightning fast, she reaches out to grab Astarion’s shoulder. He flinches at her touch, eyes flashing with fear for one glorious moment. How will he look when he’s truly afraid? "I’m so sick of you. Do you like seeing me squirm, is that it? Was it funny when Alfira died? Was it?" |
The grip tightens with each word, nails digging into fabric, so strong it threatens to tear, a manic smile beginning to grow on her face. She wants to watch him bleed, and this time, she’ll remember every second of her brutality. |
"Get ahold of yourself," he snaps back, wrenching himself away. |
The haze is broken. She stumbles backwards, grabbing her wrist with her other hand. "I— I’m so sorry. I —" I don’t know what got into me, she wants to say, but she does. Gods, was she really that out of control now? Her mind dances with fantasies of his corpse as she comes down from her high, taking heavy breaths, eyes locked onto him with pupils blown wide in horror. Instead of scrambling for words, she just slumps over. "I’m sorry." |
"There you are." His arms cross, regarding her lazily. It’s impossible to read him. "Stop apologizing so much. You look pathetic." |
There’s no room in her for any more hate or anger — she’s exhausted. "Look, I — Just leave me alone." |
"Alright, suit yourself." |
"Fuck you," she breathes. |
It seems that nobody else has noticed her little outburst — or, more accurately, they’re all politely pretending it didn't happen. Her next destination is the camp's supply chest. She searches for a shovel, a distant ping of recognition at her promise to give a proper burial she made what must have been hours ago. |
How odd. Her hopes were raised so high, if ever so briefly, and now she's forced to once again face reality. |
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