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In response, Miriam simply tilted her head back and drained the rest of the bottle in one go. Another mistake, probably, judging from the way her stomach lurched at the onslaught of what was, in fact, truly terrible wine; but the warmth that followed was a welcome one. At any rate, the burn in her gut gave her something else to think about beside her aching eye. |
When she finally set the bottle back down, Astarion was still staring at her. "You're a monster," he declared finally. |
"And you’re too sober," she shot back. |
"Ah, well, someone just guzzled the rest of my wine, so I hardly see how that's my fault." |
Miriam grinned and hurled the bottle towards the river, then blasted it to pieces with a surge of crackling energy as it soared over the water. "There. Now I feel better." |
It wasn’t entirely a lie. |
Morning came too quickly and too suddenly for the way she'd fallen asleep in the ruins, the ice pack now little more than a wet sock and damp puddle on the ground next to her. She blinked awake to blinding daylight and the murmured voices of a camp beginning to stir. |
It was the smell of coffee wafting across the campsite that finally roused her enough for her to drag herself upright and shuffle towards the fire. Oh, if the gods were merciful, the person brewing it would be anyone but— |
"Gale," she groaned. |
"Miriam," he said, apparently unfazed by her displeasure. "You were up early this morning. I was wondering where you'd gone off to." |
There was a small part of her that really wanted to like Gale. Oh, he was charming enough on the surface, with his dry wit and easy smile. And whatever he did every morning to make his stupid hair look like that. And then he'd inevitably make yet another irritating comment that did nothing but make her blood boil. |
Maybe it was personal on her part. Maybe all those years of getting her tutors fired with her own ineptitude had left her a bit sensitive to unsolicited correction. |
And maybe if he suggested she adjust her stance while summoning lightning one more time, she was going to fry every hair off of his pretty little head with it instead. |
Shadowheart leaned forward and studied Miriam's face with a disapproving frown. "Never went to sleep, more like. Gods, your eye looks awful." |
"Nah," Karlach chimed in. "Kinda looks badass, actually. Like you survived one hell of a fight." |
Astarion snorted. "Yes, that was quite a beast of a knitting needle, wasn't it? Very impressive." |
Miriam scowled, took the coffee Karlach pressed into her hands, and resisted the urge to hurl the whole thing in Astarion's face. "I'm only keeping my knife to myself because you brought me wine last night," she grumbled instead, and busied herself digging for the dehydrated coffee creamer. |
"Are you at least going to let me check you for infection?" Shadowheart pressed. "As much good as any of it does if you won't allow yourself rest." |
"Fine." Miriam tilted her head sourly and let Shadowheart poke and prod at her some more as she tuned idly in and out of the rest of the campfire conversations. Shadowheart's healing magic, while indisputably skillful, wasn't the gentlest of procedures on a good day, and today was proving less than average already. |
Sure enough, pain lanced through her skull as a remaining unhealed and irritated scratch in her eye socket violently clawed itself back together, and she barely kept hold of the coffee mug in her hand as she hissed in discomfort. Admittedly, after the wave passed, she did feel better. The prosthetic eye even fit better. Miriam clutched her coffee with both hands and forced down a scalding sip. "Why didn't you fix all of that yesterday?" she pouted. |
"I did. You must have reopened something during ... whatever it was you got up to last night." Shadowheart shot Astarion a pointed glance as she spoke. |
Astarion, arse that he was, only offered a smirk in return. "A gentleman doesn't speak of a night well spent." |
Any other day and she would have encouraged the joke, but today, Miriam was beginning to regret not throwing her coffee at him. |
Despite the relief in her eye, an entirely different headache was building, and by the time they reached midday the pounding in her skull was moving beyond simple distraction. Her arms felt sluggish, her breathing labored, and even the most basic cantrips — things she'd gotten used to channeling these days with barely a blink of effort — seemed to take three times as much out of her with every cast. |
Was everyone else having such a difficult time today? Miriam couldn't tell, preoccupied as she was with simply staying upright. All she knew was that she was already at her wit’s end when a poorly placed shatter spell caught her left arm and tore her gauntlet and sleeve clean off, leaving a painful patch of mottled flesh behind across her forearm. The gnolls she'd been aiming for, at least, fared significantly worse; all dead, and out of the three she'd aimed for, only one remained anything more than a messy pile of viscera. |
Gale let out a colorful series of swears from somewhere to her left. "Again? Honestly, Miriam, at this point, I'm left to wonder what your real motivations are, so often you lead us right to the edge of death’s gruesome precipice. I’ve more scars from your bloody misfires than anything else that's actually attacked us!" |
Miriam bristled. "Will you shove off? We're alive, aren't we?" |
"Barely, no thanks to you!" |
"Fine," she hissed. "Next time, I'll be sure to let the gnolls have you so I don't have to suffer your pretentious whining." |
Gale brushed ash from his sleeves and glared at her. "I cannot tell if you're afflicted either by an overwhelming amount of carelessness or a purely terrifying level of sheer incompetence," he snapped, waving his hands emphatically. "In fact, it is beyond impressive the way you have blurred those lines in utter totality! Bravo!" |
Something bitter and ugly twisted in Miriam’s chest. "We can't all be Mystra's little pet," she spat. "Some of us have to come by our magic the hard way." |
He flinched, but the momentarily flicker of hurt on his face morphed into a sneering fury. "Oh? Do enlighten me again, won't you? How exactly was it that you came by your own questionable expertise? Did you ask nicely, or do you still have bruised knees from the begging?" |
She tugged on the shadows that so often frequented her dreams lately and watched them spring to life in her palms with barely a thought. They weaved through her fingers and wound menacingly around her arms as she readied them for a fight. "I'll show you questionable, you pompous arsehole—" |
"Miriam!" Wyll stepped between them, hands held up. "Stop this. We've enough enemies out here without turning on one another." |
"Stay out of this," Miriam snarled. "I've had enough of his bullshit—" |
"Miriam," Wyll repeated. "Enough!" |
There was a note of firm finality in his tone that somehow deflated her anger and left only exhaustion in its wake. "Piss off, all of you," she said. She shot Gale another withering glare, turned on her heel, and stalked away. Where exactly she was going was debatable given she hadn't thought that far ahead yet, but the notion of spending even a single second more with Gale in her field of vision filled her with enough renewed fury to light her palms ablaze. |
Fucking wizards. How dare he? He was as bad as Eleanor, and then some. Gods, was this what awaited her if she ever found her way back home? She kicked a clod of dirt down an incline and watched it shower downwards into the river below. Was it even home anymore? Would it ever feel that way again now that Cassian... |
Cassian was gone. It settled over her like a blanket made of bricks until she wondered if her very lungs would collapse under the weight of it. Fury and anguish lit her insides ablaze, and all she could manage in that moment was to scream, as loudly and as forcefully as her throat would allow. It was a guttural sound that tore through her lips, that hollowed her out and then shattered the pieces like so many shards of broken glass. |
But when the echoes receded and smothering silence settled around her once again, her heart didn't ache less at all. |
She reached into her pack for her waterskin and sobbed out a hysterical laugh when Cassian's tobacco pouch rolled out of it. Pristine. Untouched since she'd plucked it from his belt herself, probably the most unscathed now of any of her earthly possessions. |
What good had those skills done her when she herself had heralded her brother's doom? What use were those skills now? |
And where had her newfound magic gotten her beyond simply keeping her alive at everyone else's expense? |
It occurred to her then, as hot tears streaked down her face, that it had been almost two weeks since the nautiloid crash now. Two weeks of constant travel, of exhausting battles and sleepless nights and far too much on her mind — and in it — for her to find anything that even resembled respite. And with it, a quiet time and place to grieve. |
Well, she'd damn well earned that much at this point, hadn't she? |
The leather of the tobacco pouch was soft and supple between her fingers. Scents of vanilla and woodsmoke drifted up to her as she toyed with the braided length of rope holding the top of it closed. The hollowed out part of her flooded like a ravine in a rainstorm, and for the first time in days, she closed her eyes and wept. |
The sun was beginning to dip into the horizon by the time Miriam trudged her way back to camp alone. Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids, one foot pressing deliberately in front of the other until she could make out flickering firelight through the trees and the wafting scent of cooked meat. She lingered at the edge of the clearing and watched her companions at a distance for a moment. It was a familiar skin she slipped into: apart, aside, away-from. |
Her magic might be new, but some part of her had always known deep down just how much the shadows could feel like home. |
"Done brooding?" |
Miriam yelped and flung a handful of fire in the direction of the voice that floated from somewhere to her right. "Mother of fucking magic, Astarion! Don't do that!" |
He snorted and pretended to inspect his fingernails. "What, stand in the shadows and look pretty? Afraid I can't help my nature." |
"What do you want?" Miriam groaned. "I know I fucked up today. Let me lick my damn pride in peace." |
"All this wailing because a know-it-all prat of a wizard disapproves of your methods?" he clucked. "Come now, Miri darling. You're better than that." |
Miriam leaned against a nearby tree and crossed her arms across her chest. "You're only this encouraging to people who have something you want," she muttered tiredly. "Can you please spit it out so I can lie down?" |
"Oh, fine." He trailed behind her, voice lowering as they approached the rest of the camp. "We haven't had any decent enemies in days." |
"What, nearly being eaten by a pack of gnolls didn't do it for you?" |
He shot her a knowing look. "Please. They smell rank in every possible way, and I'm fairly certain I've already decimated the boar population this side of the Chionthar. I'm suffering, Miriam. Imagine subsisting for days on moldy bread and stale cheese." He paused. "Or is it stale bread and moldy cheese? It's been so long since I've known the pleasure." |
Miriam rolled her eyes. "Sure," she said, probably against her better judgment. "Come to my tent later. But bring wine. Like, a generous quantity of wine. Good wine this time, not that sad excuse for sour juice you handed me last night." |
Astarion waggled his eyebrows at her and draped an arm around her shoulder. "So demanding," he purred into her ear. "I could get used to this." |
She shrugged out of his grasp with a sigh. "Don't push your luck." |
The wine was, as promised, a significantly higher quality vintage, and it had warmed her with a pleasant tingle by the time she drew the tent flap closed and leaned back against the rolled up pile of stolen shirts she'd been using as a pillow. Gods, but she was so sleepy. |
Eyes half closed, she rolled over on her side and poked Astarion with her toe. "So, are we doing this or what? Because if you can't make up your mind I'm kicking you out." |
"Gods, you're insufferably impatient," Astarion muttered. He unbuttoned his shirt, folded it carefully and laid it aside. They'd found out the hard way the first time that spilled blood was notoriously difficult to remove from that fine white fabric of his even with the aid of magic, which seemed incredibly impractical to her, but far be it for her to judge someone else's bad decisions. |
She couldn't resist throwing in another jab anyway. "Can't believe the whole camp thinks we're fucking because you're too vain to risk getting blood on your fancy designer shirt." |
"It is bespoke," Astarion sniffed. |
"Alright, Bespoke. Get on with it then." |
She tipped her head back and braced herself for the awkwardness of forced intimacy as he climbed on top of her. At least their casual place in each other's lives had been firmly established at this point, though it did little to quash her body's reaction when he settled himself against her chest. Gods, she must be touch starved. Or just drunk. |
The sharp prick of pain against her throat quickly gave way to a dizzying rush as her breath hitched, as he let out an involuntary groan of satisfaction. |
"Alright, don't make it weird," she muttered irritably. |
"Sorry," he muttered hazily into her throat. "The wine is having an ... unexpected effect on the process." |
Now that he'd mentioned it, Miriam did notice she'd gotten lightheaded far more quickly this time. Her stomach churned as her heartbeat fluttered unpleasantly in her chest, but nonetheless she felt so warm. How long had it been since she'd felt truly useful to someone? Held, even? Time lost all meaning, and a part of her was aware of how pathetic she was in this moment, basking as she was in this brief illusion of self worth. But couldn't she let herself have this? |
"Gods, Miri," Astarion gasped. "You taste exquisite tonight." |
She did, didn’t she, she thought dreamily. Lost in the wine-drunk fantasy of being something to someone. She was faintly aware of a soft moan slipping from her lips at the thought. Intoxicating, to have something so often so far out of her reach. |
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she was dimly aware she should stop him. That maybe he was as lost in the delirium as she was, that the game they were playing was a dangerous thing indeed. |
"Hey," she mumbled, only vaguely aware of the way she tapped weakly at his shoulder. "Hey, "starion, maybe we should — maybe we ..." |
Maybe we should stop, she might have whispered as soft oblivion claimed her. |
Miriam opened her eyes to a desiccated, skeletal face peering down at her. She flailed upright in alarm — or tried to, at least, and promptly and bonelessly flopped back down as her head spun. |
"It has been done," Withers rumbled, the grass and dead leaves on the ground rustling in his wake as he shuffled away. |
"Thank you," breathed a relieved voice that was decidedly not Astarion. Miriam couldn't quite place yet why that thought popped up, or why it irritated her so damn much; but then she connected who that voice did belong to, and her mood immediately soured further. |
"Gale," she croaked. "What the fuck are you doing in my tent?" |
Gale at least had the decency to look a little contrite this time, although she could have sworn every stage of grief flickered across his pained expression in the span of about five seconds. "What am I doing?" he repeated finally, tone incredulous. "What are you doing? Do you even remember what happened to you last night?" |
Miriam frowned and attempted to sit up again, with only marginally more success. She propped herself up on her elbows and sifted through the haze. There had been a very well aged bottle of Esmaltar Red involved, and then she and Astarion had— |
Gods. She was going to kill him. |
"Excuse me," she groaned as she clawed and stumbled her way to her feet. She knew she must look a sight with the way the blood crusted on her neck pulled at her skin whenever she turned her head. The collar of her shirt was tacky with it and she didn't even want to know what her hair looked like. |
"Miriam—" Gale began as he turned to follow. "Miriam, wait—" |
She didn't bother letting him finish and grabbed Astarion roughly by the forearm. "A word?" she growled. |
Astarion offered his usual charming and aloof smile. "Well, good morning. You're looking no worse for wear, I see." |
"Worse for wear—" she sputtered. "You killed me!" |
"Now, now," Astarion said, hands raised in surrender. "Killed is a bit of a strong word." He gestured vaguely in her direction. "Corpses don't typically exude your ... vigor." |
"Oh, was my vigor the reason Withers and Gale were in my tent this morning?" |
Astarion's expression twisted into a tired grimace. "Ugh. Don't remind me. I had to suffer Gale pacing around and making sad puppy faces all morning. It was an awful sight." |
"Oh, yes, how inconvenient for you!" |
He heaved a dramatic sigh. "If I apologize, will you leave me be? It really is far too early for all of this yelling. Besides. People are staring." |
Miriam glared at him. "It would be a start." |
"Oh, fine," he pouted. "I am sorry that I, er, overindulged in your hospitality last night. It won't happen again." |
Despite her ire, it took every ounce of self control for Miriam not to burst into laughter at the pained look on Astarion's face. "Wow," she snorted. "That really took a lot out of you, didn't it?" |
"Hmph. I believe Gale has the coffee ready. Why don't you go bother him instead?" |
She brushed flakes of dried blood from her collar and patted a generous handful of them on his shoulder while he sputtered in protest. "You really are a fountain of bad ideas." |
"Goodbye, Miriam." |
Breakfast was an uneasy affair. She had inadvertently woken up most of the camp with her yelling, which had set a general tone of awkwardness that left most of her companions grabbing a mug of coffee and their various breakfast items and retreating elsewhere to consume them. With the sad state of her tent interior, though, it also meant she was trapped in the clearing with Gale, who kept pausing between bites of toast to open his mouth to speak, then think better of it. |
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