Chapter Text
He came to her that night.
Foxglove had rested, contemplative, all day. She’d basked in the glory of what Ilmater gave her: His symbol, a blessing, permanent and unforgettable. But after the wave of shock and joy receded, she was left with more questions.
The most pressing of which was, of course, what did it mean?
Foxglove knew this mark to be a boon; whether a reminder of her service to Him and His acceptance of her, as unremovable as the brand on her wrist, or a message of something greater, the promise of His influence and aid. She’d carefully wrapped her wrists that morning, hiding the branding until she knew what to say about it.
As night closed in, Foxglove bid her friends a good night with a soft smile, pleased to see them at peace, if just for a moment. Even Lae’zel, grappling with a visit from Kith’rak Voss, who bore faithbreaking information and a confirmation of Ironhelm’s claims, was leaning into the shared heat and warmth of companionship. The sounds of the fire and her companion’s chatter slowly lessened, until they were drowned out entirely by the forest on the camp’s edge and the barrier her tent provided.
Alone, she’d lit her ritual candles. An invitation to her Lord, a request for His company and guidance. The flamelight flickered and reflected along the shiny stripe down the side of her idol of Ilmater, worn smooth and glossy from years of reverent touches.
Foxglove settled herself on her bedroll, laid flat with her arms out, palms up - a pose of vulnerability. The image of her Lord’s hands, His mark on her wrists, facing out, as if they and the candles might be a beacon enough for Him.
It took her some time to fall into her trance - but she did, slowly at first and then all at once, the way the yawning embrace of sleep often claimed her. And then, as if waking, Foxglove blinked to alertness is a grand expanse of open sky and rolling hills, not unlike the gentle farmland her parents, and their parents before them, cultivated in the fertile plains where Unicorn Run and the Delimbiyr joined. In the distance, a great mountain, unimaginably high, rose into the clouds.
There was an old man, hunched over a worn workbench. He was humming - a hymn, Foxglove realized - a holy melody the most solemn of her godly siblings had used to keep themselves steady, alert, and focused in moments of great effort.
“Child mine,” the man said. “Come see what we have done.”
Foxglove moved without thinking, without knowing. She blinked and she was next to him, eyes drawn down to where his hands-
His hands-
She expected they would be working; whittling or sewing or braiding or doing some other worldly trade, bent over the workbench as he was, but his hands were destroyed, each finger bent in the wrong direction, several fingernails missing, and knuckles skinned raw.
“Ilmater’s ashes,” she gasped. The old man clicked his tongue. “Grandfather, your hands - I cannot offer much, but let me heal you, let me at least wrap the wounds and set the bones. You must hurt terribly,” Foxglove pleaded, already pulling her tunic sleeve to her mouth, clenching it between her teeth so she might hold it taut enough to rip strips of it off as makeshift bandages in this most horrid circ*mstance.
The old man laughed, a gentle sound. “They ail me no longer, child. See past my wounds - listen, and look,” he directed her.
Foxglove released her sleeve, and did as he asked, realizing she had seen his mutilated hands and nothing past them. Beyond his fingers, the workbench was a painting, textured dollops of paint creating a glorious, messy image of a hand gripping the Blood of Lathander; the macehead a great sun in a sky of gray clouds, the light and shadow moody blue and shimmering yellow.
Only it moved, changed, as she looked at it. The clouds began clearing; the blue and yellow shading became crimson and gold, with pinkish bright morning dawn streaks almost glowing against a lightening sky.
The hand holding the holy mace became bloodier, and bloodier, until it was only shades of rust-red, the knuckles painted white as the hand gripped the dull gold shaft of the Blood.
“Lathander thought to claim you,” he said fondly. “For none had offered in a century what you achieved in a day - none had walked into his most holy site and granted peace, finally, to his children. But you did,” the man mused. “I am only sorry you suffered so greatly in the process.”
The man shifted, his body now facing hers. Slowly, Foxglove looked up, glancing at his face for the first time.
It was a face she knew.
It was the face of her idol of Ilmater, only it wasn’t, because this face was smiling gently at her, free of sorrow, and her idol’s face was marred with pain and suffering.
As if on instinct, she closed her eyes, and looked at him through her magic, seeking the brilliant blinding godlight that would confirm what she knew in her heart.
Except there was no godlight, no anything - the same way the Crying God’s presence had been disconnected from her in Ironhelm’s prism.
A warm wind blew past her, soothing the first stirrings of panic and confusion. “Child mine,” the man crooned. “Fear not. You cannot sense me because I am in front of you, real and apparent. My realm, afloat in the Astral, would blind you, if I allowed you to see me through your divine sight.”
Crumbling, Foxglove fell to her knees before Him. “Martyred Father,” she heaved, hardly believing Him, or herself, or the world around her, but knowing, knowing it was Him. Foxglove kept her eyes turned down, vaguely noticing the length of His long robe, pristine against scarred and sun-spotted skin.
His bones creaking, Ilmater slowly knelt before her, His crooked limbs folding under Him.
“Faithful girl,” Ilmater soothed. “You need not fall before me. In service, as in death, we are all equal. Come, sit a spell with me. We have much to discuss.”
Foxglove rose, at first matching her Lord’s pace, but common sense won out and she stood with the swiftness her youth and able body afforded, and reached with gentle hands, laid upon Ilmater’s arms, to help Him rise.
Turning, He gestured to a wooden table that had not been there before, covered in parchment and broken quills. There were two hardback chairs next to the table, designed for stability and support more than comfort.
An interpretation of Ilmater’s will she’d long held, seeking strength in the security He offered rather than sinking into the soft comfort of His embrace.
Foxglove still had a hand on His arm, and Ilmater reached over to pat it. “I feel no pain, no weakness, here. This is my home. Your desire to escort this body is admirable, but unnecessary. Sit,” He directed, sweeping that hand out towards the chairs.
Foxglove, shocked silent in her awe, complied, though it grated not to help her Lord to His chair, not to bow and speak in deference.
Silently, Ilmater sank into the other chair, a tender smile on His face. His voice had that same genial tone it often did, like someone’s grandfather divulging childhood stories, but lacked the thousand screams of His suffering.
I feel no pain here, He had said. Foxglove could have cried in gratitude for the peace her Lord had clearly found here. This was His realm - Martyrdom, a domain for Ilmater and His faithful, and for martyrs He claimed from Kelemvor’s guardianship.
“I saw your torment, child,” Ilmater grimaced, and the expression tugged on a deep ache in Foxglove’s chest. “My instruction to break Rosymorn free of its captors caused you great anguish, and for that, I am sorry. I could not take it away from you - it fed your fury, and without the battle rush you would have fallen. But I was watching, and I heard your prayers, your beseeching cry. You begged my mercy, my forgiveness,” He murmured, frowning. “And yet I fear it is I who must beg yours.”
Foxglove could have laughed - she almost did, at the sheer absurdity of the statement.
“No,” she breathed. “No, You have blessed me in immeasurable ways, my Lord. You have filled my life with purpose, given me the strength to endure great suffering, and enabled me to ease the hurt of others. In return You have asked of me the most precious task of being Your justice, Your blade, and it is an honor I seek to fulfill with pride and joy.”
“And yet you question,” He replied quietly, quick as lightning. “Whether you should have died in Wisteria’s place, whether I would have seen you a better martyr than her, or preferred her service in my name to yours. My favor is not a competition to be won,” He chided. “Wisteria’s work was separate from your own, and your work in my name has evolved greatly over the last season. I am a tolerant man,” He smiled.
Foxglove privately thought it a false statement - Ilmater was far more than a man, and His tolerance was a divine aspect, expanded and strengthened in sacred magic.
“I welcome your doubt and your questions,” He continued. “How else do we shed the bonds of slavery? How can we undo the work of tyrants if we do not consider life outside of its demands?”
“You are no tyrant,” Foxglove protested, angry, pounding energy thrumming in her ears. “I am Your servant. It is my duty and my honor to carry out Your will.”
Ilmater hummed, not quite in agreement. He titled His head, considering her.
“My servant,” He repeated back to her. “A most faithful one, yes. And yet I require more of you.”
Foxglove waited in silence, unwilling to meet His eyes. What more could He ask of her, beyond what He already required? She had decided that morning to recommit herself to Him, no matter the cost. She wouldn’t have bound her hands, knelt in supplication and prayed if she did not wish to devote herself fully.
“The group you travel with is of great interest to the gods,” Ilmater said, tone contemplative. “Among your company is an Archdruid and favored servant of Silvanus, whether he knows it or not. Silvanus is of the hands-off type, predictably,” He said dryly. “An outcast Chosen of Mystra who carries a great and terrible artifact. A scion inheritor of Baldur’s Gate, cursed with great power by a petty but reasonably benevolent patron. An acolyte of Shar, stolen in the night from another’s service, as her mistress steals away all joy. A child soldier, raised to know neither gentleness nor love, suddenly torn from her pseudo-divine lich queen. And two others - their suffering greater than most could imagine - diverging towards optimism and cruelty in the process of shouldering those burdens.”
Foxglove blinked at Ilmater’s assessment. It was not incorrect, and she herself had pragmatically picked at the stories of each of her friends, seeking a common theme or throughline, anything that would link them together or to the illithid’s Grand Design.
“And then there is you, child mine,” Ilmater said fondly. “I mentioned before - Lathander sought to claim you, and Helm has his eyes on you now. You wear the Hellrider’s gloves,” He mentioned. “Traces of Helm’s protection remain, and your use of them has drawn his attention. The Hellrider who gave them to you has been hiding from his god,” He said offhandedly.
It was too much to process - by this count, three gods had taken an explicit interest in her, and then there was the Final Scribe, whom Ilmater had not mentioned. And her aside, Gale and Shadowheart were deeply involved with their respective gods, and if Ilmater was correct - of course He was - Halsin had the Oak Father’s attention.
And there, in the goblin camp-
“Yes, the gods all watch,” Ilmater agreed, nodding to her thoughts. He did not deign to say it out loud, but Foxglove understood then that nothing could be hidden from her Lord in His realm. “Loviatar sought to claim one of you for her own purposes, and your display of dedication to me was most frustrating for her,” He smiled, satisfaction evident.
That smile faded, though, as He continued. “The others - Bane, Myrkul, and Bhaal - I know not what interest they have in you, but the Dead Three are so named for a reason. I cannot imagine their involvement is benign, and where they seek to sow destruction and ruin, I must follow to ease the suffering of those harmed in their assault.”
At the mention of Bhaal, His evil followers responsible for the derailment of her life, nausea overtook Foxglove; sick with fury. Ilmater cast a sad look at her, and a glass of water rattled into existence on the table in front of her, as if set down with great force.
Gratefully, Foxglove sipped it, letting the cool water soothe the fire stoked.
“And your undead companion, whom I think needs no naming,” Ilmater said, His expression dark. “Interrupted your most holy sacrifice sanctioned by me. It was an action most grave, on his behalf, but his view of Fate is more complex and complete than my own. Though I do not encourage his intervention in martyrdom as a general rule, his desire to keep you living is welcome,” Ilmater admitted. “As I said, there is more to ask of you.”
A large swatch of parchment rose from the table, hovering as if pinned to a wall that wasn’t there. Foxglove looked it over, brow furrowing.
A printed map of Baldur’s Gate marked in red ink by a wavering hand - Ilmater’s own, shaky and weak, Foxglove realized, the dull ache thrumming again.
“Bhaalist activity,” Ilmater confirmed quietly. “Mostly murders. Of the same ilk you faced less than a decade ago. They have gotten brash,” He explained, expression slowly darkening and turning thunderously angry. The familiar rush of Ilmater’s rage rushed through her.
“You must end the Bhaalist cult and cut down whatever monster sits at its head. No mercy for them, no forgiveness. They are well past it, for the suffering and terror they continue to spread.”
He caught her gaze then, her mortal eyes captured by His own; divine, eternal anguish flickered there, for even if His own pain had cooled, He endured the suffering of His faithful, of everyone, of every kin and creed.
“End the Bhaalist cult, blessed child, and be Chosen.”
Foxglove stopped breathing.
The rush of her own blood grew in volume until it was a great roar, an unmatchable tidal wave crashing over her senses.
Chosen. Chosen.
In the way that things moved in Martyrdom, the table disappeared, and Foxglove was left sitting in that strong backed chair, her Lord kneeling before her, His broken hand stroking her face gently as He hushed her.
“Do not fear, child mine,” He murmured. “You will suffer, as you have. You will endure, as you have.”
Foxglove whined, the only sound she could think to make, at the wrongness of the Crying God kneeling before her as she sat. She moved to rise, and in one blink, stood in front of Ilmater, now also standing to His full height. Only His words from before, you need not fall before me, kept her from doing so again, in apology and reverence.
“I will end the Bhaalist cult,” Foxglove confirmed, an oath her Lord needed only to nod to witness, a pleased smile blooming on His face. “I am blessed to serve you so.”
“Faithful girl,” He praised her, His words a benediction.
I welcome your doubt and your questions, He had said. Despite how it curled knots into her stomach, Foxglove took a deep breath and continued, charging forward with her earlier unanswered pleas.
“How do I do both, Martyred Father? My friends - I promised them salvation, I promised it in Your name. I cannot abandon them to the mindflayer’s slavery or to the Absolute’s ruin,” she explained, fingers intertwined and pulling; a nervous habit.
“You need not worry,” He calmed her. Then, that ease and grace leaching from His face until only contemplative concern was left, Ilmater continued. “The Absolute is a rot that must be cleansed, though whether it is Divine remains unknown. There are others seeking that answer,” He frowned. “Whatever it is, it is an insult to me and my domains. It seeks to control, to bind, to shape others to its will through suffering and great torment, and it must be ended. I hold no forgiveness for the Absolute, and those who would embrace it to further its aims may receive my mercy, but do not require yours,” He admitted, though it pained Him. Foxglove could read the sorrow on His face, the strength it took for Him to condemn and condemn and condemn. How many were once His children, His fellow Divine’s children, stolen away by something in the darkest night?
“Follow the path as it leads you to Baldur’s Gate through Moonrise. I cannot see them, but I sense the Dead Three have left their stain there. If the Bhaalist cult has spread to Moonrise, it must be eliminated there, too.” Sighing, a sound so mortal it felt like whiplash to Foxglove, Ilmater brushed one of His broken hands across her brow.
“I will be close, child mine,” He smiled at her, indulgent and kind. “A new dawn comes. Pray for my blessings each morning, as you always have, and know you will endure. While there is life, there is hope.”
Foxglove blinked, a plea, a prayer on her lips-
And the thousand screams of Ilmater echoed past her as she opened her eyes, alone in the dark of her tent.
-*-
A couple of days above ground, eventful as they were, did wonders for the group’s mood, overall. Halsin’s gentle countenance - though always kind - seemed more easeful, at peace. Smiling, Foxglove busied herself by packing up her tent in the mid-morning sun.
It was to be a travel day. And for all the joy the surface seemed to renew in her companions, they all knew there was more work to be done in the Underdark, so back down into the yawning depths they were going. Foxglove’s tentative plan was to head back to the beach at the shores of that dark, haunting lake, see if either of the rafts there were still usable, and shuttle the whole lot of them across.
There was a feeling, in the back of her mind, that the way forward was across that lake, whatever the way forward was.
Not to mention the gnomes to save, an Absolutist to kill.
Foxglove thought grimly of the Absolutist Nere. She would end what terror he was reigning on the gnomes, provide justice for his decimation of the myconid, and with Ilmater’s blessing, she would have no mercy for him, as He held no mercy for the Absolute.
There was a slowly growing sadness and uncertainty in Foxglove, like an unfurling flower of pain under her sternum. Ilmater, her Martyred Father, the god of mercy, forgiveness, and compassion, patron of martyrs and champion of the suffering. The balance of things required His endless grace, a counterbalance to the Triad - Tor’s justice, Tyrm’s duty, Ilamter’s compassion.
But the balance had been swept askew, by the Absolute and, as Foxglove gleaned from Ilmater’s words, by the Dead Three, sneaking and plotting. Whether those were connected, Foxglove wasn’t sure - she had the sinking feeling she would find out at Moonrise, where the stain of the Dead Three lingered and the Absolute sat in its seat of power.
Foxglove woke that morning after her visit with her Lord. She felt the warm weight of Him, that winter cloak of protection and comfort He placed on her shoulders. He was watching, He was close, as He promised.
Her morning prayers continued - they would have, even without the Crying God’s direction - but there was a new aspect of her boon: the branded runes, Ilmater’s claiming, glowed rust-red lined in godlight gold at the edges, and granted her a new casting of Aid - more powerful than she could otherwise access, and only once, renewed with each dawn.
Foxglove had hesitated in telling her friends, unsure of the words one should use when sharing that a god granted her both blessing and quest, a promise of Choosing - but she didn’t have to say much.
Gale spotted the runes glowing around her wrists when she emerged from her tent after praying and receiving her new boon. Mid-bite, he spluttered at her.
“What are those? ”
Everyone’s heads had turned, eyes latching onto her, until one by one they found the rust-red glowing lines around her wrists, like light woven into her skin.
“Runes,” Foxglove responded, uncomfortable and unsure how to say, what to say, with so little context. “A gift from the Crying God.”
It was Astarion who spoke first, narrowed eyes deciphering the images on her skin. “Strength, protection, mercy, wisdom - how positively droll. I’m sure you love them.”
Foxglove couldn’t help but laugh, a cackling, full-throated noise, before with joy she explained Ilmater’s call to her - to go to Moonrise, to end the Absolute, to return to Baldur’s Gate, and finally - truly - end the Bhaalist uprising.
“A divine quest,” she’d murmured. “With a divine gift on the other side. As I offered myself to Him, He has claimed me His servant, but He promises another blessing - to be Chosen, if I succeed.”
“I knew it!” Gale had crowed, wagging his finger at her good-naturedly. “Not Chosen, she claimed. And now,” he sang at her, his own smile inviting hers. “Foxglove, Chosen of Ilmater. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Not yet,” she’d reminded him. “A quest first.”
It was Halsin’s sad smile that shook her from her participation in Gale’s excitement. He’d nodded slowly, an acknowledgement that he heard what Foxglove would not share: the Bhaalist cult, her greatest failure, presented before her with somehow - impossibly - more importance than before.
There was little else for them to do on the surface, so after a leisurely breakfast, they all broke apart, seeing to their belongings and packing up their material lives once more.
As Foxglove was tucking the edge of her tent into its fold, packed neatly down, she heard and felt the heat of Karlach approach.
“Hey, solider.”
Foxglove stopped what she was doing and turned her head to smile up at the tiefling. Karlach wore every emotion on her face, and in her voice, and Foxglove heard the waver of concern in her words.
“Karlach,” Foxglove said in greeting, offering her own friendly smile.
“Do you have a minute?” Karlach asked, fingers tracing the now-dulled broken edge of her missing horn. “Wanted to chit chat about something.”
Foxglove nodded, dropping gracelessly to the grass. “By all means, my friend. What is on your mind?”
“Right,” Karlach sighed, sitting with her legs straight out in front of her. Karlach leaned back on her forearms, turning her face to the sun. Foxglove watched as she basked - literally basked - in the light. Eventually, with a deep breath, Karlach cracked her eyes and turned her head to look at Foxglove.
“Any chance the Blood of Lathander is possessed or charmed to f*ck with the wielder? Because yesterday, I took the Blood with me to fight those undead, and I kept hearing these f*ckin’ birds,” Karlach groaned. “Wasn’t sure if it was all in my head, if maybe I smacked something a little too hard and concussed myself in the process. But I keep thinking of giving the Blood back to you and I just,” Karlach blew out a breath. “Can’t lie to you, mate, I don’t want to. It feels like it’s mine.”
“Well,” Foxglove said, throat dry. Well, indeed - the songbirds, the cry behind the Morninglord’s voice, pointed to an obvious answer. “I don’t think the Blood is possessed, so to speak. But I don’t think you have a concussion. Something much better,” Foxglove said, then frowned suddenly, wondering at Karlach’s past. “Or worse, depending. How do you feel about the gods?”
“Never been one much for worship myself, to be honest. Lower city kids like myself don’t have clean enough noses for most of the charity temples, but I wasn’t bitter enough to start praying to the evil ones,” Karlach snorted. “And I didn’t think anyone was going to save me from the Hells besides myself, so I didn’t bother praying.”
Biting her lip, Foxglove decided it was best to simply tell Karlach, and let the tiefling make of it what she would.
“I’m certain you’re hearing Lathander, the Morninglord. It’s His relic, and it was your prayer He answered, too, in the monastery,” Foxglove said slowly, keeping her tone even and light. “If the Blood calls to you, by all means, I will not part you from it.”
Karlach looked at her, bewildered. “Lathander? That was a joke of a prayer, and I don’t think I even knew anything about Him except for His name before a few days ago.”
Foxglove shrugged, considering the Morninglord’s domain and Ilmater’s words - great suffering, diverging towards optimism in shouldering that burden.
“I think you’ll find some gods do not care much for words of devotion, but rather for acts of devotion. He is the god of hope, of optimism, of new beginnings. Whether you meant to or not, you certainly live His ideals.”
Karlach still had that brow-furrowed, too-serious expression, so Foxglove softly laid her hand near Karlach’s, as close as she could get. “His attention is nothing more than an invitation. The Blood sings for you - it’s yours to use regardless of your faith. And Lathander is not an inpatient nor petty divine. Your choice remains yours,” Foxglove reassured her.
Karlach’s gaze drifted to the rust-red runes still glowing on Foxglove’s wrists. Self-conscious, Foxglove stiffened, unused to such blatant examination. But Karlach’s expression softened as she looked at the brand, so Foxglove sat still, resisting the urge to fidget.
“How does it feel?”
Huffing a laugh, Foxglove opened her mouth to answer - but halted, unsure. She’d been about to say something benign and inconsequential, but remembered Halsin’s gentle reprimand, about hiding herself from the others, about denying herself and in that way, everyone, from the kind of camaraderie that rescued souls from the darkest cages.
“It’s complicated,” Foxglove admitted, no more than a whisper. She smiled thinly. “I have known no greater honor and experienced no greater doubt. The quest He set for me is a righteous one, and I will be glad to complete it, but,” Foxglove paused, then groaning in frustration, abandoned eloquence. “The Bhaalists killed my sister. And I am a very unlikely Chosen for the god of compassion. It’s wonderful, and terrifying.”
Karlach snorted beside her, the tiefling’s own head lolling back, face back to the sun. “Sounds it. But I guess everything about our lives right now is that way. At least for me,” Karlach said softly. “Wonderful, and terrifying.”
They sat in amicable silence for a while longer, until Karlach rose to finish her own packing.
“By the way, soldier,” she said, her voice unusually gentle. “Just because you’re a mean bastard in battle doesn't mean you aren't compassionate and merciful and whatever else you want to be for your god. There's a give and take, you know?”
Karlach shrugged, a satisfied smile as she saw Foxglove flush and duck her head in acquiescence, a sheepish acceptance of Karlach’s assessment.
-*-
Foxglove stared at the dead drow, no sorrow, no mercy in her blood. Only Ilmater’s rage, strong as ever. Kneeling, she slipped a hunting knife from her boot and began the horrible work of separating Nere’s head from his spine, ignoring the slip of blood and the crackle of splintering bone.
Shadowheart’s hurried footsteps heralded her arrival.
“Who’s hurt?” she panted. Foxglove looked up at the half elf from her position on the floor, and nodded to where Wyll sat, breathing heavily.
“A good slice to the stomach, but he’s stable,” Foxglove said, frowning. “How did you-?”
“Gale sent for me,” Shadowheart snapped, sniffing primly. “You really ought to consider taking the healer with you, if you’re going to keep leading us into danger.”
Clenching her teeth, Foxglove went back to her work. “Your suggestion is noted,” Foxglove’s voice was even, apathetic. She didn't need Shadowheart to remind her of the weight of leadership - but it was Shadowheart’s way, to cut to the point.
“It’s good you’re here. Even with him healed, I’ll need you to swap in for Wyll. We’ve got some exploring to do, and I think you’ll want to see it.”
Shadowheart lingered for a second, and Foxglove felt the cleric’s cool fingertips brush over the back of her neck, a whispered te curo in Shadowheart’s voice.
“I was only kidding,” Shadowheart said, a reluctant apology. Foxglove felt the cold slide and raw aftermath of Shadowheart’s magic as it knitted the superficial wounds on Foxglove’s body.
“I know,” Foxglove murmured back, smiling to herself, still deliberately cutting at the drow’s body. “I wasn’t, though. Wyll needs healing, and then he can take this monster’s head back to camp, regroup, and meet with the myconid.”
Nere’s head finally snapping free, Foxglove stood, with grim pleasure. Shadowheart’s upper lip had curled just slightly, her mossy green eyes narrowed in distaste.
“There are Sharran relics, and I think you might like to see them for yourself.”
Shadowheart’s little gasp of excitement soothed some of Foxglove’s fury, and she found herself settling back into her body as her friends regrouped.
Dead duergar, a dead drow, and unfortunately, a dead gnome crowded the stone floor around her.
“Poor thing,” Foxglove murmured, walking over to the gnome’s little body. “May Ironhand guide you from Kelemvor’s custody,” she prayed, wiping ash and blood from the gnome’s face. “And if He should not seek you, I pray Ilmater sees your endurance through great suffering, and grants you life anew in Martyrdom.”
Foxglove grew very warm - impossibly warmer, differently warmer - already surrounded by flowing magma and hot stone. She knew it was Him, watching and listening as He promised he would.
Satisfied, Foxglove fisted her hand in Nere’s hair, careful to keep the drip of blood away from her borrowed breastplate. It didn’t belong to anyone in particular, but it could likely be sold later, so she did her best to keep it clean and in good shape. She was still searching for heavier armor to replace her damaged chainmail, but even looting the bodies of the duergar hadn’t given her anything new.
There were rumors, though, of a great forge, and Foxglove held on to hope she might find something worth salvaging in the ruin.
As it turned out, there was.
“That’s Lathander’s symbol,” Foxglove murmured, staring at the amulet lying on plush velvet in the chest. She cast a glance sideways at Karlach. “Unlike the Blood, this feels hurt. Do you want it?”
Karlach hesitated, but eventually gave a sharp shake of her head. “No, I like my one divine relic plenty, thank you,” she joked.
Shrugging, Foxglove reached for it, Ilmater’s runes flaring-
“You said it was hurt- ” Karlach’s panicked voice met Foxglove the same time her hand brushed the amulet, and all Foxglove wanted to do was laugh. Laugh, and laugh, and laugh, until nothing was funny anymore, and everything hurt.
The runes flared brighter, rust-red turning briefly all pale godlight gold, and Foxglove was back in her own mind, her own body, and she very much did not feel like laughing.
A spectral monk stood before her, his eyes crinkling with angry laughter. The crows feet and smile lines on his face were thick.
“Take me home,” he sang, unsettling laughter following his words. “Return me to my granddaughter, and thou shalt glow with blessings!”
“Brother, what has happened?” Foxglove murmured. She could see clearly he was suffering - a ghost, haunting this amulet, broken with laughter that held no joy.
“The Sharrans tried to ruin me, they did,” he said. Foxglove heard Shadowheart’s uneasy, sharp intake of breath. “Tormented me. But I laughed at the pain until I could laugh no longer. Is there an affliction more terrible than eternal joy? My blessing, and my curse!”
Foxglove winced. He might think himself laughing with joy, but it was suffering, plain and clear. “Ilmater would see you soothed, brother, if you pass to Kelemvor’s judgment. What holds you here?”
“Ilmater - yes!” he shouted, clapping his wrapped hands once. “My granddaughter, Shirra Clarwen, will see my spirit freed.”
Foxglove’s heart dropped into her stomach. Crying God, guide me , she thought, steeling herself for the news she would deliver.
“Brother, I cannot do that,” Foxglove said, tone soft and kind. “Sister Clarwen reached eternal peace in Martyrdom last year. She is with Our Martyred Father, in his realm, now.” Sister Clarwen was a novice cleric, a talented healer with the gift of deadspeaking, who passed last year at Open Hand.Her temple, if Foxglove ever chose to return to it.
The monk stopped laughing.
“Dead?” he whispered, and ghostly, ethereal tears sprang forth. “Dead? Then I am trapped, trapped, and none can help me,” he cried, laughter bubbling forth mixed with horrible sobs.
Foxglove reached out a hand, as if to comfort him, but paused. What could she offer the ghost of a tortured soul?
She didn’t need to make an offer, it seemed. Abruptly, the monk regained composure, a mean glint in his eyes, and he stared with crazed attention at Foxglove.
“You could bear my curse,” he crooned. “Shirra may not be able to, but I see your marks, Ilmatari. Wouldn’t that please your Broken God, to ease my suffering eternal? You could bear my curse,” he repeated. “Won’t you bear my curse?”
Foxglove felt Karlach shift beside her, hand drifting towards the Blood. It was wrong, Foxglove knew, to turn the Morninglord’s weapon on His own monk. And he was right - Ilmater taught His children to bear the suffering of others if they could. It was an easy choice.
“Of course I will,” Foxglove responded, smiling gently at the monk. “I hope the Morninglord grants you eternal peace in the stillness of dawn, in the hope of a new day.”
The monk disappeared in silence, disintegrating into an ethereal wind, and Foxglove felt that mad laughter again, that horrible suffering, spreading pain. Vaguely, she heard Shadowheart curse, holding Foxglove’s shoulders so she wouldn’t fall to the ground, spasming in her laughter.
Ilmater, the Lord on the Rack, Foxglove prayed, gritting her teeth. Grant me endurance to suffer this pain.
Her runes flashed white-gold, and everything was quiet.
A most holy choice, child mine, Ilmater’s voice whispered, His thousand screams a distant echo. The monk will find peace with Lathander at last. I will shield you from his curse.
His voice lingered, reverberating through the unearthly silence of the cavern, and then sound rushed back in-
And Foxglove was panting, but sane, and holding a faintly glowing, sun-warm amulet of Lathander.
“Well,” she choked. “That’s settled.”
-*-
Foxglove and her companions made their way back to the Grymforge’s dock on the Ebonlake, where they had left their friends earlier to explore the ancient stronghold. Covered in soot, dirt, and blood, Foxglove expected the cool looks of concern from those that stayed behind.
“Before anyone gets worried, no one’s hurt,” Foxglove smiled.
Behind her, Astarion scoffed. “Not anymore.”
Shooting a look that read not helpful at Astarion, Foxglove turned back to her gathered friends.
“We found an elevator,” she grinned, meeting Halsin’s concerned gaze. “I think it will lead us to the surface near Moonrise.”
Wyll whistled lowly. “Looks like you found more than a way out. Is that adamantine?” he asked, incredulous.
“Oh,“ Foxglove said, distracted. Tearing her eyes away from Halsin, Foxglove looked down at herself. She was dressed in impossibly light adamantine splint; their reward for defeating the ancient forge’s construct. “Yes. I needed new armor,” she said as way of explanation.
Grinning, Wyll shook his head. “A god’s blessing, mythical armor. What’s next? Become the hero of ages?”
“I hope not,” Foxglove snorted. “I’d be content with ‘slayer of the Absolute, defeater of the Bhaalist cult.’ You know, minor titles,” she joked.
It had been a good day. A hard day, certainly, but one with resounding success. The gnomes liberated, the Absolutist Nere defeated, the spirit in the amulet freed. New armor felt so inconsequential, next to the victories achieved.
And an elevator - unlocked, working, ready to take them above. One step closer to Moonrise, and to the Shadow Curse.
As her friends dispersed, seeking food and clean clothes, Foxglove beelined for Halsin, her excitement bubbling over the surface.
“Almost there,” she said in lieu of greeting. “Sit, eat with me. What comes next?”
Halsin stared at her with a reverence she’d never seen directed at her before. He gently lifted a hand to her face, fingers smoothing across her sooty cheek. His gentleness stalled her, bringing down her own excitement.
“Halsin?” Foxglove asked, unsure. She figured he would be excited, eager to move on to the Shadow-Cursed land.
“I can’t believe it,” Halsin whispered, still cupping her cheek. “It’s been so long - a hundred years of waiting, and finally the Curse is within my grasp.” He breathed a disbelieving laugh. “Amazing. You are a wonder, Foxglove. A wonder.”
Halsin’s hand dropped from her cheek to her shoulder. Blinking owlishly at him, caught in his gaze, Foxglove stood silent. Halsin pulled her in, then, to his chest, an arm wrapped around her tightly.
One of his hands pressed into the back of her head, holding Foxglove to him. Halsin's hand spanned the entirety of her skull, his warm, broad fingers gentle against her.
“I find myself in your debt again, my friend. I will see you cured. I promise,” Halsin whispered, his lips brushing against the crown of her head. Slowly, he released her, and Foxglove was relieved to see a glowing smile light his face.
“It is not a debt,” Foxglove said firmly, a smile softening her tone. “And the cure will come. I have faith.”
Halsin stepped back, extending a hand in invitation. “You should eat. We both should - we will have a long day ahead. The Shadow Curse is a wicked, draining thing, and I will not see you fall to it.”
It felt like an oath, a promise. Foxglove waited for the holy tautness, the divine grip of the gods pressing in, but it did not come.
The gods needn’t witness this one, she thought to herself. It was easy to believe Halsin, to trust him with herself, as she had always done.
