They sat together, side by side, on the beach. Shoulders touching, breathing together, it was as though they shared a heartbeat.
Emily had blond hair that she let fly loose. She was the type of woman who grew old like an oak, but stayed young like an acorn. Bridget had brown hair that she kept tied back in a ponytail. She was the type of woman whose age was just cresting, but her soul had already hit the shore. They shared the exact same birthday.
As they watched the sun set, Emily posed the question: “My dear, have your lips always looked so rosy and round?”
Bridget smirked, a look that made her soft face turn childishly devious. “My love, I do think that my mouth is the only part of me that you truly cherish.”
Emily gave a mock look of offense, her high cheekbones turning her grin from playful to wickedly crone-like. “Not at all, though your lips are quite plump.” She pinched the corner of Bridget’s mouth and tugged with an even hand. The lips ripped away from Bridget’s face with a sound of sickly suction, and Emily extended her tongue, catching them, then slurping them up in seconds.
“My dear, have you always had such beautiful eyes?” Emily continued, her own gaze holding her lover’s.
Bridget rolled her eyes, but still bared her teeth in a smile. “My love, is my attention the only thing you value about me?”
“Of course not, my dear,” said Emily. “Though, I must say, they are as dark as the earth after rain.” Her nimble fingers reached up, and quickly scooped out Bridget’s eyes, her nails breaking the wet suction. Gulping them down, she licked her lips in delight.
“My dear,” said Emily once more. “Has your nose always been so stately an artwork?”
“My love,” laughed Bridget, her eye sockets scrunching up with amusement. “Who nose what goes on in that head of yours?”
Emily laughed lightly, twisting her lover’s nose off with a pop. She swallowed this down in two bites, the cartilage crunching.
“Now now, my dear, you must ask me what is your quality that I hold in the highest esteem,” instructed Emily, guiding Bridget’s hands upwards.
“Alright then, what is my best quality, in your eyes?” Bridget asked, her fingers coming to rest around Emily’s neck.
“Your best quality,” Emily began. “Is your ability,” she continued, gasping. “To take my breath away.”
They left this world together, sharing blood and breath. That’s rather how they lived together, too. And they’d be back to do it again the next day.
"Flowers", a BG3 Shadowheart fanfic. Chapter 6: Blooms (final chapter)
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Also on AO3
The peppery, but still pleasant, scent of aging freesia fills the air in the flower shop. As you do one last walkthrough to make sure you’re not leaving anything behind, you smile as Harker, the new owner, busies themself with setting out more and more fragrant flowers. They’d answered your For Sale ad three days after you’d submitted it to the Baldur’s Mouth, and you’d been impressed with their plans for the shop. Today is their Grand Reopening, and it’s also your last day in the city.
After you and Shadowheart had reached your One Year Anniversary, it was clear to you both that your lives were meant to be lived together. She had asked if you’d felt like it was time for the two of you to leave the city, and you’d enthusiastically said yes. She had reached out to a druid friend, and he had gotten back to her a month later with the details of a cottage on the edge of a small town. It was then that you’d started to get your affairs in order, and had put out the ad for a buyer.
After you say your farewell to Harker, wishing them the best, you leave your key on the counter and step out onto the street. It’s overcast today, but you don’t mind; bright sunlight can be annoying to the eyes while loading crates and furniture into wagons.
You don’t have many belongings, and whatever you do have has already been gathered at Shadowheart’s flat. Walking in that direction, you listen to the sounds of the city, taking in the shouting and the laughing and the clatter of hooves and feet. It’s cacophonous, but despite the irritation, you find within yourself a small fondness for the hustle and bustle. Silently, you thank the city for what it gave you: An artistic outlet, a chance to connect with others… and a partner.
When you reach the flat, the moving wagons have already arrived with the crew you’ve hired to help. “Oh, do be careful not to hurt yourself,” says Mrs. Thomas, as Shadowheart hoists a crate into her arms. The cleric is wearing baggy pants and a sleeveless shirt with a leather vest, and your eyes linger on her slender but strong arms.
“Don’t you worry about me,” she responds. “I’m capable of a lot more than you might suppose.”
You approach and say with bravado, “Well, it seems like you all have this covered. I think I might just sit back and relax with a nice lemonade.”
Shadowheart slides the crate into a wagon, then turns to meet your gaze with wide, innocent eyes. “Oh, but you wouldn’t want a poor, weak thing like me to get overwhelmed, now would you?”
You laugh, and kiss her cheek. “Nice try, love.”
The two of you work with the moving crew to load up the wagons, and then after a tearful goodbye with Mrs. Thomas, you hop up into the back of one of them. “All ready?” Asks the driver, a half-orc with a winsome smile.
“Absolutely,” you respond, and as the driver snaps the reins and the wagon begins to move, Shadowheart turns your head to plant a soft, lingering kiss on your lips. “What’s that for?” You ask, slightly dazed.
She shrugs. “You’re very cute when you’re all sweaty and tired.”
You laugh. “And probably smelly, too.”
“Well I wasn’t going to remark on that, but now that you mention it-”
Giggling, you cut her off with another kiss. Then, catching sight of where in the city you are, you pull away. “Look, it’s the cafe! Goodbye!” You call out to the wait staff who are serving the customers seated outside. Shadowheart waves, and they all turn to wave back. You two had had your last date there a few days ago, and you had brought the owner an arrangement of sunflowers and light blue delphinium, with green hypericum berries and white daisy mums to fill it out.
You gaze at the city around you, waving at people and places you recognize. It takes some time, due to traffic jams and scampering pedestrians, but at midday, you reach the edge of the city, pass through the various guard checkpoints, and set out on the open road.
Once you’re far enough away, you cup your hands around your mouth and shout, “Farewell, Baldur’s Gate!”
If your dialog feels flat, rewrite the scene pretending the characters cannot at any cost say exactly what they mean. No one says “I’m mad” but they can say it in 100 other ways.
Wrote a chapter but you dislike it? Rewrite it again from memory. That way you’re only remembering the main parts and can fill in extra details. My teacher who was a playwright literally writes every single script twice because of this.
Don’t overuse metaphors, or they lose their potency. Limit yourself.
Before you write your novel, write a page of anything from your characters POV so you can get their voice right. Do this for every main character introduced.
This is legit good writing advice, especially the first bullet point! In playwriting class we did a bit where every bit of dialogue had to be an accusatory question and it was glorious.
please please please please reblog if you’re a writer and have at some point felt like your writing is getting worse. I need to know if I’m the only one who’s struggling with these thoughts
Hey I have good news for you!!! Actually two pieces of news, because this symptom could be indicating one of three potential diagnoses. (Preface: I am a professional fantasy author and I have been published more than a dozen times. I have also taught creative writing at the university level and am REALLY good at it. I know my shit and I have seen your problem a thousand times.)
FIRST POSSIBLE DIAGNOSIS:
This one happens to me all the time. If you feel like your writing is getting worse, that might mean you're at a "plateau" stage in your development of technique execution, but you're in a "growth" stage in your development of your technique perception! Because they alternate!
When you're in the phase you're in now, you have all the "omg my writing is garbage" thoughts, but those are not true. Your writing is the same as it was last week. However, your ability to see it and analyze it is getting better -- and that keener perception is why it SEEMS to be worse. It isn't, I swear.
When it's the other way around and your execution is in a growth stage and your perception is on a plateau stage, that's when you have all your "omg I'm a supergenius? Omg *I* wrote that? fuck yeah im a god of writing" moments (and if you haven't had them yet, that's ok, they'll come, be patient with yourself).
Either way, this is a normal part of the growth process. It's like the ache of sore muscles after you've gone to the gym for the first time in a while, that's all. Your muscles will hurt less as you get stronger, and then you'll add more weight or more reps to your exercise routine, and you'll be sore again until your body catches up. It's just that when that's happening in your brain, it's a lot harder to set the "muscle ache" aside, because your brain's only way of expressing discomfort is to gnaw miserably on itself and make you have sad thoughts.
Prescription: Have a cup of tea or whatever small treat you like best, and be gentle and patient with yourself. It's gonna be ok. Try to consciously notice and appreciate some of the things you've measurably gotten better at and give yourself a deliberate, intentional, conscious pat on the back for it. (I have ADHD, so my brain doesn't want to give me the reward chemicals automatically; I have to trigger it manually by saying aloud "I'm really proud that I accomplished this." YMMV.)
SECOND POSSIBLE DIAGNOSIS:
This one also happens to me all the time. Oftentimes when I have the "my writing is getting worse" feeling, it is a signal from my subconscious that the story is going in the wrong direction -- that is, a direction which doesn't satisfying to me, or that I'm not interested in, or that leads the characters in a direction that I don't like, or that leaves a glaring plot hole that I haven't noticed consciously yet... All manner of small, fixable problems. This usually happens after I have ignored the earlier warning signs, which start with feeling a bit bored of the story but trying to push through, and then go to a vague dissatisfaction that I ignore. The end result of this is frequently outright burnout or writer's block, so the better you get at noticing those early warning signs, the faster you can address them and nip the problems in the bud. Problem is, being able to do this and use your feelings as a useful tool to flag burgeoning story problems only comes with practice.
Prescription: Do the practice. When you start having those fidgety, restless feelings, try to notice what you're feeling before it gets to the "this is garbage and I hate it" stage, and then sit with that feeling. Instead of flinching away from it and hiding from the scary feeling, turn towards it with compassion and curiosity. Ask it questions like, "Hmmm, what SPECIFICALLY is garbage about it? What would make it more fun and appealing? Is there anything I'm missing here?" Your brain may initially try to continue the tantrum of "No, it's bad, it's just all bad, there's nothing good about this, it's horrible, and therefore I'M horrible" but you're gonna need to address this with all the kindness and patience that you would give a cranky toddler. Let it wriggle and cry, and just continue being curious and trying to get it to use its words to express what the problem is. Eventually you'll stumble on SOME kind of answer, and then YAY THAT IS A THING THAT CAN BE FIXED. Oftentimes when it happens to me, I have a reaction that's sort of like, "Oh! Duh! I forgot [XYZ thing]! That was a silly mistake, haha, no wonder I'm grumpy about it. Glad i noticed it now." The answers you stumble on might be things like, "I don't like mystery novels but I seem to be accidentally leading myself into writing one, whoops" or "It is so out of character for this person to be reacting that way, I need to rewrite this scene" or "I'm feeling bored, I would have put the book down by now if I were a reader; how can I jazz it up?"
THIRD POSSIBLE DIAGNOSIS: (kind of a really specific subset of the Second Possible Diagnosis, but it is SO COMMON for both experienced writers and apprentice writers that it gets its own section)
Your book might be having problems with tension.
Tension issues account for 99% of all book problems. It's like sewing machines?? You know how all sewing machines have the devil in them, and if you try to sew and your thread gets tangled and fucked up on the bottom, that's because the tension has gone weird, so you have to try rethreading the machine and wiggling the tension knob a bit to make it stop? Like that.
Prescription: If you are having the "this shit sucks" reaction, stop immediately and check your story tension. Are there stakes? Do they MATTER DEEPLY to the protagonist? Can they be raised? Can they be endangered? Does a new problem need to be introduced, or an existing one made worse? TENSION TENSION TENSION TENSION. There are a thousand ways of raising tension, and I cannot list them all here. When my tension is right, I almost never have the "this sucks" reaction, because I am in that document doing my job with ruthless efficiency. The SECOND it goes wonky, I have a crisis of confidence and a small tantrum and I sink into my Desponds. Every single time. It has gotten to the point where I have trained my closest friends to say, when I slide into their DMs to complain about my book: "Oh, this part. Past!Alex told us to give you a message. [checks notes] Message reads, 'bitch, is it a tension problem'" whereupon I subside, chastened, and say, "....yeah probably."
CHECK YOUR TENSION, IT IS PROBABLY FUCKED UP. How do I know? Bc tension wants very badly to fuck itself up if you're not keeping an eye on it. Same as sewing machines having the devil in them.
"Flowers", a BG3 Shadowheart fanfic. Chapter 5: Growing Pains
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Also on AO3
The next four weeks have you walking on air. Filled with gentle touches and kisses on her fingers, face, and forehead, you find yourself expressing a side of your emotions that rarely sees the light. Shadowheart seems to have an anxiety around affection, both showing and receiving it, but she works hard to overcome this with small, consistent gestures. While going on walks, she loops your arm with hers, and her visits with you increase to twice a day. She even brings in books that she’s reading and shares passages that she thinks you’ll like. This makes you blush quite often, and you admit that her voice is one of your favorite things about her.
Today, it’s your one-month anniversary, and while your brain is telling you not to get too mushy, your heart is tempted to try your hand at poetry. Adjusting your clothes in your mirror, you hope that your outfit is fancy enough for the restaurant you’ll be meeting Shadowheart at this evening.
You leave for the restaurant, feeling both nervous and excited. Upon arriving right on time, you give the host your name for the reservation, and are seated at a table for two in a window bay. Since you got here first, you take the time to look over the menu and order the bottle of wine you know she will like the best. Then you wait.
And wait. And after the first thirty minutes, you begin to get anxious. You wonder if she maybe got the time wrong. You have a glass of wine to try and calm down. Another half-hour passes, and your anxiety turns to worry. After waiting another fifteen minutes, you pay for the wine, trying not to let the server’s sympathetic smile get under your skin. Then you step outside into the cool evening air, taking deep breaths, tears pricking at your eyes.
Should you go to Shadowheart’s flat? Maybe she’s sick, or something happened to her. She seemed alright yesterday… Maybe you’d said something and she was angry with you?
Deciding that you should check on her, you make your way over to the building where she lives. The landlady, Mrs. Thomas, opens the door when you knock. “Hi there Mrs. Thomas, do you know if Shadowheart is in?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll go and check for you,” she responds, inviting you into the parlor. “I say dear, are you alright?” She adds upon seeing your red eyes. You give a short nod, but don’t trust yourself to say anything. “Well, I’ll just head on up and check.”
Mrs. Thomas is a kind old woman, and Shadowheart had been glad that you two had gotten along when she’d first introduced you. You three had taken tea in this parlor, and you had gotten the sense that Shadowheart considered the old woman as not a landlady, but a friend. Now, you sit and try to breathe deeply while taking in the various artworks and dried flowers that decorate the green-wallpapered room.
You make a mental note that you would like to bring a custom dried bouquet for the short terra cotta urn that sits on a windowsill. Something with elegance, like pale pink roses, but also something with whimsy, like white veronica. Silver coin eucalyptus would drape nicely, and would match the cool tones of the-
Mrs. Thomas shuffles back into the room, and you stand quickly. “Shadowheart is here, but she’s, ah, in a bad way,” she confides somberly. “She didn’t say why.”
Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re climbing the stairs to the third floor and knocking on Shadowheart’s door. “Hey, it’s, uh, it’s me,” you call softly.
You hear movement, then a beat of silence, then, “I’m afraid I’m rather unsightly right now.”
“Well I can close my eyes if you’d like,” you respond.
You hear her give a quick huff of amusement, before she says, “I’m sure you look wonderful. I look like a mess.”
So she hadn’t forgotten about your date. “I’d offer to take off my fripperies, but I doubt Mrs. Thomas would appreciate a nudist in her hallway.”
This gains a full laugh from her, and you hear the locks click open. Then Shadowheart is standing before you in a gray nightgown, her silver hair hanging tangled and mussed around her torso. Her face is red, puffy, and streaked with tears, eyeliner smudged around her lids. Upon seeing your outfit, she tries for a smile, but starts to cry again as she says, “I was right, you do look wonderful.”
You’ve seen her anxious, annoyed, concerned, and downcast, but you haven’t seen her cry before. Carefully, you step into the room, closing the door softly behind you. Then you reach out for her, offering to hold her but still not sure if you’ve caused her some pain.
Shadowheart immediately draws close to you, burying her face in your shoulder as she sobs. Your arms wrap around her, one hand placed gently on the back of her head. You feel her sobs shake her body, and you carefully guide her over to her couch so you can sit together. Gradually, as you stroke her hair, you feel her breaths begin to slow, and her body begin to relax.
When she raises her head again, she says, “I’m so sorry, this is very unfair of me.”
You furrow your brow. “There’s no need to apologize, Shadowheart, you’re clearly going through something.”
“Yes, but I- today was supposed to be-” she looks like she’s going to start crying again, but taking a deep breath, she instead says, “Today is our one month anniversary together. But yesterday was… was the anniversary of my parents’ death. And I’ve been so caught up in how happy I am with you, that I… I forgot.”
She had told you about how Shar had offered her a deal, to either keep her parents and live with pain, or live without Shar’s constant presence, sacrificing her mother and father for peace. Having chosen the latter option, she didn’t live with guilt, per say, but you knew the emotional wound was just as painful as her physical one had been.
“I didn’t realize that was something I could forget, and now I’m scared that I’m turning into someone I don’t want to be,” she continues, gripping your hands. “I don’t want to be someone who just doesn’t care about those I’ve lost!”
“Whoa, slow down,” you say gently, rubbing your thumbs on the backs of her hands. “You clearly do care, otherwise you wouldn’t be this torn up about it.”
“But how can I be sure that I won’t forget other important things about my loved ones? What if I end up forgetting our anniversary? What if I forget a friend’s birthday, or a special occasion?”
You detangle your fingers and instead take her face in your hands. “Shadowheart, forgetting doesn’t mean you don’t care. We all forget things, and I don’t think your parents would fault you for finding happiness.”
She looks at you with wide, desperate eyes. “I don’t want to forget anything. Shar forced me to give up memories for so long. I can’t forget, not again.”
You nod. “Then I’ll help you remember. We can put together a planner of important dates, and make scrapbooks of important moments, and- and keep mementos and trinkets and the like. And most importantly, I’ll remind you not to hate yourself, because you’re allowed to make mistakes.”
Her panicked expression softens, and she asks hesitantly, “You’re not angry with me?”
“Not at all. I was anxious, mostly. I worried I had done or said something to upset you, or that something had happened to you.”
She takes one of your hands and kisses your palm. “I’m sorry-” she starts, but cuts herself off and starts again. “Thank you for being so understanding. You mean so much to me, I…” She takes a deep breath. “I love you.”
The joy you feel is different from the elation you felt upon your first kiss. This joy is sturdy, wide, a strong feeling that fortifies your bones and confirms what you already knew deep inside. “I love you too,” you respond, seeing relief and happiness spread across her face.
Then you both start upon hearing a knock on the door. “It’s only me, dears,” says Mrs. Thomas, voice muffled through the wood. “I’ve brought you some tea, I thought it might do you some good.”
You get up and open the door, taking the tray with the teapot and two cups from her hands. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Thomas,” you say with a smile. “This is just what we needed.”
The old woman nods, smiling, and heads back downstairs. You turn to see Shadowheart cleaning off space from a low table in the middle of the room. Her flat is large, but is separated into different rooms with partial walls, meaning that the layout is a little limited. When you set the tea tray down, she says, “Collecting memories with you sounds lovely, but I’ll need a bigger flat if I’m to be able to store all of them.”
“Or we could get a house,” you venture carefully. “Not now, obviously. But I’ve been thinking about how much we both dislike the city, and I think having our own space would be very helpful.”
Her eyes light up at this suggestion, and she sighs and says, “Yes, I think I would like that very much.”
"Flowers", a BG3 Shadowheart fanfic. Chapter 4: Buds
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Also on AO3
The following few weeks, you and Shadowheart meet nearly every day for lunch. Sometimes you converse non-stop, losing track of time and having to run back to the shop to make sure customers can pick up their orders. Other times, you both fall into a comfortable silence, watching the people and animals that wander past, enjoying each other’s company as the hour passes.
After about a month has passed since first meeting her, you decide to pluck up the courage to tell her how you feel. Unsure of how, exactly, to go about this, you wrack your brain: flowers are the obvious gift, but would it mean less coming from someone who works with them every day? Maybe some chocolates, but suddenly, you’re having trouble remembering if she prefers the milk, dark, or white variety. Briefly, you wonder if you could find a bard for background music before you meet with her in an hour.
As you wipe down your front counter, pondering the best way to romance Shadowheart, you hear the door open. In scurries the object of your affection, dripping wet, clutching a disintegrating paper bag. “You would not believe the amount of bad luck I’ve had,” she huffs as you rush to bring her dry towels.
“I take it we’d need a rowboat to get to the cafe?” You ask, suddenly unsure if you are allowed to help her dry off. You know you share emotional closeness, but physical closeness is not something you’ve been brave enough to venture towards.
She trades you the paper bag for a towel, her fingers brushing yours. You could swear that lightning strikes wherever her skin makes contact. “Hence why I attempted to outpace the storm and bring our pastries here. I’m afraid that they may be soupier than is traditional.”
“I happen to like soup,” you squeak out as she begins to undo her braid. Both the rain and her arrival have thrown off your plan of taking her for an afternoon walk, after everyone has returned to work and the streets aren’t as busy. It couldn’t possibly be romantic to ask her to be your beloved while she’s soaked through and standing in a dirty flower shop… right?
She quirks an eyebrow at your joke. “You are very adorable. But I would never ask you to eat these; I’ve had better meals in the underdark.”
Your breath catches, but your brain is already moving too fast to fully take in the fact that Shadowheart called you adorable. “I can run out and grab us something, I have an umbrella, you can stay here and dry off, I’ve got a change of clothes in the back that you can borrow,” you ramble, scurrying to the back, setting the wet bag on a table, and grabbing a pair of loose pants and a button up shirt from a closet.
When you turn to walk back towards her, you see that she’s followed you, and that her silvery hair has turned a beautiful shade of gray, its dampness never changing how breathtaking she is. “Here you are,” you say, offering her the clothes. “Sorry I haven’t got any dry underwear for you. Not that I would normally!” You add quickly, then realize that was probably an odd thing to say.
She steps closer, takes the clothes, then steps closer again. You’re suddenly very aware of the closet door behind your back, and though she’s not exactly an imposing person, you find that her energy has all but enveloped you. “I have a speech all prepared,” she begins, “because I’ve got an awful lot to say. But I’m afraid it’s going to come off as rather cheesy, so I need you not to laugh at me.”
After shaking off a few moments of shock, you say, “Of course. But you know, I think a cheesy speech would still be pretty gouda.” At her one raised eyebrow, you add, “Okay, okay, sorry, you’ve just got me a little nervous here.”
Shadowheart takes a deep breath, and then begins. “Over this past month, I’ve come to value your friendship. For a long time, I worried that no one would see me beyond who I was during difficult times. I’m no longer a Sharran, and being a ‘hero’ isn’t exactly a personality trait. But you have made me feel seen, as a person. You’ve made me feel wanted, like I belong. Which is why I’d like to ask if… if you’d like to, perhaps, consider being, ah, more than friends?”
She finishes her speech, and looks at you with eyes full of anxiety, but also full of hope. You remind yourself to breathe as her words sink into your mind, and you feel your heart swell with elation. “If you’d rather not, that’s alri-” she starts, but you cut her off by pulling her face to yours and kissing her. It’s a bit of an awkward kiss, as you’re a bit out of practice, but when she leans into it, you know that it’s been a long time coming.
The dry clothes fall to the floor as she wraps her arms around you. Shadowheart is still very damp, but you don’t mind at all. The warmth of her body- of her soul- is more than enough to make up for the chill.
"Flowers", a BG3 Shadowheart fanfic. Chapter 3: Stems
Part 1, Part 2
Also on AO3
The dinner went so well that, upon your return to your home after saying goodnight, you were surprised that you hadn’t felt scared at all. You hadn’t been overthinking, or fighting with your inner critic, you had simply enjoyed Shadowheart’s company. It was like you two had always been friends. You assume that Shadowheart had felt the same way, as she had accepted your offer of meeting the next day for lunch.
Just as you step out of your shop and lock the door for your lunch hour, you hear Shadowheart’s soft voice say, “You know, I’m quite flattered you’d spend your precious break with me.”
Turning around, you say, “Normally, I just spend it behind my counter, hoping no one comes in while I’m eating. This is the first time I’ve taken a proper lunch break in, well, probably months.”
“There ought to be laws about overworking yourself,” she says, pretending to be stern.
You offer her your arm; she pauses momentarily, then smiles and takes it. You both begin a leisurely stroll down the street.
In response to her comment, you say, “Well then, you should get into politics. You’d be beloved by the people if you got the city to enshrine lunch breaks in law.”
“Yes, and beloathed by all their bosses, I’m sure,” she quips.
“Always a gray cloud to a silver lining,” you joke, but notice her easy expression falter a bit. “Not to say that you’re not right,” you add quickly. “The shop owners in this city can be ruthless.”
“I’ve been told I can look at life from a… negative perspective,” she says carefully. “That I see everything as ‘glass half empty’. But I tend to view myself as a realist, not a pessimist.”
You consider this, then respond, “I think that everyone sees themselves as realists. I don’t think anyone considers themselves either a pessimist or an optimist, because everyone has led such different lives, and ‘reality’ means something different for everyone. My lived experiences will be different from yours, and that means we’ll just see life differently.”
“But no one’s experiences can be deemed more important or dire than anyone else’s,” she says emphatically. “That’s something I learned from my time with my friends- the other heroes of Baldur’s Gate, if you will. We each had our burdens to bear, but it was never a contest. Instead, we learned to help each other.” She pauses, embarrassment showing. “Sorry, I suppose that was a bit of a tangent.”
“I like your tangents,” you reassure her. “I like- I like a lot of things about you. Sorry if that’s cheesy, but it’s the truth.”
“Well, I happen to like cheese, it pairs nicely with wine,” she says without missing a beat.
You happen upon a cafe, and agree that it would be nice to sit outside with some drinks and pastries, and as you enjoy your lunches, you realize that you wish you could do this with Shadowheart every day. But you hold that back, keep it in your heart, afraid that you’d be moving too fast if you told her that.
Your discussion turns to animals. “I’ve always had a fondness for nocturnal creatures,” she says, “but I’ve been learning more and more about the daytime ones. During my travels, we’d run into ones of various sizes and friendliness. Some of them needed healing, which really pushed what I could do, with regards to my healing magic.”
“Is that the main type of magic you use?” You ask. “I don’t really know much about spells and such.”
“Yes, that’s what I was taught by- what I was taught growing up,” she responds, and you note the unease that has crept into her voice. Then she sighs, and says, “I should probably come clean about this eventually: I used to be a Cleric of Shar. It wasn’t my choice, but I still… upheld their beliefs and teachings. I’ve said some terrible things, turned a blind eye when my fellow cultists would honor our dark lady.” She says these last few words with strong contempt, a frown overtaking her entire face.
You let this information sink in, sipping your tea. The chatter of surrounding couples is slightly comforting, but mostly distracting, and as you set your cup down, you say, “I appreciate your honesty. Did you want to go somewhere more private to talk about it? Growing up like that can’t have been easy.”
You see her eyebrows jump up in surprise. “I- I wasn’t- I mean, we can wait ‘til another time to discuss-” She stammers, trying to find the right words. “I figured I should tell you so you wouldn’t feel like you’d wasted your time, when you inevitably found out later on. There are a lot of negative stories about me, if you read the right tabloids in this city. People love to dig up the past of anyone who gets a moment of fame.”
You tilt your head. “So you’ve thought about us spending more time together?” The grin that crosses your face is less teasing, more mischievous. When her face turns pink, you continue in a more serious tone. “In all honesty, I’ve heard of Sharrans, like most people. But you said you’ve turned over a new leaf, and that it wasn’t even your choice to begin with. When you’re comfortable, I’m open to hearing about your struggles, and about how you’ve grown as a person. But you don’t need to feel pressured to share what you don’t want to.
“As for tabloids,” you shrug, and take another long sip of tea, feeling it start to grow cold. “I always trust actions more than words.”
You try not to stare as she turns your words over in her head. When she bites her lip, you can tell she’s making a decision. Finally, she says, “I used to find… comfort, odd comfort, in pursuing what Shar wanted for me. It felt like a purpose, even when the other Sharrans were cruel to me, or when we were instructed to be cruel to others.
“And then I met my friends, and so many more people on our journey to Baldur’s Gate, and I realized that life had so much more than just… navigating sorrows. I realized I could live. And now,” she chuckles lightly, “I don’t know what living looks like for me. I don’t have any instructed purpose, other than honoring Selune, and it’s frightening. It’s frightening not to know my place in the world. But it’s also very exciting, to know that I get to choose my own purpose, now.”
“That’s wonderful,” you say genuinely. “And thank you for trusting me enough to share. Shar didn’t know what she had.”
“Oh, on the contrary,” Shadowheart quips back. “She knew exactly how perfect and special I am, and I rather think she was a bit of a sore loser.” She cracks a smile, but there is a hint of sadness to it.
You raise the last of your tea. “Well then- to the people who treat us the way we deserve.”
“Here here,” she agrees, raising her own cup and clinking it against yours.
Inspired by the song "Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers.
Pairing: Shadowheart/Tav
Rating: General Audiences
Words: 263
Tags: Werewolf!Shadowheart, Hurt No Comfort, Angst
Also available on AO3
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
Shadowheart still can’t bring herself to spend the full moon with you. It’s only two days and three nights, true, but it feels like an eternity of darkness without her each time.
It's not warm when she's away
You’ve been together for a year now, and though you’ve provided comfort and love- and, yes, the basics like food, water, and a hot bath for when she returns from her transformation- she still sees her time as a werewolf as a burden to bear alone.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
If her father hadn’t been taken from her, he would have been able to guide her through her transformations until she was no longer afraid of them. Unfortunately, from what you can tell, Shadowheart’s time spent with Shar had damaged her tether to the moon. Her time spent in the dark goddess’s shadow had all but severed her familial connection with Selune, and now that she is free, her adjustment seems to be taking a toll.
And she's always gone too long, anytime she goes away
Shadowheart is always appreciative of how you treat her when she returns. No matter how weary she is, she always gives you a smile and a soft Thank you when you wrap a blanket around her, feed her warm soup, and then tuck her into bed so she can regain her health. A year of showing your love for her, but she’s still never felt like she can show this side of herself to you. You wonder if she ever will.
"Flowers", a BG3 Shadowheart fanfic. Chapter 2: Roots
Part 1
Also on AO3
The sky is turning orange when you close up shop the next evening and head for the Tabernacle. You have one of each of the flowers that Shadowheart picked, wrapped up in simple brown paper, tied with twine. You figure that if Selune required fancy offerings, she would have become goddess of the moon and money.
The streets are loud, always. People laugh and cry and shout and there never seems to be a moment’s peace. You know that the noise is good for some people, that the allure of the city calls to a certain type of person. But you also know that you are not that type of person. What you’d said to Shadowheart about a garden had been true, but only a peek into what you truly wanted out of life.
You step into the Tabernacle and let your eyes adjust to the dimmer light; while not exactly gloomy, the inside of the Tabernacle is a lot less bright. The stone buildings and streets of Baldur’s Gate tend to reflect the sunlight back up at your eyes, and you constantly feel like you’re squinting when you’re walking about during the day.
There are many statues of various gods, and you nervously realize that you don’t really know what Selune looks like. Taking a deep breath, you approach a nearby Cleric and say, “Um, hi, I have an offering? For Selune? Do you know…” You trail off as the Cleric nods and quickly directs you to a shrine in front of a relatively plain statue.
Ordinarily, you don’t pay much attention to gods, as they haven’t paid much attention to you. As you set your bouquet on the shrine, however, you can’t help but feel like you should say something.
Sneaking a glance around to make sure no one can hear, you look up at the statue and say quietly, “Thank you for sending Shadowheart and her friends to save the city.”
After a moment of quiet, you turn to leave, not really sure if you’re supposed to feel any different. There, in the doorway, the sunset turning her silver hair into a halo, stands Shadowheart. You suddenly feel like you’ve been caught doing something unscrupulous, even though everyone is welcome to come into the Tabernacle.
She catches sight of you at the same time, and- to your relief- smiles. As she approaches, you see that she’s wearing a light dress, lilac in color. “Well, I didn’t expect to find you here,” she says, tilting her head.
“I- you said something about Selune blessing me, so I figured I should come pay respects,” you stammer. “You’re a hero, after all.”
Shadowheart rolls her eyes, sighing lightly. “I prefer the term ‘unwitting champion’, but thank you for the compliment.”
“Do you at least get a hero’s salary?” You joke.
“No, but I do get unlimited vacation time,” she replies, taking your humor in stride.
“And what do you do with all that free time?” Hoping she’ll take the hint that you would like to spend more time with her, you replicate her head tilt.
Shadowheart pauses for a moment, her eyes searching your face. “Cooking, caring for houseplants… Spending time with friends. Can I count you among those?”
You shrug. “I’ve never been called a houseplant before, but there’s a first time for everything.”
For a moment, you think she might hit you for making such a silly joke, but then her glower is replaced by a reluctant smile. “You think you’re quite clever, don’t you. I mean, you’re right, but still.”
“Well, I think I should take any opportunity to make you smile,” you reply. Then, taking a chance, add on, “It’s such a pretty smile, after all.”
She raises her eyebrows, surprised, but not upset. “Clever and charming? I can’t help but feel there’s some dark secret you’re hiding.”
You shrug. “Honestly? I think everyone has some darkness in them. This world is a hard place to live in. But I don’t consider my darkness a secret. It’s…” you pause, looking for the right description. Catching sight of Selune’s statue, you say, “It’s like the moon. The moon has a dark side, and at different times, it is greater or lesser than its light side. But it is still the moon, regardless of how much light or darkness it shows.”
You look back at Shadowheart, and see her gazing at you with a mixture of hesitance and hope. “Would you like to get dinner with me?” She asks, her voice tinged with anxiety.
You smile and nod enthusiastically. “I would love to.”
You got a rug designed to look like an Ouija board as a gift. Liking it, you placed it in your living room. Now your roomba’s summoned a demon and it can’t leave until the roomba asks for something.
"Well, uh, his name is Pumba- Pumba the Roomba- and.... I guess he wants something to clean?"
The demon thinks for a moment, then sprinkles what you can only assume to be ashes from the fires of hell into Pumba's path. The little machine whirs gently as he sweeps up the ashes, and for a moment, you feel relief, hoping that the demon will now return from whence it came.
Then Pumba's low battery light glows- no, not just glows, shines- with an orangey redness that seems to flicker like a flame.
"I believe congratulations are in order. Though I have never before seen a transformation such as this."
"What are you talking about? What did you do to my Roomba?"
"He cleaned something from the pit that I call home. He is now Pumba the Roomba the Hellhound."
"Flowers", a Baldur's Gate 3 fanfiction. Chapter 1: Seeds
Part 2
Also on AO3
Summary: You're working as a florist in Baldur's Gate when you meet one of the heroes who saved the city. After the first conversation with her, you can't get her off your mind.
Tags: Selunite Shadowheart x Reader, fluff, cottagecore, wholesome, post-game, gender neutral reader, flowers, florists, reader is not Tav!
The bell on the door jingles as another customer enters your shop. Wiping the plant matter from your hands, you set down your knife on your worktable and turn to greet the lovely woman. Taking in her long, silver hair, her short, pointed ears, and her sweet face that is marked with freckles and one, long scar across her nose, you feel a flush come to your cheeks.
“Hi there, welcome to Feisty’s Flowers,” you say, hoping your smile doesn’t come off as too intense. You always tend to overthink your interactions with pretty people.
She tilts her head slightly, her lips smirking playfully. “I don’t suppose you would be Feisty?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Feisty is unfortunately no longer with us. He’s not dead, mind you, just retired in the countryside somewhere.”
“Lucky him,” says the woman. “One day, I hope to do something similar. City life is nice enough, but I need some peace and quiet.” You can’t help but think of how silvery her voice is, how pleasant she is to listen to.
“Maybe I’ll join you,” you say jokingly, but, realizing how that might come off, add, “in leaving the city, I mean. There’s no room for proper gardens here.”
“Oh, and that brings me to my visit here,” she responds. “See, my favorite flowers are night orchids, but I live in a flat and so I can’t grow them. I was wondering if you could make me a bouquet with similar flowers? It’s a rather specific request, I know.”
You nod, having seen a few paintings of night orchids. “If I remember correctly, they’re a darker purple color? Almost blue? Or were you wanting a variety of ordinary orchids? In which case I have a few types you can choose from…”
You set to work, showing the woman the different buckets of flowers you have available, and as you do, you see a cautious smile grow over her face. She asks occasional questions about lifespan and proper cut flower care, but mostly listens intently as you explain what you can do.
“How long have you been a florist?” She asks after you explain the differences between dendrobiums (a genus) and mokaras (a hybrid).
“For a few years now. My dad was an artificer, so I grew up tinkering and using my hands to make things, but I always had an eye for more colorful pursuits.” Memories of your time putting scraps of metal together to make artistic collages make you smile fondly.
“Well, you’re definitely well-versed,” she praises. “Do you have a favorite flower to use? Or does it change day by day?”
“More like mood by mood,” you say with a hint of cynicism. “For instance, if I were to deal with a particularly rude customer, my go-to would be limonium, as it smells like feet when it gets old.”
She laughs lightly, hiding her mouth behind her hand. You notice a small, dark spot on the back, and wonder if it’s a birthmark. However, you’re more taken with the sound of her giggle- airy, but with a sharpness behind it.
“For average customers, I’ll try to use carnations,” you continue, enjoying the conversation.
“That’s… interesting,” she remarks. “I thought carnations were associated with funerals?”
“They can definitely be useful for funerals, but that’s due to their longevity and resilience,” you explain. “Carnations come in a wide variety of colors, and they’re very sturdy and long-lasting. They’re…” You pause, searching for the right word. “Reliable.”
The woman is quiet for a moment, and you hurriedly ask, “Why are night orchids your favorite?”
A look of quiet sadness passes across her face for a moment- a look that you are very familiar with, as customers often come in for flowers to place on graves. “They remind me that beauty can exist in even the darkest of places.”
Now it’s you who is quiet, and she shakes her head. “My apologies, that got a little morose there.”
You shrug. “I’ve dealt with all sorts of things in the flower business. People think it’s all bright and cheerful, but there’s a grounding factor of sorrow, of reality.”
“And of rude customers?” She teases, quirking an eyebrow.
You laugh. “Yes, exactly. So, back to your arrangement.”
The woman finishes choosing her flowers- purple lisianthus, dark blue delphinium, green cymbidium orchids, and various greens- and you arrange them in a clear glass vase for her. When it comes time to pay, she hands over the few silver pieces, and says, “Thank you for your help and expertise. And for the conversation. It’s hard to connect with people in a city where everyone is going about their business so quickly.”
“I agree, it was lovely to meet you, um…” You trail off, realizing you never got her name.
“Shadowheart,” she introduces herself.
You give her your name, and she says it once, before saying, “May Selune light your evening,” and leaving with her flowers.
Once she’s gone, you begin cleaning up the loose stems and petals left behind from the arrangement. But you can’t help but feel like you’ve heard the name Shadowheart before. Eventually, it dawns on you: she was one of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate, who fought and defeated the illithid attack. You shudder as you remember how you and as many people as could fit inside your store had barricaded your doors and hoped for help to arrive. You had never been sure how much time had passed before the streets had been declared safe again, but your anxiety had made it feel like ages.
Regretting that you hadn’t had a proper chance to thank Shadowheart for everything she’d done, you decide to pay a visit to Stormshore Tabernacle tomorrow, to leave an offering for Selune.
Pro-writing tip: if your story doesn't need a number, don't put a fucking number in it.
Nothing, I mean nothing, activates reader pedantry like a number.
I have seen it a thousand times in writing workshops. People just can't resist nitpicking a number. For example, "This scifi story takes place 200 years in the future and they have faster than light travel because it's plot convenient," will immediately drag every armchair scientist out of the woodwork to say why there's no way that technology would exist in only 200 years.
Dates, ages, math, spans of time, I don't know what it is but the second a specific number shows up, your reader is thinking, and they're thinking critically but it's about whether that information is correct. They are now doing the math and have gone off drawing conclusions and getting distracted from your story or worse, putting it down entirely because umm, that sword could not have existed in that Medieval year, or this character couldn't be this old because it means they were an infant when this other story event happened that they're supposed to know about, or these two events now overlap in the timeline, or... etc etc etc.
Unless you are 1000% certain that a specific number is adding to your narrative, and you know rock-solid, backwards and forwards that the information attached to that number is correct and consistent throughout the entire story, do yourself a favor, and don't bring that evil down upon your head.
"Two centuries later" just triggers a mental note to check if timing is consistent throughout the book, because it may mean more time jumps are ahead. "200 years later", or heaven forbid, "201 years later" will have me draw up a time line. The more specific the number, the more critical people become.
actually i think i might have an explanation for this from linguistics? i think folks get more nitpicky if you have specific numbers because of gricean maxims, specifically the maxims of quality and quantity
basically gricean maxims are a set of guidelines that we all carry in our heads that we expect other people to follow when having a conversation in good faith - i’m copying and pasting definitions from someone else because my attempts at summing up quality and quantity weren’t going so hot
The maxim of quantity, where one tries to be as informative as one possibly can, and gives as much information as is needed, and no more.
The maxim of quality, where one tries to be truthful, and does not give information that is false or that is not supported by evidence.
so basically, when you put a rough number in a text, people think subconsciously ‘oh, the exact number isn’t important, because if it was they would tell me an exact number, so i don’t need to worry about this’, whereas if you put something precise in, people’s brains go ‘wait, they think i need to know this information so i’ll remember it, but now it’s later and they’ve said something that contradicts it, so at least one of those times they were lying and i must figure out which time it was’
