#astreamofstars

[blackjackkent]

I've lived in this cess-pit longer than you've been alive. We can compare stinks, if you would like?

[blackjackkent]

Happy birthday, @astreamofstars ! 🥳🎉Many happy returns!

In celebration, I give you a collection of smiling and joking Jaheira. :D

[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask meme: THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL SENTENCE STARTERS. Jaheira & Karlach: "We were just talking about you."

-----

"Come here, Mattis," Jaheira calls across Last Light's dimly-lit tavern hall.

The tiefling boy jumps at the sound of his name, and then his shoulders square and he juts his jaw out defiantly, staring back at her. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it!" he says promptly.

Jaheira's lips twitch. "You are not in trouble. Come here; I wish to speak with you."

She studies the boy as he approaches her. Mattis is one of the oldest of the ragtag little group of orphan children that arrived at Last Light with the tiefling refugees. He's also one of the most brash, having set up a little shop of sorts at the front of the inn and spent the last few weeks bawling city-huckster patter at every Harper who wanders by.

But Jaheira is no stranger to lonely children. She can see the hollowness behind his cocky grin, the uncertainty that he thinks he is not showing.

He reminds her of Fig, in the days just after Minsc first brought her to the house - brash and loud and terribly scared. But that is not a memory that bears thinking about, when she will very likely never see her children again.

"It is all right, cub," she says quietly as he comes to a halt in front of her desk. "You need not look so poised to run."

He gives her a wary squint, scuffing one ratty boot against the inn floor. "What d'you want?"

"These newcomers," she says. "Carlisle and his companions. You know them, yes?"

He grunts. "Yeah. Saw 'em at the Grove. Stuff Mol said's all true - they helped us out. Fought goblins and that." He relaxes a little, lounges back on his heels with a smirk. "Nice enough. Carlisle's a big bloody nerd."

"Mm. Yes. I believe you are right about that." Jaheira smiles crookedly.

Her instinct is to like Carlisle, but he is a bit of a puzzle. He and his companions carry illithid tadpoles, the same as those carried by the Absolutist True Souls. By all rights she should have simply ended him at the gate and let the gods sort it out.

But he drank her truth serum willingly. He carries subtle marks of Selune on his robes and answered her questions with a placid steadiness that reminded her more than a little of Rasaad. Mol, the scruffy little leader of the tiefling refugee children, even vouched for him.

All of this serves to make matters... complicated.

Malar's mark, she thinks sardonically. What I wouldn't give for an uncomplicated matter - just the once. Perhaps it would be easier if the worm had simply done its work entire and chewed his mind to pieces. At least then it would have left me with no questions.

She raises an eyebrow at Mattis. "But you spoke to them just now, to his friend with the broken horn?"

"Oh, yeah." Mattis brightens up, the grin on his face turning abruptly more genuine. "That's Karlach!"

Yes, she remembers Carlisle mentioning this name. In spite of her bulk and muscle, the hulking tiefling woman had seemed remarkably nervous to speak to Jaheira. Yet another who has heard too many tales mangled by tavern bards, no doubt. "And what do you know of her?"

"She was in the hells with us." Mattis leans into the story with relish, crossing his arms over his chest. "She fought for Zariel, killing demons and all. She was so cool! This one time, we saw her square off with a barlgura--"

Jaheira blinks. "She is a member of the archdevil's forces?"

"Yeah-- well, was. She got away, like we did." Mattis shrugs. "Guess she's fighting for Carlisle now." He snickers. "Guess he's probably a better boss. You see the way he was looking at her?"

"Mm."

"We all wanted t' be like her. Wouldn't have t' be selling all this junk, then." Mattis jerks his head to indicate the shelf full of knickknacks behind him. "Nobody'd ever mess with us. Bam, pow--" He mimes punching the air in front of him. "Right?"

"No doubt," Jaheira says.

Mattis opens his mouth to continue - then gives a startled yelp as a hand claps down on his shoulder.

Karlach is standing just behind him, her eyebrows knitted questioningly. "Not bothering the High Harper, are you, Matty?" she says lightly.

"No!" He wrenches his shoulder out of her grip with an indignant scowl. "She wanted to talk to me!"

"I did," Jaheira puts in. Karlach is so tall that she too has to tilt her head back a little to meet the tiefling's eyes. "We were just speaking of you, actually."

Karlach's eyes widen visibly, and she gives a quick double-take around her, as if to check whether Jaheira is speaking to someone else. "Me, ma'am?"

"Yes. The boy was just telling me that you have had your own escape from the hells not so long ago." Jaheira folds her arms, meeting Karlach's gaze steadily. "That is no mean feat."

"Oh-- no. I mean, yes, ma'am, I did, but uh--" Karlach has gone abruptly several shades darker. "It was nothing. I mean, compared to everything you've--"

"Karlach." Jaheira's smile fades and she looks at the younger woman more soberly. "I have been to the hells. I do not say this idly. I know that it is a dark, brutal place - and I know that not many escape its clutches."

Karlach hesitates, then seems to deflate a little. "Thank you, ma'am," she says softly, staring down at the crumpled map on the table between them. "It, uh... well, yeah, it sucked shit, ma'am. No other way of saying it."

Jaheira barks a sudden, soft laugh. "Well said indeed." She shakes her head, looking Karlach up and down. "It is a hard thing for you, I think - to have escaped the clutches of one such as Zariel only to be infected with an illithid parasite."

Karlach grins ruefully. "Yeah, that's me, ma'am. Can't catch a break. But... well, if it means being able to see the stars again, and roll around in the grass and flowers and breathe the fresh air, then I'd take a hundred tadpoles. That makes it all worth it."

She pauses, looks over her shoulder. "Well... it did until we got here, anyway."

Jaheira follows her gaze towards the entrance of the inn, and the darkness of the twisted landscape beyond it. "These lands have little to recommend them over Avernus, it is true," she agrees. "Reithwin was once a land of rolling hills as bright as any in Faerun. But those days are past, and I do not know if they will ever return."

She considers a moment, then lifts her hand towards Karlach. Green-gold light swirls over her palm, slowly resolving itself into a large flower with thick, tiered petals mottled in white and deep crimson. "Here. Flowers such as this grew here in the days before the war," she tells Karlach gravely, holding the flower out towards her. "A taste only of what once was, but better than nothing."

"Whoa." Karlach reaches out, her long fingers surprisingly delicate as they take the flower from Jaheira. She stares down at it with the air of a lost traveler sighting water in the desert, and for a moment, Jaheira thinks she might be about to burst into tears. "Thank you, ma'am."

Jaheira snorts. "Mm. Do not thank me yet. The task I have for you and your companions is not one I would wish on anyone," she says. "I am not sure that a flower and kind words will be nearly enough payment for all you have gone through, in the end. But... for what it is worth..." She smiles crookedly. "You are welcome."

-----

Tag List: @eluvisen @krawwan @marigoldbaker @thedarkstrategist @writer86

@scribblingface @yeehawitsjakee @wrenthedruid @redfoxwithaccount

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[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @astreamofstars for this ask meme: dialogue prompts for ~injury~ Jaheira/Khalid: “You did so good. Don’t worry, you-you did so good.” Nice touch picking the option that had a stammer in it. ;) Despite the prompt list, I didn't end up going in an injury direction with this; this made me instead think of another scene I've had in mind for them for quite some time. XD Considered a couple possible settings but went with... very late Siege of Dragonspear.

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Jaheira leaves the party early, and Khalid follows her not long after. He suspects that Caden and the others won't stay much longer either. The other members of the coalition army are all carousing, drinks in hand, cheering and singing at the tops of their lungs in celebration of their victory -- but it isn't really their victory at all, in truth, because none of them went to Avernus. None of them went to the Hells and faced down one of its strongest devils in order to end Caelar Argent's bloody crusade.

Khalid and Jaheira, and Caden and the others of their little band... they did go to the Hells, and they have no energy left for celebration. All they have is exhaustion, and maybe a touch of heatstroke. Khalid can feel the weariness in every muscle, with every step he takes away from the shouts and singing.

"J-Jaheira?" he calls softly as he ascends the stairs.

The coalition has taken over Dragonspear Castle to rest and recuperate, including the long line of abandoned servants' quarters lining the upper floor of the south wing. Despite the battles that recently shook the place, it's still surprisingly comfortable. The stone of the stairs gives way to a plush runner carpet stretching the length of the hall, burgundy red and soft under his boots.

Silence. He calls again. "Jaheira? M-my love?"

The silence is broken by a single, strident wailing sound that echoes weirdly along the high-ceilinged corridor. A cat's meow, raspy and a little broken in the middle, trailing off into a soft trill at the end.

Khalid smiles to himself, following the sound to the open door at the far end of the hallway. "W-w-well said," he murmurs, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

The cat in question is sitting curled up on the bed. This instance of Jaheira's wildshape is a large, dark grey specimen, fluffy, with subtle tabby patterning and a long, distinctive stripe of white layered through the fur of her tail. She's curled herself into a small, rectangular sort of shape, all four paws tucked in beneath her, and watches Khalid intently, her large golden eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.

Khalid gives her a tired smile, crouching down so that he sits at eye-level with her. "Well, y-you look very comfortable, my love," he says, gently teasing. "I b-believe there was fish at the party downstairs. Had I known, I would have b-brought you some."

He has seen this happen before. On particularly long, particularly hard days - or days when she has been forced to put up with too many foolish people - Jaheira has a tendency to slowly withdraw into herself, growing surly and taciturn or simply silent. And often in the wake of such days, Khalid ends up finding her afterwards in one wildshape or another, armed with teeth and claws against the otherwise inescapable demands of the world.

Privately, he thinks in this she is the luckier of the two of them. He can think of many, many days in his life when he would have liked to be able to change his form and cut off the expectation of conversation entirely. As it is, this is Jaheira's domain - but it does always draw a small smile to his face to see it.

It is not really like properly being with his wife as herself, but after so many years together, he has learned how to see her within many shapes, and know that her soul is near him regardless of the form it has taken. And he knows the trust she shows in him, to put herself in this vulnerable and soft form, and hide away from the world at his side. He is generally the only person she wants to have near her in these moments of retreat, the only person she will suffer to touch her, hold her, when life has left her too overstimulated or irritated for anything else.

The cat chirps, blinking slowly at him, and then hisses playfully in response to the teasing. But she never takes her eyes from him as he walks around the room, shutting the drapes and extinguishing the torches one at a time.

When he sits down on the edge of the bed, jostling the mattress as he begins to remove his boots, she shifts her weight and then gives a slow, comfortable stretch, first forelegs, then back legs, her fluffy tail lashing side to side.

He looks sideways at her and raises an eyebrow with a grin. "M-my apologies," he murmurs. "D-d-did I disturb your rest, my lady?"

The cat trills again; she stands up on her back legs and puts her paws to his shoulder, bearing down all her slight weight against his torso to nudge him to the side. He laughs softly and acquiesces, kicking his boots aside and stretching out comfortably on the soft, downy mattress.

Without hesitation, Jaheira clambers fully onto his chest. He grunts softly as her weight presses unevenly across his ribs, but she settles herself quickly enough, turning in two quick circles and then curling up with her head tucked beneath his chin. He lifts his arms up to steady her in place, running his fingertips slowly along the thick fur of her back, and immediately she begins to purr, a low rumble like distant thunder that resonates all through him.

"There. Make yourself comfortable, d-darling..." he murmurs. "It has b-been a long day indeed..."

Involuntarily, he shudders as the memories flicker inescapably through his mind. The flames of Avernus, and the devil's mocking laugh, and the battle that followed as the forces of the Hells pressed them almost to the breaking point.

"But we triumphed..." he goes on softly, half to himself, half to her. Jaheira gives a thick, sleepy purr of affection in response. "We triumphed... and the crusade will not take another life." He smiles slightly. "Nor will that devil, now that you have finished with him."

It was Jaheira who sank the final blow into the Belhifet's chest, ending the demon's reign of terror and freeing his prisoners. Khalid remembers watching her withdraw her scimitar blade from the steaming flesh, boiling blood, and the exhaustion that swept through them all like a physical blow as they realized it was over.

Small wonder that she has retreated into cat form now. Small wonder that none of them had the energy for carousing downstairs.

"You were amazing, m-my love," he whispers, scratching gently between her ears and down the fur of her neck. "Y-you-you did so well... and now we c-can rest."

Jaheira squirms against him gently, extending one paw so that it bats gently against his cheek. He smiles, letting his eyes drift half-closed. Already, that rumbling purr and the soft warm weight of her in his arms has him feeling drowsy and comfortable, truly safe for the first time in several weeks.

"We will take a p-p-proper journey, just the two of us, somewhere far from here, with no c-c-crusade to get in the way..." he murmurs sleepily. "No more d-devils... no more war... just quiet. Just quiet, and you, and me..."

-----

Tag List: @scribblingface @writer86 @thedarkstrategist @marigoldbaker @krawwan

@eluvisen @justlet-melive

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[blackjackkent]

Ask prompt fill for @astreamofstars for this ask meme: Questioning Sentences, Vol. 33 Jaheira/Khalid - "Are you getting my wife into trouble?" Like I said - I had a more comedic idea for this which I'll probably also write, but here's some Harper-era dramafluff first. :D

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The blade presses low and tight against the curve of Jaheira’s neck. The assassin smiles coldly. “Not so tough now, are ya, Harper?” he hisses.

Jaheira remains perfectly still, her eyes flicking around rapidly as she examines her position. 

The assassin is a sallow half-elf whose ice-blue eyes are almost obscured by the overhang of his hood. His dark cloak melds him with the shadowy night around them; Jaheira can see the subtle outline of a winged serpent embroidered in his tunic. Zhentarim, then.

She should really have been expecting this, in light of the smuggling operation they just broke up near Waterdeep. It was the largest nest of Zhent they've rooted out in some time and (she sincerely hopes) crippled the group’s slaving operations for the immediate future - but a noise that big doesn't go unnoticed by the sort of people who have sharp knives and are ready to use them. 

And this Zhent knows his business, that’s certain. His weight is carefully distributed across his feet while keeping her pinned to the tree behind her, and the knife is positioned to give her little room to maneuver. He deliberately waited until she had no energy left for a wildshape, and even if she did, she’s not confident her enemy wouldn't be anticipating it. Her pulse quickens with sudden adrenaline as the reality of the danger sets in.

“You have the advantage of me, it seems,” she says, deliberately keeping her voice even and conversational so as not to betray any fear.

The man's smirk deepens unpleasantly. “That's the idea. We know all about ya, y'know… Jaheira. Know ya put together that raid on our people last week. So I've got some payment I need t’ extract.”

If she can just get leverage with one leg, she twist out of his grip… but no. He senses the shift of her weight and moves almost automatically to counterbalance it, his knee shoving against her hip. 

She sighs and swivels her head carefully, trying to look past his shoulder. 

He snorts. “What're ya lookin’ for, girlie?” he asks mockingly. “Gonna call down a flock of birds? Like I said - we know all about you. Why d'you think I chose this moment t’ drop in? I know you do your scouting alone.”

One of Jaheira's eyebrows quirks up and she finally can't help it. She grins. 

“Your information is out of date,” she says.

The Zhent's eyes bug wide and he cries out in startled pain as a heavy boot kicks the back of his knee, staggering him off-balance, followed by a gauntleted sucker punch at the small of his back that stuns him briefly to immobility. Khalid, surging out of the darkness, gets one arm around the man's neck and yanks him backwards; with his other hand, he strikes the Zhent's wrist, knocking the dagger out of his hand. 

“Oh, my,” he says as he hauls the Zhent backwards, giving Jaheira room to slip free of the wall. His voice is almost casual - but Jaheira knows him far too well to be fooled. She can hear the ice in it, and the way his usual nervous stammer has hardened out in the moment of crisis. “Are you getting my wife into trouble?” 

Jaheira snorts. “Getting himself into trouble, more like,” she says, dusting herself off. “Once again we are underestimated.” She clicks her tongue with mock-disappointment. “The last time he will make that mistake.”

“Let me go!” the Zhent growls, his voice strangled by the pressure of Khalid's arm on his throat; the stunned moment is fading and he starts to struggle fiercely in Khalid's grip. 

“As you wish,” Khalid says mildly. With a sharp jerk, he releases the other man and at the same time twists sideways so they're facing each other. Before the Zhent has time to react, Khalid lands a punch directly between his eyes; his head snaps back and he goes over like a felled tree, hits the dirt, and is still. 

Silence, and then the chirp and buzz of insects reasserts itself around them. Jaheira relaxes with a low chuckle. “Well struck.”

“Are you hurt, m-my love?” Khalid asks, turning to face her. His eyes trace searchingly over her from head to foot, looking for signs of injury. 

She smiles affectionately, hearing his stammer return as the moment eases. “I am fine. He had no chance to truly strike me. Besides…” She scoffs dramatically.” I could have handled him.”

“I've n-n-no doubt of it, Khalid says earnestly. “All the same, I'm g-glad I was here.”

“As am I.” In spite of her airy manner, the pulse of adrenaline still sits heavy in her throat, and she takes a few steps closer to him automatically, slipping her hand into his. The warmth of his palm is grounding, comforting. “Much easier with two.”

He lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Then he crouches down to begin rifling through the unconscious man's pockets. She raises an eyebrow, seeing that he is grinning giddily to himself as he does so. 

“And just what is that look for?” she asks, amused. 

His head ducks and he gives a sheepish little chuckle that is just this side shy of a giggle. “M-my wife,” he says. “That was the f-f-first time I c-could call you m-m-my wife on a mission.” He looks up at her, his eyes bright and dancing in the dimness. “It f-f-felt wonderful.”

The adoring expression on his face sends a full-body shiver through her. “It did, didn't it?” she murmurs. 

It's still so new, with the wedding only a week behind them. In many ways nothing has changed, but that strange and everpresent delight still lingers in the back of her mind. And it spikes up in little bursts at the oddest times - a word, a glance, a touch, anything that reminds her that the bond is made and she has him for the rest of their lives. 

She ruffles his hair where it peeks from beneath his helmet at the base of his neck, and is gratified to feel his subtle, eager squirm at the touch. “Well then, my husband,” she says with a soft laugh. “Let us get back to camp. Though what a pity we must have an unexpected guest interrupting our privacy for the evening.” She nudges the unconscious Zhent with her boot toe and rolls her eyes. 

“Of all his c-c-crimes, that is surely the m-most grievous,” Khalid says, and laughs. 

[blackjackkent]

Ask prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask meme: Light and Dark Metaphors Jaheira/Khalid - "ships in the night" This is a prequel to one of the longer J/K fics I've been working on. :D Perhaps it will help me with motivation to get that done eventually.

-----

“No, no,” the Rashemaar tells her cheerfully. “He is a miniature giant space hamster. The name is most clear, is it not?”

Jaheira squints, peering at the small, furry rodent in the man’s hand. It stares back at her with beady, intelligent eyes, casually licking its paw to wash its face. “...Perfectly,” she says dryly.

She cannot quite figure their new traveling companions out. Well - Dynaheir is not so much of a mystery; she is stern with an almost regal air, and not (or at least not yet) much given to casual conversation, but Jaheira can understand that well enough. She herself is not generally voluble with strangers.

But Minsc… Minsc is a puzzle. She was, at first, utterly convinced that he was having a laugh at her expense, with his hamster and his odd manner and his habit of hurling himself directly at any enemy they encounter with a loud cry and remarkably little concern for self-preservation. But as they have traveled on together, she is starting to realize that he is, in fact, just like that.

The hamster is a strange one, too. Despite surreptitiously casting a spell for animal speech on herself, she cannot get a word out of it; it just stares at her with those beady little eyes and then scurries up and down Minsc’s arm.

The whole thing has her deeply on edge - more so than she already was just by virtue of accompanying the two near-children from Candlekeep who make up the rest of their party. When she and Khalid departed on this Nashkel fact-finding mission, they had not expected to end up gathering strays along the way. It makes things far more difficult…

“Minsc would ask if Jaheira also keeps an animal,” Minsc continues with that air of affable good-humor, seemingly unperturbed by Jaheira’s evident confusion. “But Minsc has seen the truth. In battle, Jaheira holds all manner of animals inside her!”

“...That is one way of putting it.” Jaheira has to admit she has never heard wildshaping described quite this way before.

“Boo wonders if you have ever turned into a hamster,” Minsc says eagerly.

“Well, he may continue wondering.” Jaheira sighs. It is not really Minsc’s fault that she is stuck on guard duty with him. This was, in fact, Dynaheir’s request - that the watch be split so that at least one of the pair of Rashemaar travelers be awake at all times. Jaheira can even understand why; in Dynaheir’s place, she would not offer full trust immediately either.

But if she has many more nights spent with only Minsc, followed by an empty bed as Khalid takes his shift, she might quite possibly go mad.

“Are you and Dynaheir… attached?” she asks carefully. Perhaps, if the answer is yes, there might be hope that this state of affairs will not last long. 

“Minsc is very attached to Dynaheir!” Minsc replies jovially. “By oath and by word - and by spell, at times, when Minsc becomes lost and must be dragged along. She is Minsc’s wychlaran, his witch, and Minsc shall follow her until he dies or the dajemma is complete, and see she comes to no harm.”

He squints at Jaheira curiously. “Is this what you mean by attached?”

“It is not. But never mind it,” Jaheira says, with a sort of weary resignation. She tilts her head, peering past the veil of leaves above them to judge the moon’s position. “It grows late enough,” she adds. “Go wake your… ‘witch’, and I shall wake my husband.”

Without waiting for a response, she trudges towards the edge of camp and the familiar, battered tent that she has carried since before she and Khalid even met. Poking her head inside, she nudges gently at the pile of blankets on the bedroll.

“Khalid?” she calls softly, her voice far gentler than it was in talking to Minsc. “Wake up, my love.” The blanket emits a drowsy groan, and she smiles to herself. “You are called to the watch, Harper.”

“B-be damned to the watch,” Khalid mumbles, muffled from within the bunched fabric.

Jaheira climbs fully into the tent, reaching under the blanket until she finds her husband’s hand and squeezes it tightly. “Shall I tell Dynaheir she shall watch alone?”

“N-no, no, I am up. I am up. I d-do not dare annoy that woman, I th-th-think.” Khalid sighs and sits up, coming fully into view as the blankets fall away. His hair is tousled and messy and his eyelids are still heavy with sleep - but his expression brightens as he catches sight of her face. “A k-kiss before I go?” he asks as he begins to clamber past her towards the tent flap.

As if she would deny it. With the current state of things, this is the only proper moment of privacy she and Khalid are afforded; it feels like clinging to water dripping rapidly out of her hands. She doesn’t even waste time answering, just cups his face in both hands and kisses him so fiercely that he overbalances and falls into her embrace. 

One of his arms locks around her waist with eager, thrilling strength, catching him in the fall, jolting their bodies together. He is warm from the blankets and his embrace feels welcoming, safe, wonderfully familiar.

“My love…” she mumbles. She rests her hand for a moment against Khalid’s chest, feeling the beat of his heart under his thin shirt. 

He brushes his fingertips against her lips, his eyes bright in the dim light of the fire outside. “Good night, d-darling,” he murmurs. “I will see you soon.”

Then, reluctantly, he draws back and disappears outside, leaving her alone in the tent. With a soft groan, she heaves herself onto the bedroll, stretches out under the blankets, breathes in the scent of him left behind.

She is struck for a moment by visions of a hundred nights in their past journeys traveling alone. It all seems so much simpler by comparison; there was nothing to distract them from each other, no orphaned young wards in need of her protection, no strange new companions carrying hamsters in their pockets. 

Grumbling low in the back of her throat, she rolls over and pulls the blanket around her. Perhaps we must simply settle this business in Nashkel, she thinks. And then matters will return to normal…

[blackjackkent]

Another answer for one of @astreamofstars 's prompts from this ask for this ask meme: Kiss Roulette.

"33. A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking - Lae'zel/character of your choice"

Some context-less Shadowzel from Act 3 after the House of Grief, bc I haven't fully figured out how to include them in Rakha's playthrough yet. XD This is my first attempt at writing this pairing; hopefully it scans well! :D

-----

“Do you wish me to call you Jenevelle?”

Shadowheart peers out from her tent at Lae’zel sitting by the fire. “Why would you ask that?” she snaps irritably.

It’s not a fair response, and she knows it as soon as the words are out of her mouth. To her credit, Lae’zel doesn’t flinch from the moment’s sharpness, but answers in kind. “A thing true across all planes, I find, istik, is that most prefer to be called by their names.”

“It’s not my name. My name is Shadowheart.”

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.” Lae’zel looks over her shoulder to meet Shadowheart’s eyes. A slight pause. “I am not your enemy… Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart lets out a heavy breath and her head ducks. “No,” she says. “No, you aren’t.”

She should know better, really. They certainly began as enemies, but so much has changed. They have suffered so much together. They have stood side by side, watching their religions burn to cinders in front of them, and found each other amidst the ashes.

It was meaningless sex at first, half-desire and half-anger, driven by a need for some kind of nameless forgetful oblivion where they could forget that their worlds had fallen apart. Gradually, though, it has become more than that. She has been allowed to see gentleness in the gith, and Lae’zel has been allowed to see her vulnerability in turn - and both things have been hard-won knowledge indeed, secrets held between the two of them, shown to no one else. 

Zhak vo'n'ash duj, Lae’zel called her once in a moment of passion. She hasn’t explained what it means, but Shadowheart can guess the implications.

And here she is, lashing out yet again anyway, as if it were still their first few days on the road, when preemptive strikes felt like the only way to survive. Gods, she’s so scared. Gods… it hurts.

“I’m… sorry,” she mutters, hunching her shoulders - as if still in expectation of mocking after all these months. “That wasn’t fair.”

“Chk. You owe no apologies,” Lae’zel says - still curt but quieter. “I am no yank to be felled with a harsh word. And it is not the first I have had from you, nor will it be the last.” She turns back to the fire and prods carefully at the meat roasting there, turning it carefully. “Nor would I wish otherwise.”

Shadowheart finds herself mesmerized by watching the other woman's fingers, surprisingly dexterous in counterpoint to her battering-ram combat style. “Do you know your parents?” she asks abruptly. “Did you leave family behind, in Kliir?” 

“The yanki are raised together in creche.” With quick, efficient motions, Lae'zel pulls the meat from the fire and lays it out on a platter nearby. “A cadre of nestmates is our first and only family.” She frowns. “Still, I am not blind to what you have lost.”

Shadowheart nods silently. Lae'zel's experiences are so alien at times that it is hard to imagine the places where they overlap. But they are both alone in a world full of shadowy uncertainty. 

“You're all I have left, you know.” The words emerge in a sudden rush; she looks down at her hands, ashamed without knowing why. 

And then Lae'zel's hands close over hers, calloused and rough from a life of swordwork, but gentle in their touch on her skin. 

“I am not blind to that either,” she says, her voice low. “You will not be alone while I am here.” She considers for a moment before going on, “In creche we are taught ra'quith vlaak - the frail perish. To cover for another's weakness is to open your own flank.” Her eyes lift to meet Shadowheart's, intent and serious and sad. “Perhaps once I found wisdom in this, but no more. You shall find me guarding the scarred places in you, and you shall guard mine.”

Slowly, with scrupulous care, she lifts Shadowheart's hand and presses her lips over the heavy black scar, the last mark of Shar's torments, that lingers on her skin.

Blood rushes to Shadowheart's face. She feels acutely conscious of the fact that Lae'zel has never before showed her any gesture of warmth in view of the rest of the camp. And she can see the flicker of anxiety that goes through the gith's cat's-pupil eyes with the action. 

But Lae'zel has been afraid a long time. She has never let it drive her actions - never before and not now. 

And Shadowheart feels her own courage rise in answer to it. “Yes,” she agrees softly. “As long as you'll let me.”

“Chk,” Lae'zel mutters. “You speak as if you think such promises come with endings.”

Shadowheart doesn't answer for a long while. “I have suffered many broken ones,” she finally says softly. “But not from you.”

Lae'zel's eyes brighten, and she kisses Shadowheart again, this time cupping a palm to her cheek. Like all of their kisses, it is fierce and rough, commanding, unrelenting, but it carries certainty in it that Shadowheart desperately needs. “Nor shall you,” she murmurs. “Zhak vo'n'ash duj.”

[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask for this prompt meme. Karlach - "It is my fault, I think, that you have forgotten to fear me."

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“Oy, who’s the glowy bitch by the door, then?”

Karlach knows better than to bother looking up when the fresh-meat greataxe grunt starts talking, down the barracks a ways. This shit isn’t new. They always like to talk, the new arrivals to Zariel's army. And as soon as they see Karlach, no other topic will do.

Fair play enough, after all; she does kinda stick out. There's nobody else like her in the platoon, or in the whole army. In the eight years she’s been here, nobody else has ever gotten the tin can stuck into them and survived. She’s special, as Zariel likes to assure her, though special has never bought her anything but more blood and death - and the attention of every ignot who want to pick a fight.

Today’s mouthy prick is a draegloth, which explains why he’s talking a big game. A dogskull’s almost as unique as Karlach is around here; makes sense he’d pick out a target fast before anyone can pick him out for an asskicking.

“Oh, that? That's Cliffgate,” says another voice. This one Karlach recognizes - Namtar, a cambion, one of the platoon sergeants. He and Karlach have butted heads before, because Namtar is a rotten pissant. “Zariel's little kiss-ass. No heart, just an infernal engine in her chest.”

"No way," the draegloth says. "That's the Demonsbane? A ruttin' tief? Not even hellsborn?" He laughs sharply. "Lettin' in all sorts these days, uh?"

Karlach ignores the mocking words, focusing on choking down the tasteless morsels that pass for rations around here. The bunk across from her creaks unhappily as weight hits it.

“They're talkin’ about you, Dart,” Flo says with a nasty grin, settling onto the bed and lounging back against the wall. “Gonna sit here and take it?”

Karlach sighs. She picked up the nickname around her second week in the Hells, and it's never once been meant with kindness. Even Flo says it with a nasty edge, and Flo is the closest thing she has to a friend.

Good reminder, I guess, that no one here really gives a fuck about me, no matter how much I might like to pretend. Even after eight years, she can sometimes, if she squints, convince herself that there's camaraderie here, like there was in Gortash's old crew before he sold her out. But it's vain hope, a desperate attempt to pretend this place isn't rotting her fro the inside out; the illusion never lasts long and always just leaves her feeling lonelier.

"If it's not them, it'll be somebody else," she says noncommittally. "Lemme eat my dinner in peace."

"Nawww..." Flo says, comfortably dismissive. "C'mon, Dart, give us a show. Been too long since we had a proper scrap in here besides the piece in your chest."

Karlach laughs softly in spite of herself. It's a pretty weak pun, but the jokes in Avernus are as bad as the food. "I'm wore out, Flo," she says, shaking her head. "Leave off."

She looks up to find Flo's smile has turned a shade more brittle. "C'mon, now, Dart," she says, and there's a warning note in it now. "Y'know I can't be seen bein' friends with a softy. Give us a show, I said."

The message is loud and clear, as it always is. My friendship is conditional. And you'll do as I say, 'cos you *don't* want to be my enemy. Now dance.

Karlach huffs out a weary, flame-hot breath and tosses aside the last bit of her ration pack uneaten. With a groan, she pushes herself to her feet and strides down the barracks corridor towards Namtar and the draegloth.

"Hey, there she is." Namtar looks up with a lazy grin as she approaches. He's flopped on his bunk with his boots off, his wings furled neatly under him and feet up on a stack of equipment piled at the foot of the bed. "How's tricks, Dart?" Before Karlach can respond, he shoots a conspiratorial glance at the young dogskull. "Y'know why we call her Dart, Markos?"

The draegloth -- Markos -- looks puzzled. "Why?" he asks.

"Dumb-Ass Rusty Toaster." Namtar brays with laughter so hard it shakes the bed a little. "Fits, too, cos all she's good for is throwing at things t' poke holes in them."

Markos snickers loudly. Several more of the platoon have picked up on the conversation; smelling blood in the water, they've started to circle up, leaned casually against the walls or peering over the edge of their bunks. Some of them are grinning, enjoying watching the Demonsbane get a dunking. Others - the smart ones - are eyeing Karlach warily. She hasn't said anything yet, but her eyes are smoldering. In spite of herself, the rage is building. 

She doesn't want to fight them. She never has. She's always been loyal, and even in this bitch of a place, even under Zariel's thumb, she'd have fought hard for anyone here who wanted to fight for her in return. But that's never made the slightest bit of difference, because everyone here is a fucking tosser.

Hells. Maybe, when you come right down to it, so am I.

And that, really, is what enrages her, far more than these empty little insults.

"Y'know," she says slowly, looking the draegloth up and down. "I expect this sort of crap from the fresh meat. A mouth spewing shit 'cos you haven't learned to shut the fuck up yet. But you--" She turns her gaze slowly and deliberately to the sergeant. "Eight years it's been, Namtar, and neither of us dead yet, so you'd think you'd have figured out not to mess with me." She lets a slow, feral grin curl across her lips, and there's a ripple of anticipatory mumbling from the gathering crowd around them. "My fault, I guess, that you've forgotten to be scared of me. But I can fix that."

She moves suddenly, with no windup, her fists and feet all shifting at once. Her left fist crashes into Markos's jaw, knocking him back into the steel frame of the bed behind him; his skull ricochets off it with a metallic whingggg as his skull ricochets off the metal. With her left foot, she kicks behind his knee while he's unbalanced and fully flips him sideways. As he bounces back from the bedframe, he goes careening onto his front, his nose crunching into the stone floor.

Meanwhile, her other hand grabs Namtar by the collar and drags him out of his bunk. He has almost two inches on her, but she lifts him with ease one-armed, the engine roaring in her chest and sending energy coursing through her bicep. Spinning out of the kick at Markos, she slams Namtar into the wall, then releases her grip for a split second, only to refix it tightly around his throat before he can fall.

All of the cambion's bravado has vanished. His eyes are wide and brilliant white in the dark red of his face and he squirms ineffectually against Karlach's implacable grip. His wings, crunched between his back and the wall, struggle feebly. "Oy! Let me go!" he bleats, gripping her hand with both of his and trying to pull it away.

She glares at him. "Maybe. If you want to grovel a bit. Otherwise I'll finally just kill you. Maybe everyone else would finally get it through their thick skulls that you don't mess with me."

He sneers in an attempt at disdain, though it's considerably weakened by the fact that he's now struggling to breathe. "You wouldn't dare."

She laughs humorlessly and leans forward until her nose is nearly touching his, so he can feel the heat radiating off her body and see nothing but the exhausted fury in her eyes. "That really a chance you wanna take, sergeant?"

He hesitates, balanced between his anger and his fear. But something he sees in her eyes must convince him, because the fear wins. "Sorry," he mutters.

"What was that?" she asks coolly. "Didn't hear you."

"I'm sorry," he snaps. "Now let me go."

She could drag it out further, but the whole situation feels sticky as hot tar on her skin, burning down into her bones. Gods, I hate this. I hate all of it. I don’t want to be this thing they’ve made me, but I don’t know how to stop.

She releases his throat with a jerk, letting him slide down the wall to the floor, where he sits clutching at his neck and wheezing. Markos, nearby, is out cold where he hit the floor.

"Good," she mutters. "Just... stay there and shut the fuck up." She doesn't wait to hear what the other gathered soldiers might have to say, but turns and stalks away back down the row of beds towards the other end of the barracks. 

Flo gives her a slow clap as she returns to her bunk, grinning unpleasantly from ear to ear. "Nice one. Damn good show, Dart, just as I asked."

"Shut up," Karlach answers, tossing herself facedown onto her mattress. The engine is still running hot, surging pain through her chest and her head and her arms with the slow letdown of adrenaline; she can smell it searing a scorched mark into the bedsheets. "You too - just... just shut up and leave me alone.”