THE GREY OF ASH
Summary: During their journey through the Underdark, Imrae tries to sneak off alone. Lae'zel does not let him.
|| Timeline: Late Act One || Word count: 3.505 ||
|| Relationships: Imrae & Lae'zel, slight hints at Imrae x Astarion ||
Taglist: @missfortunetherogue, @bladesingerlily, @lilhumanoid.
The idea for this piece originated from two tags, for writing a story around Melancholia (@lottavilja) and Small Mercies (@et-augury).
Dividers by @diviniyae
CONTENT WARNING: Non-explicit handling of a corpse. Cremation. Conversation about death and burial.
Something was off in camp tonight.
Ever since they had entered the Underdark, Lae'zel had made it a habit to keep track of each and every of her allies, such was her task as deputy in this strange yet familiar place.
One of the few things in her life that had not changed.
Hshar'lak.
The word burned in her mind and soul like red-hot steel, and she sought a distraction from the pain it brought by patrolling the cavern their leader had chosen for their war camp.
He had chosen well. Limited entrances, fresh water, edible mushrooms, and a decent amount of the magical radiation called “faezress”, which, according to their guide and leader Imrae, would protect them from divination magic.
It seemed to put the vampire Astarion at ease, which meant that he was less of nuisance than when agitated. Despite his whinging about being parted from the sun, he still feared his master and found comfort in the thought that he would not find him here by magical means. Right this moment, he was playing with a dagger by his tent, tossing the blade “for fun”.
He sent her an annoyed glance when he noticed her presence, to which she continued her round.
Nearby, Shadowheart was watering her herbs, trying to keep them alive in this place without sunlight, but at least the plants were quiet about it. The same could be said of the half-elf, as Lae'zel had expected incessant gloating by her about the failed attempt to purify themselves at the crèche, but she had abandoned her efforts after two comments.
Wyll and Gale were sitting together with Karlach, who was roasting little morsels of food in her burning hot hands, as their leader had forbidden making campfires as they had held it on the surface, much to half the band's dismay.
The tiefling offered Lae'zel a mushroom that Imrae had confirmed as edible, yet the other two had gagged at, but a githyanki was not as picky as these istik. Chewing it down, she nodded in approval. The mushroom's subtle taste and chewy consistency reminded her of the roasted stalks of infinity vine back on K'liir.
Nearby, the druid Halsin was whittling, the canine Scratch was resting by his feet, and the k'chaki Volo was writing into a book, same as the corpse Withers. Normal behaviour for all of them.
When she reached the spot Imrae had chosen as his workspace, a rock serving as their map table and his desk, she noticed what was off.
Each other evening, he had been humming while studying his manuscripts after his trance, but tonight, the only sound coming from him the soft tap of his finger on parchment as he was staring out into the vastness visible from the small opening in their hideout, where the soft glow of the sussur tree in the distance illuminated the larger cavern,.
Were the averse effects of the plant still bothering the mage? No. They were too far away, and none of the other magic users in camp had complained.
Was he in pain after the battle with his kin who had lived there in company of monsters called hook horrors? She could not recall a moment in which he had been struck. Her and Shadowheart had drawn their foes into close combat as usual, splitting the herd for an easy victory, while Imrae and Astarion had backed them up with arrows and crossbow bolts. They had played it safe, for the sussur tree interrupted magic, even the soothing kind cast by the Sharran.
No, Imrae was simply deep in contemplation, she told herself. He was strong. He was stone while she was steel. A good combination. A fine alliance.
An alliance she desperately needed.
Shoving down that degrading thought, Lae'zel returned to her tent to sharpen her blades. They would explore more tomorrow to find their way to the exit towards Moonrise Towers that Imrae knew about, held by Clan Bitterroot. Grey dwarves.
They would be no match for Lae'zel of Crèche K'liir. The only reason her name would be unknown in the Underdark would be the lack of survivors of their battle.
She was useful, well-trained in combat in the close spaces of tunnels.
She was useful. She still had purpose.
Even though her eyes betrayed her in this darkness.
Even though tunnels were familiar, these were once again alien.
Even though her mere presence invited pursuers.
She stopped her thoughts and her sharpening before she could ruin the blade. Perhaps this was her cue to get some rest.
Settling on the furs by her tent, she stared at the cavern ceiling. Without the weather on the surface of Faerûn bothering their operation, she could rest however she wanted. The view reminded her of K'liir, too.
She quickly closed her eyes.
Sleep did not find her.
Not even after it had become deadly quiet in camp.
When she felt movement beside her and the qua-nith psionic detector being placed into her hand, she opened her eyes to see the white glint of Imrae's in the darkness, the dim light in the cavern catching in them.
“Speak. What is this?” Lae'zel asked, sending him a stare of disappointment.
“There is something I need to do. I will be back before you know it.”
Lae'zel sensed sorrow, but no lie in his words. “Alone? Chk. Your rules were clear. Nobody goes alone.”
“I- Yes. I did say that.” Imrae's gaze fell to the side, and he took a deep breath before he dared to look at her again, his mien more open than before. “Very well. Will you guard me, Lae'zel?”
In response, she rose from her resting spot, donned her armour with the quick movements that had been drilled into her on Crèche K'liir and grabbed her sword and her crossbow, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.
Imrae was already waiting for her by the exit, his bag slung across his body. He nodded to her, then made the hand sign of his kind that meant “follow me”.
She followed.
As a pair, they were faster. He was faster, running as if the ground itself was pushing him along.
She followed.
He led her down tunnels they had not taken while exploring with the others, trusting that she would keep up.
She kept up. She followed.
They stopped by the plateau near the sussur tree, its blue glow heralding it before they emerged from the tunnel they had taken, and Imrae wasted no time in his approach towards the body of the drow mage they'd slain.
They had taken his kin's valuables and raided his hideout. They had spoken to the corpse about any remaining secrets. They had searched the site for hidden treasures.
Try as she might, Lae'zel could not think of a reason why they'd returned, so this time, she remained in her spot. “Why are we here?”
“I am going to put him to rest.” Imrae did not look up, gaze fixed on his kin's body.
A githyanki did not weep for their fallen kin. But they still were that. Kin.
Drow were not gith. Treachery was their way of life, their birthright. They had no common goal. They cared little for one another, least what happened to the other's remains. Imrae had not hesitated to order the death of the drow woman leading the goblins, and had put the vampire in charge of looting and disposing of the body, not caring if it was treated with piety.
Why this one, then?
Lae'zel caught Imrae's gaze as he looked around, contemplating how to get the task done. It was unlike him to not have a plan at the ready. She favoured his quick thinking. He acted when the others still prattled, and she followed him into the fray with pleasure.
“You'll need a pyre,” she stated.
Imrae gave her a wordless nod, looking almost... helpless. It was jarring to see.
“Do you know how to construct a pyre?” Lae'zel asked.
“In theory. Why, do you-”
“Chk. A githyanki's most honourable death is in battle, but many a kith'rak has been laid to rest on a pyre on the Astral, set ablaze by their red dragon's fiery breath, to not become food for the ghaik. Of course I know how to construct one.”
“Thank you, Lae'zel.” Imrae smiled at her like he so often did, despite her doing nothing to soften her tone. “You are a true friend.”
There. He had used that word again.
Pausing for a moment, Lae'zel studied the man, but he it seemed like he meant it, unlike the vampire, who used the word very often, especially to smooth things over when someone got upset with him.
“Chk. Stop prattling and collect anything burnable in sight.”
Imrae heeded her command, giving her time to shake off the strange feeling gripping her innards, after which she grabbed the dead drow's old axe they'd left to rust and went to chop up a few of the tree's gnarly roots.
A githyanki did not have friends. A githyanki had kin, allies, brothers and sisters in arms, slaves, servants, not friends.
Drow, too, did not have friends. Imrae had taught her that in his language, the word abbil was an oxymoron, for trust was foolish and friends were people who had not tried to kill you yet.
And Lae'zel had tried to kill him once, albeit out of mercy.
Even so, he had called her his friend to the strange being that inhabited the artefact, had not protested when she had demanded that he should show her his mind after it had not died.
“I have to do it,” he had pleaded with the mirage, a drow woman with purple skin like his. “Vlaakith will take it out on my friend if I don't.”
He had tried to slay her on Vlaakith's command, that woman who he suspected to be an echo of the mother he had never gotten to know. Lae'zel remembered the pain he had felt when he had plunged the long dagger into her middle.
Gith had no parents like the people of Faerûn did, not in the social sense, and they did not bemoan not knowing the woman who had laid their egg. They had cousins of sorts, kin hatched from the same clutch of eggs. Maybe some had a favourite savarsh during their training years, but such attachments were for the weak.
And yet, his pain was familiar, so similar to what had flooded her heart these past nights.
Was that why she was helping him?
She would have liked to tell herself that it was out of pure loyalty to their leader, that she was just a soldier doing what needed to be done.
But that sentiment hurt. It was a lie. Another untruth to shed.
Over the course of the next hours, she retrieved the body and assembled the gnarly logs into a crude, misshapen approximation of a cremation pyre, then instructed Imrae where to spread any oil and any kindling that they had available.
“It needs to reach a high and consistent temperature, like an oven,” Lae'zel explained. “Many bodies burn decently on their own, but githyanki are made of honed muscle and little fat. Elves are similar. This drow is as bony as you are.”
Imrae nodded, taking no offence while following her instructions without protest. He trusted her expertise, he trusted her to be his sword and his shield, he trusted her whenever they interacted with her kin.
He had trusted her when she had led them to the crèche in the mountains.
He had trusted her right up until the moment when the zaith'isk had threatened to rip her mind apart, had pleaded with her to abandon the purification, not commanded, pleaded, and for a reason she still could not fathom, she had listened to him over what she had been taught since she could form coherent thought.
Perhaps because he was the leader.
Perhaps because she trusted his sense of survival.
Perhaps because she had felt his fear for her.
Lae'zel studied the drow while he inspected their construction
“If there are spiderwebs nearby, we could wrap the body in them,” Imrae mused in a strange monotone. “They burn easily. And he was from Menzoberranzan. He might appreciate it.”
An odd sentiment, considering the searing, uncompromising hate she had seen in his eyes when faced with the drow woman at the goblin camp, the same hate she felt for anything ghaik. Minthara, too, had been from that city, and it had been her undoing, yet the stranger had not received her companion's hate.
Was it because the man was a mage as well? Had they met before?
That must have been it.
Before Lae'zel could ask him anything, Imrae had walked off to check a few crevices for the webbing he sought, and he soon returned with a decent amount sticking to his staff.
Imrae produced a piece of dried fungus, using it as tinder for the kindling they had placed. “Once the pyre is burning reliably, we have to keep our distance from it.”
“Because the heat will attract creatures who see or sense heat.”
“Yes, Lae'zel.” Imrae gave her a small smile.
She gave him a nod in return. Unlike some of the others in camp, she paid attention to his lessons. He had survived in the Underdark for decades, even fought ghaik before, she would be foolish not to listen.
Once the small flames had turned into a roaring fire, the two moved away, and Imrae found them a spot from where to watch the pyre from afar, a small stone alcove a few feet overhead.
“Rest in peace, Filro,” the drow spoke. “I will think of you when I find the Adamantine Forge.”
Lae'zel sat down, feeling the twitch of her muscles from the strain of the day and the task they had completed. She was too tired to enjoy the sensation, rubbing her eyes as the lids grew heavy and the brightness of the fire and the remnants of smoke stung in them.
When she opened her eyes again, disoriented, vision bleary, the firelight had dimmed, but it kept going as intended. She shifted, and the woollen cloak that now covered her slipped into her lap.
Imrae had not moved an inch, still watching the fire with an empty stare.
She envied the elves in camp for their independence from sleep. She wondered if this feat could be taught. Imrae had mentioned that he had needed to learn it himself.
“Did you know him well?” Lae'zel asked.
“No,” Imrae whispered. “I did not know him at all.”
“Then why?” Lae'zel felt frustration rise in her, one she could not explain, a feeling that only increased when he took his time to answer.
“To pay respect to someone living a similar life to myself, perhaps?”
His words and his tone caught her off guard. He had spoken of his life with pride before, his existence as a lone wanderer, an outcast, a tribe of one by his own admission. He had spoken of freedom and of choice.
She had disregarded his words, finding them and him lacking in purpose, but she could not deny that his life had hardened him, made him strong and resilient.
Now, she saw a different side, and she did not know what she felt.
“This was for yourself more than it was for him, was it not?” she guessed.
“Yes. He was what I could have very well become, alone out here in the Underdark. Hiding and surviving. Then a corpse no one would care about.”
“You are stronger,” Lae'zel asserted. For his sake, or for her own?
Imrae gave a weak chuckle. “That is kind of you to say.”
Kind? Another odd sentiment. They had defeated the mage. Lae'zel had stated a fact.
But Imrae was not done talking. “The mind is more fragile than we like to believe. I know how it is to be hunted. Had I grown stagnant out of fear, like he had...” His voice broke. “I do not know what would have become of me.”
Hshar'lak.
“Why were you hunted?”
“In addition for my general crime of being born drow?” Imrae more grimaced than smiled. “First because my cruel guardian wanted me back in her clutches. Then, when it became known that my mother's bloodline was not as dead as they thought it was, that I had inherited her sorcerous spark, eager warriors from Menzoberranzan tried to kill me to present my head to their matron. The more I fought back, the more dangerous I proved to be, and so on, and so forth.”
It was a sober report rather than a proclamation of victory.
It disturbed Lae'zel in ways she could not explain. Strength was to be celebrated and admired, yet no one had ever done so for him, she concluded.
“But hey, nowadays, most leave me alone, safe for the truly desperate and fanatic.”
“The cult of the Absolute.”
Imrae hummed in agreement. “I still have no idea what they wanted with me, and it drives me mad.”
“Whoever comes for you shall know my fury and my blade,” Lae'zel declared. “This I vow.”
Because it felt like the right thing to say.
Because he would do the same for her.
Because they were friends.
Imrae gave her a nod to thank her.
Friends. She had known cousins, teachers, lovers, and comrades. Never a friend. She had thought herself above it. But a great many things she thought to be true had turned out to be falsehoods.
Where before, her future had been certain, ascension or death, she now knew they were one and the same. The only thing she could hold onto was her mission.
Meet Voss in Baldur's Gate. Guard the artefact. Bring about Vlaakith's demise.
She looked at the drow next to her. He had promised to help her do so, without needing to be asked.
“What will you do after we rid ourselves of the ghaik parasite?” Lae'zel asked.
Imrae gestured to their surroundings. “Return here. For good or ill, I belong in the Underdark.” When she frowned, he chuckled. “Well, after taking revenge on that cult and aiding those I promised aid to, of course. You, Wyll, Karlach, Astarion...”
“Speaking of Astarion, is he not the one you usually recruit for your silent operations?”
“I did not wish to bother him,” Imrae said, his right hand grasping his left. “I believe he is figuring out what to do with his freedom of choice. I have been there. It is not a pretty process.”
“So I see.”
The vampire had often been glued to their leader's side when it came to steering him towards something he desired, yet in the place where the drow's word was law more than ever, Astarion had kept his distance, pairing up with others when they were hiking from one resting spot to the next.
Learning to be free. A novel concept.
Even still, her friend deserved a more loyal mate than that.
Another question lingered in her mind, one that was almost painful. “If you were to perish without a chance of return... Should I do the same for you?” Lae'zel asked, gesturing towards the pyre.
Imrae thought for a moment, then shook his head, undisturbed, pragmatic in the face of his own mortality. “If possible, bring my body to an earth node. Let it consume me fully. Do not ask me why, I do not know for certain myself. It is simply a feeling that it must be so.”
He had mentioned earth nodes before, spoken of their wondrous nature. They were a font of magic within the Underdark, an accumulation of power with a rudimentary form of consciousness, able to teach and grant spells.
“You have my word.” Lae'zel rose, shaking off the stiffness in her legs. “We should head back. Come, T'lak'ma Vhir.”
Imrae laughed. “Should you not consult with Voss before you name me a 'Brother in Freedom'?” he asked while he got to his feet as well.
“You are my closest ally. I have grown to trust your judgement.”
After a moment of quiet, Imrae touched her shoulder. “Thank you, Lae'zel. For not letting me do this alone.”
A smile found its way onto Lae'zel's lips. “Chk. Your rules were clear.”
“Of course. The rules.” Imrae laughed again, then the two returned to their war camp, where the drow prepared tea over a heating stone, like he did most mornings before the rest of them awoke.
Things were normal again, as normal as they could be.
That night, Lae'zel's world had become a little more colourful.
The red of blood and the black of death were joined by the grey of ash.
