Know Thy Enemy (Chapter 7 - Baldur's Gate 3 fanfiction)
The amazing @toolateintheday and I are here to brighten up your Monday! Hope you enjoy this chapter starring our two favorite enemies to lovers in Faerûn. Now with extra body swap confusion!
Ship: Shadowzel
WC: 2,230
Warnings: Alcohol and spicy talk
Read it on AO3 or under the cut.
Thirsty?
Finally the camp is quiet. After dying of embarrassment thanks to Lae'zel and Astarion, Shadowheart retreated to her tent, but her eyes and ears have remained open, alert, waiting for the right time.
She must retrieve the artifact by any means necessary. Loathe as she is to admit it, even in this body made for battle, the only way to best Lae'zel and survive, is by sneaking into her tent while she's sleeping.
Surprise attack. No shame in that. It's the Sharran way.
Once she's completely sure that everyone is asleep – the absence of the crackling fire and the presence of Wyll's snoring are unmistakable signs – she grabs one of Lae'zel's many daggers. As a precaution, she slips her shoes off and goes barefoot; tiptoeing to be as quiet as possible. Oh how she misses her ability to see in the dark. It would be handy right now.
She won't kill the gith, of course. That would be the stupid whilst they’re in the wrong bodies. But hopefully, if Lae'zel finds herself scared and helpless, she'll be more receptive to her demands.
Looks like someone has beaten her to it.
The instant she steps out of her tent, she bumps into Lae'zel. The cold edge of a knife is immediately pressed against her neck.
“Why did you have an heirloom of my people?” Lae'zel hisses.
“Don't you dare to touch me!” Shadowheart growls back, keeping her voice low. “This is your body, remember? If you kill me, you die.”
“Speak, or I will take the risk.”
“Are you really that thick?! We don't know how this will affect us! How can you be sure your soul won't fade away the minute your body stops breathing?”
The improvised theory seems to convince her. Or, at the very least, make her hesitate. Shadowheart has always been quick of her feet. Unfortunately, the blade at her throat remains.
“If I die for my queen, so be it. How many of my people did you slay for the artifact?”
“Will you just stop and listen?” Shadowheart insists, patience fraying. “Forget about the bloody artifact. I have the solution to get us back to normal.”
Now that does catch Lae'zel's attention. Lae’zel’s hand drops to her side, the knife along with it. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Shadowheart backs into her tent and motions for Lae’zel to follow.
“Karlach helped me get the book from the library,” Shadowheart explains, fumbling for a match to light a candle.
“What did you discover?” Lae'zel questions.
“I haven't had a chance to read it yet. But-”
“Chk. So it is another dead end!”
“Is being bleak and negative a part of your so-called culture?” Shadowheart challenges.
“I am not negative. I am pragmatic.”
“Well can you be pragmatic at a lower volume? Else you’ll wake the whole camp. Honestly, it’s bad enough that Karlach knows about us, we don’t need anyone-”
“Karlach knows?!” Lae’zel roars. “You fool! How could you be so-”
Shadowheart clamps a hand over Lae’zel’s mouth, silencing her. They both look equally surprised by the bold decision.
“What did I just say?” Shadowheart hisses. She glares as she slowly removes her hand. “Yes, Karlach figured it out, but you don’t need to lose your head over it. She’s not going to tell anyone. She offered to help us…after she finished laughing.”
Lae’zel doesn’t respond, but Shadowheart can practically see the unspoken insults racing through her mind. She takes the silence as her cue to continue, reaching into her bag and pulling out the copy of “All You Need To Know About Ceremorphosis And Never Dared To Ask.”
Shadowheart turns the tome over in her hands as she takes a seat on her bedroll, leaving ample room for Lae’zel to sit at the other end. Lae’zel, who doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of personal space, it seems, sits right beside her anyway – so close that their thighs are practically touching.
Rolling her eyes to herself, Shadowheart opens the clasp on the book. Then very nearly drops it.
Some imbecile has carved through most of the pages, leaving a hollow in the centre. Within that hollow is a polished steel flash.
Shadowheart stares at it blankly for a long moment. Then she picks up the flask and unscrews the stopper, sniffing the contents within. Disappointment settles heavily in her chest. She doesn’t know whether to laugh of cry. Lae’zel would probably kill her for the latter, for committing such an act of weakness in this body.
Lae’zel’s breath tickles her cheek when she leans over. “Do you think that is the cure?”
“No,” Shadowheart says flatly. “I think its whisky.”
She raises the flask to her lips and tips her head back, gulping down the amber liquid, ignoring the way it burns her throat.
“What are you doing?!” Lae'zel scolds.
“What does it look like? I think I've earned it after all of this shit.”
She might as well get drunk. The whisky will certainly not cure ceremorphosis or solve any of her problems, but at least it will help her see them in a different light.
A few long gulps later, Lae'zel manages to snatch the bottle from her. Shadowheart glares; who does she think she is?
“Stop it!” Lae'zel warns, keeping the flask as far from her reach as possible.
“Leave me alone. I don't need you babysitting me.”
“My body is not as accustomed to alcohol as yours. I will not let you ruin it with your excesses.”
Shadowheart scoffs. Excess? Hardly. Still, now that she mentions, Shadowheart feels a little dizzy. Her body feels warm, almost unpleasantly so, and an artificial sense of calm invades her. Sounds like the alcohol is serving its purpose.
It'd usually take a lot more alcohol to start feeling these effects. But this is whisky, not wine. Not the biggest fan. And come to think of it, she rarely sees Lae'zel drinking anything other than water. No wonder her body is reacting like this.
Shadowheart snorts out a loud guffaw.
“Quiet!” Lae'zel hisses, covering Shadowheart's mouth. “The others can hear everything!”
Shadowheart bends forward, her belly exploding with laughter. Good to have a not-so-bad ending to such a dreadful day.
“What is your problem?” Lae'zel frowns. “What is there to laugh about?”
Another fit of giggles racks through Shadowheart, leaving her unable to respond. And Lae'zel's exasperated face doesn't make it any easier to contain – she looks like an angry raccoon with her smudged eyeliner.
Finally, after testing Lae'zel's patience to the brink, Shadowheart manages to calm herself and take a deep breath.
“I'm just laughing at what a cheap date you are,” she explains.
Lae’zel’s eyes narrow. “What did you just call me?”
Shadowheart is unsure if the fact that Lae'zel doesn't know the phrase makes the joke fall flat or if it makes it funnier. In the end, she – or perhaps it's the whisky – decides it's the latter.
“A cheap date,” she repeats, voice breaking with a chuckle, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You see, when you meet someone with romantic intentions, it's common to buy them drinks so that they will... loosen up. I see it wouldn't take much money to get you there.”
“Why is intoxicating someone a part of courtship? And why would you wish to court me?”
That last question knocks all breath out of her. In spite of the alcohol in her system, Shadowheart sobers up immediately.
“Ew! No!” she grimaces. “I meant it in a purely hypothetical situation. You should be so lucky, gith.”
The noise Lae’zel makes isn’t quite a laugh – more a snort of indignation. “Lucky? Bah. I would never lower my standards in such a way.”
Shadowheart stares at her. And perhaps it’s the alcohol, perhaps it’s her pride, perhaps it’s her Sharran training – whatever it is, something within her takes that statement as a challenge.
“Is that so?” Shadowheart questions. The words don’t quite have the flirtatious edge they would if she were speaking in her own voice. “Because you have quite the wandering eye. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
And Shadowheart has noticed. She’s seen Lae’zel gawking at various “istiks” over the past few weeks, despite her claims that they’re inferior to her in every way. And Lae’zel is not subtle about it – nothing she does is subtle.
“Noticed what?” Lae’zel frowns. “Whatever you think you witnessed, I-”
Shadowheart places her hand on Lae’zel’s thigh, just above the knee. She waits for Lae’zel’s eyes to lock with hers, which they do, and feels a thrum of gratification when she sees them widen in surprise.
Her hand remains still for a long moment and the atmosphere in the tent seems to shift perceptibly; the air suddenly feeling charged and heavy. Shadowheart doesn’t take her eyes off Lae’zel as she slowly slides her hand up a couple of inches. And squeezes.
The quiet gasp that escapes Lae’zel is an affirmation. She’s still got it. Even in this alien body, she’s still got it.
There’s something else dancing in the depth’s of Lae’zel’s eyes now. Desire. It’s strange, she thinks, to be on the receiving end of her own lustful gaze. That thought quickly vacates her mind as Lae’zel’s focus drops to her lips.
Shadowheart can’t be sure who moves first. Later, she’ll tell herself that she did – that she was fully in control in that moment. She’ll convince herself that she was the first to lean in with the sole purpose of proving her point.
Part of her thinks that Lae’zel is calling her bluff, even as Lae’zel’s eye flutter closed. When a soft hand cups the back of her neck, she wonders whether this would technically count as kissing herself. Does that make it ok…or is that even weirder?
It’s not the familiar scent of her own perfume that throws her off course. It’s what she catches beneath that with Lae’zel’s keen sense of smell. Arousal. There’s no mistake. Lae’zel is into this.
This is real.
Fuck.
Out of the corner of her eye, candlelight light gleams off the flask still clutched in Lae’zel’s hand. That’s it. That’s her out.
Slowly, her gaze still on Lae'zel's face, she slides her fingertips – she made sure to trim those claws, no matter how much Lae'zel protested – all the way down Lae'zel's arm. She ignores the quiet hum that makes its way through Lae'zel's lips, those lips that are inching closer and closer to hers, and caresses the back of Lae'zel's hand with feigned tenderness.
Only to force her fingers to let go of the bottle and grab it herself.
“Ha!” she exclaims triumphantly as she moves away from Lae'zel, watching her almost lose her balance comically.
She allows herself a smirk as she takes the flask to her lips and downs the rest of its content. Deep down, her heartbeat is deafening, an uncomfortable heat rushing through her veins. She truly needs the alcohol. A lot of it, to forget what has just almost happened.
At least Lae'zel's frustrated grumble reminds her that she hasn't lost her ability to seduce, to deceive, to use her charms as a weapon. The Dark Lady would be proud of her.
“K'chakhi!”
The foreign word sounds even stranger in her own voice. Shadowheart has no idea what it means, but she assumes it must be some sort of insult or swear word, like the vast majority of phrases coming from Lae'zel's mouth.
It doesn't matter. With a teasing grin, she bows mockingly at Lae'zel, like a bard finishing a performance. Astarion's attitude must be rubbing off on her. That seems to anger the gith even more, propelling her up to her feet like a spring.
“I will leave you to your self-destructive urges, then,” Lae'zel growls as she storms out of the tent.
With the canvas still shaking after Lae'zel, Shadowheart sighs in relief. Whatever that was, something tells her she has just dodged a bolt.
Yet even with the comforting, familiar numbness that comes with liqueur, even with the satisfaction of having fooled Lae'zel, she can't escape a much more disturbing certainty. Just like she could catch the scent of Lae'zel's arousal, she can catch her own right now. The intense tingle between her thighs doesn't lie.
And, more annoyingly, it's been there since Lae'zel mentioned courting.
What is wrong with her? This has to be a side-effect of whatever curse has put her in the wrong body. Yes, that must be it. She's feeling Lae'zel's lust for her and not the other way around. Admittedly, it doesn't seem to take the gith much to get horny.
She's so lost in her thoughts that she hasn't realized the flap of her tent is open. Only when the night wind covers her skin in goosebumps does she return to reality.
Wither is standing across the camp, looking more eerie than ever in the pale moonlight. He stares at her, expressionless.
If she didn't know better, she'd think he's judging her. Whatever. It's getting late and she really needs to sleep it off.
“What are you looking at?” she rasps quietly as she closes her tent.