Chapter Text
A moment. A single moment where Caelifer hesitates. Their hands start shaking – well, start shaking worse. The curved blade in their right falls to the ground, making no noise as it lands in the plush grass. Their left releases the intestines, blood squelching under their boot as they take a step back from the body.
The body. Alfira’s body. Alfira. The bard who was so excited, so trusting, so ready for her adventure to begin. And it’s over before it even begun. She’s dead. Dead and Caelifer killed her.
Did she scream? Did she cry, beg, pray for mercy? Did she try to fight? Did she die painfully?
Did Caelifer enjoy it?
They push these thoughts out of their head and make their body move. One foot in front of the other, focusing on taking care of this poor girl. Caelifer gently picks up her body, holding her in a bridal style, walking and walking and not stopping until they reach the small forest near the edge of camp. A proper burial is the least she deserves.
There isn’t a shovel. Fine. Hands work just as well.
Alfira rests next to a tree while Caelifer digs her grave. Their fingers hurt, ran raw from the dirt they’re pulling from the ground. The tears wetting the soil only make them work harder. No time for empathy when you are the killer.
The grave is dug, four feet below the surface. She deserves six feet, just as any other person, but Caelifer cannot dig farther. Their hands ache, begging for a moment of rest – but there is no rest for the wicked. No, the evil must work for their sins. Pay the price for the pleasure you bought.
Alfira lays still in her grave, hands neatly placed over her cut–open chest. Caelifer had to use the knife to slice her head off; no risk of mindflayers. Drow traditions are never forgotten, it seems. She looks so peaceful, with her eyes closed and the dirt freckling her face.
Caelifer covers her body. Their hands are raw now, palms sweating from the exertion. They are not to rest until this woman is properly buried. They are not to rest until they’ve paid the price for their crimes. Rest is for those with no weight upon their back, those who do not fear themselves.
A prayer, soft and spoken slowly, fills the air as Caelifer smoothes the dirt. They pray in Drowish – should they speak Infernal? Do they even know Infernal? Shut up and finish the damned funeral, you idiot. It doesn’t matter, the gods care not for rites and languages and customs. Honor her and honor her life, however short it may be.
Caelifer stands over the grave of the tiefling, their face slick with sweat and tears and maybe even some blood. Dirt clings to their clothes and their hands, falling off in clumps as they walk back toward camp. No one will know. Caelifer will say she left, that she felt like maybe the adventurer's life wasn’t for her. Yes, the guilt will eat them, but perhaps that is preferable.
They fall against their bedroll with a soft ‘fwump,’ exhaling slowly as they stare at the canvas roof of their tent. Their eyes still sting with tears that have yet to stop, leaking down their face and surely wetting the pillow beneath their head. Alfira, with her large smile and bright eyes, now rests in the dirt.
Caelfier did tell her it was dangerous. They warned her. Yes, yes, they did all they could, they are not at fault.
That is what they will tell themself, at least.
——————————————————————————
Awake, is that the word to use for Caelifer? They certainly went to sleep, but they remain unrested and just as tired as the day before. Alfira is still fresh in their mind, her mangled corpse seen when their eyes close.
They move, the strings attached to their limbs tugging and yanking to force the limbs to work. Off come the sleep clothes, replaced with breeches and their sorcerer robe. A lovely deep red, just a shade deeper than their left eye, paired with leather boots that hold tight to their calves.
Belt, pouch, sling bag, rapier... Yes, everything is attached and where it needs to be. Brush through your hair, tie it back, and face the morning. Caelifer takes a step outside, glancing over at Wyll. How has he fared through his first night as a devil? His horns must have proven a hearty challenge for sleep.
“Caelifer,” Gale calls, drawing them from their thoughts and to the campfire, “I’ve made breakfast. Do you know where our bard friend has wandered off to?” It’s a simple question, caring, but Gale has no idea how much it pains Caelifer.
“I fear she had a change of heart,” they tell him, “but we may yet see her in Baldur’s Gate.”
Gale looks at the pan of boiling potatoes, frowning and letting the words sink in. “Well, adventuring is not for everyone, it seems. Take a seat, why don’t you? We have a little before we must depart.”
Caelifer obliges, sitting on the log opposite the wizard and resting an elbow on their knee to hold their chin in their hand. They talk, about what Caelifer is unsure, for their attention is stolen by Alfira in their mind. Her blood, her organs, the way she looked… it would be a mistake not to see the beauty in her death, no matter the grotesque.
A bowl is in their hands, warm and filled with a rich breakfast. Potatoes and meat, all cooked to perfection, all ready to eat. They eat in small bites, the warmth of the meal giving them peace for just a moment.
A faint memory – did they ever eat meals like this before, with a family? A mother, a brother, a father? Did they laugh over the table, or was it silence until a parent demanded voices?
They finish their food, thanking Gale and handing it to him so they can finish getting ready for the day ahead. The sun has properly raised above the camp, basking everything in a warm glow, providing a sweet warmth to their skin. Karlach certainly enjoys it, from the way she’s spread her arms and stands in the rays, absorbing the light the sun gives.
Caelifer smiles at that. She finds happiness anywhere on the surface, it seems, no matter their predicament. Even with a tadpole in her brain, she’s smiling and living her life, not a care in the world.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Astarion asks, slinking to next to their side, “The sun, did you know, will collapse one day! Far, far into the future, though. Not in our lifetimes.” He struts next to Caelifer, hands laced behind his back like a prince — pompous and pretty.
“Is that true?” Caelifer muses, raising a brow as they look down at him. He nods, a slight smile tugging his lips, exposing a slight sliver of yellowed teeth behind them. “It is; I read it an old book a while ago. Its core will stop producing heat due to nuclear fusion, and then boom! No more light for Toril!”
Caelifer finds it odd — and slightly endearing — that Astarion takes such joy in the end of life. Maybe the tadpole has messed with his brain. (Caelifer doesn’t think so.)
“At least we’ll be dead long before it happens,” they say, “Or we’ll be mindflayers with the ability to go anywhere in the Realms.” Just the mention of the slimy bastards makes them shiver.
“Mm, perhaps. Or,” Astarion grins, “we’ll still be young and beautiful! Well, I’ll still be young and beautiful.”
“You expect quite a lot from the fey blood, elf.”
“Oh, what can I say? I’ve always had high expectations. What’s the point of having this blood if it doesn’t keep me beautiful?”
Astarion is quite beautiful — but Caelifer would never tell him that. His ego is large enough. What is he compensating for, they wonder?
Caelifer shrugs, slinging a quiver over their shoulder, packed full of arrows. So many straps, all crowding their body and tugging their attention, pulling their focus away from Astarion as they try to make their equipment not as hellish.
The elf stalks off, eventually, perhaps to his own tent to prepare. Caelifer doesn’t mind; the conversation has ended, they’re getting ready, and Astarion needs to pack his things. Find places to store daggers, poke and prod at his face, lace his boots.
Stop thinking about his routine, freak. Focus on the war you need to win.
They try not to think too hard about it and start to round up the field... Volunteers, yes, that’s what they’ll call it. Gale, Wyll, and Astarion — not exactly balanced, but a good group of spellcasters and stealth.
Gods, they’re going to die if they get any stronger.
——————————————————————————
Caelifer groans as a phase spider digs its mandibles into their right side, venom coursing through their veins. They spear it with their rapier, kicking its corpse away. Gods, they feel awful about this, but they need that gem, and the matriarch wasn’t particularly receptive to their offers of corpses and blood. Oh, well, what can you do?
Gale lets out a very embarrassed scream as the matriarch phase jumps to their cave jut-out, quickly coughing and trying to cover it up. There’s a slight giggle from next to Caelifer, and out of the corner of their eye, they can see Astarion biting his lip and trying not to laugh. What an asshole. At least wait until the wizard can’t hear you laugh at his pain.
Astarion, for his part, also stifles a scream when a phase spider jumps forward, throwing a dagger into its left eye. Caelifer snickers, turning away from Astarions side glare and focusing on the matriarch — no point in trying to reason now, when they’ve already killed a cluster of her eggs. Oh, dear Lolth, please don’t kill me…
“May Lady Lolth guide you in death!” Caelifer shouts, digging through the muck of their mind for their burial rites, “May you find your peace in the Abyss!” They slash at the matriarch's face, choking on the acrid smell of the eyes splitting open. She thrashes, snapping at Caelifer blindly, stumbling into the piercing rock. It does not kill her, no, because that would be too damned easy.
Wyll fires an eldritch blast into her abdomen, a hole burning into her side as she aimlessly tries to fight. Her clutch has been killed, her two protectors burnt to ash, and now all that remains is her staggering figure. Caelifer feels awful, of course they do, but they have a job to do.
Caelifer casts spell after spell, praying to Lolth that this is not a punishable act, praying for her forgiveness. Surely, she will understand that they need the gem for the tome, yes?
Gods, Caelifer is a horrible paladin.
The final slice is delivered to her abdomen, her organs spilling out like a buffet as she falls to her side, her legs curling as the blood in her stops pulsing. Astarion gags, Gale throws up behind a rock, but Wyll… Wyll swallows his bile and places a hand on Caelifers shoulder. They shudder at the touch, but it is welcome. Comforting, even.
“She rests with Lolth,” he says, his voice quiet, “You have released her from this plane. Now she ascends to the next.” Oh, he has no idea what he’s saying — but it’s… Sweet. He’s trying to comfort them. Gods, this man is a saint.
“Her soul shall find peace in the Abyss,” Caelifer sighs, shaking their head, “I only wish I had provided her a better death. She deserved a proper fight, not to be blinded and trapped.” They shut their eyes, forcing their mind to steady. “It does not matter. Her death was woven long before her birth. All I can do now is pray for her and her clutch.”
Wyll nods, leaving them to mourn the matriarch. A quick death rite, just barely memorized, is uttered quickly. Caelifer isn’t sure if the ache in their chest is a curse or mourning. They are one and the same, are they not? Death is the crow that pecks your eyes, the lamb that bleats in your ear, the centipede that crawls along your skin.
Caelifer swallows, opening their eyes finally and watching Astarion climb down the cliff. He saunters across the rocky surface, bending at the waist to pick up the gem, turning with a flourish and a grin. He catches Caelifers eye and winks.
Caelifer needs to slice his face open with their carving knife and watch his smile turn to nothing.
They turn away from him, focusing instead on dealing out healing, potions and spells, taking extra with Gale to ensure he is okay. The poor man, nearly fainted from just the sight of the first spider. No major wounds, just some light scratches and minor fatigue. Nothing a short rest can’t fix up.
——————————————————————————
As they pull themself and their party back up the well, Caelifer can not help but think about the way Astarion greets the sun. He is hesitant to look, to feel the warmth on his skin. Strange, they think, he is an elf, surely he has plenty of time in the daylight to bask and enjoy the light.
They have noticed the pallid tone of his skin, how he is careful to flirt but never touch, how he keeps his steps quiet and even, as if he is sneaking around some slumbering beast. A bad house, perhaps? His personality is bright and sardonic, is that a mask for a softer, sadder jester behind his grin?
Caelifer needs to dissect him and study his insides. They need to hold his liver and watch his heart beat and his lungs pump desperate breaths. Perhaps then they will understand why he is the way he is.
“We should rest,” they say, pulling themself out of the well, “The antidote needs to run through our systems before it flushes out the spider venom.” A glance at Gale, his face pale and a hand covering his mouth. “... And I believe Gale needs a moment to let his digestive system settle.”
No arguments from the group. Wyll finds a nice spot under a tree, the two goblin lookouts offer a blanket for them to sit on, and the four find comfort under the warm sun. Caelifer and Wyll share a small fruit platter, Gale death grips his antidote bottle, and Astarion… Does not eat. He simply reads from the tome they stole picked up. The gem, the purple eye that rests in the screaming mouth, glows dimly as he flips through the pages.
It is a quiet moment before a fight, before they continue with their journey and venture on. It is a quiet moment where Caelifer is allowed to sit and think and watch.
