Chapter Text
Of all mornings to trade hunger for nerves, Foxglove thought, staring longingly at the plate of food in front of her. It all looked good - a portion of an egg-and-mushroom scramble, an arrangement of delicately-sliced neon fruits of the Underdark, and an aromatic, herbed sausage link, still steaming. But she couldn’t bring the fork to her mouth.
Foxglove put her plate to the side, appetite absent. Sighing, she caught Wyll’s eyes across the fire, mouthing an apology. Wyll, the morning’s cook, waved her off, but the concern in his gaze lingered.
Fondly, Foxglove shook her head. Wyll was a good man, a kind man, whose affection and company she greatly enjoyed. They were guided by similar moral compasses - bound by similar duties, under different callings.
Halsin, at her side, was eyeing her too - the healer’s look. She smacked the back of her hand into his bicep.
“I’m fine, mother.”
His answering smile was teasing. “You speak to your mother that way?”
Foxglove snorted. “No. Salt of the earth, for an elf, she was. My folks were farmers,” she explained. “I’d have been given double chores if I so much as breathed at her with disrespect. Wisteria got away with it, though,” she smiled, thinking of her younger sister. The blessing of a second child, she mused, to escape scrutiny while the oldest could not.
“Your sister?”
“Yes,” Foxglove nodded. “Did I not tell you her name, when we spoke of her?” Halsin shook his head, eyes gentle. The story she’d told him was not a happy one, but she was touched that he remembered her talking of Wisteria, even in her blood-loss, near-death stupor.
“Wisteria was the light of everyone’s life. Mine included,” Foxglove said. She did not feel like unpacking this grief today - not with everyone watching, not with heavy decisions to be made. So she cleared her throat, and eyed her friends.
“While we’re all gathered,” Foxglove said. The chatter died. Distantly, Foxglove felt the thrill of leadership, of command. A blessing and a curse. “We need to determine our next steps.”
Gale frowned. “I thought you told Thulla we’d rescue her friends. Is that not the plan?”
“I still believe we should honor that promise,” Foxglove nodded. “And we haven’t found the ancient stronghold Halsin spoke of. We know the gnomes wait for us across the lake - and I’d wager the stronghold does, too.”
Gale stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue. Jaw clenched, Foxglove looked at her other companions.
“There are other promises we must also honor,” Foxglove admitted. “Lae’zel, you wish to visit Creche Y’llek.”
“Yes,” Lae’zel agreed, eagerness a stranger in her voice. “The zaith’isk will purify us. My people have a sacred obligation to the infected, drawn from our ancient battle with the ghaik.”
Nodding, Foxglove pulled the strange artifact out of a small leather pouch attached to her waist belt. The prism was always near her; the artifact seemed to follow her through some means of teleportation - she’d never seen it fly after her, but she’d blink and it would appear, resting as if it had always been on that table, or on the ground nearby, or in her pack.
Foxglove felt more than heard the stiffening of her companions, the interest and sharp intake of breath.
“This is a githyanki artifact,” Foxglove explained, turning her body slightly to face Halsin beside her. His brow was furrowed, eyes switching between Foxglove and the prism in her hands. “I lied to you, when we met. You asked how we were protected against the Absolute’s voice. This is how,” she said, nodding at the artifact.
“I see,” Halsin’s voice rumbled through her. She was relieved to hear his normal, measured tone - no anger, no disappointment. "It looks very alien - as alien as the mind flayers. It's githyanki in nature, you said?" Foxglove nodded, pleased Halsin's first move was towards inquiry, not interrogation.
She had hoped he would understand. Wisdom dictated that she not reveal all her secrets within minutes of meeting someone new, no matter the pull to trust them.
Glancing first at Lae’zel, then at a glowering Shadowheart, Foxglove hoped they would understand, too.
“Shadowheart, you stole this artifact from somewhere or something. It belongs to the githyanki,” Foxglove said. Shadowheart opened her mouth to reply, quick to anger, but Foxglove continued on. “But it is our salvation, and we cannot afford to part with it.”
“You must part with it,” Lae’zel hissed. “You said so yourself - it belongs to my people. Once we have been purified by the zaith’isk, none of you will have any need of it.”
“I must return it to Baldur’s Gate,” Shadowheart protested. “While it is of use to us, I sense that I cannot take it back from Foxglove. But regardless of whose it was a season ago, it is mine now, and I will complete my mission. Whatever that requires,” she threatened, voice low and vicious.
Foxglove felt the tautness of divine presence, noticed a coolness, and the sensation of being watched. The area quieted, and on the edges of the clearing, the darkness seemed to grow, tendrils easing out to taste the light they could conquer.
But then it was gone.
“An oath heard and witnessed,” Foxglove whispered, dismayed. Shadowheart looked elated, triumphant.
“My Lady Shar blesses me,” she said, beaming. Such a radiant smile on a disciple of the Dark Lady, Foxglove thought. Gathering herself, Shadowheart stood. “I must go offer my thanks. Whatever you decide to do, I am not stepping foot inside that creche. I vote we send Lae’zel in on her own. Do not,” she fixed her gaze on Foxglove, sobering for a moment. “Do not give them the artifact.”
Shadowheart turned, and with growing dread, Foxglove realized Shadowheart trusted her. Not just with her safety, but with something far more important: her vows, her devotion. There was hardly a threat in Shadowheart’s instruction to Foxglove; it was an expectation.
“Okay,” Foxglove said wearily. “Who wants to go to the creche?
In the end, Foxglove, Karlach, and Gale accompanied Lae’zel to Rosymorn Monastery, where Creche Y’llek had taken over the ruins of an old Lathanderian structure.
Except, Foxglove learned, that wasn’t really what happened.
The view from the cable car was stunning, divine, and Foxglove could not help but whisper prayers of thanks to her own Lord for granting her a life rich enough, long enough to see such beauty. She whispered a second prayer, a gentle gratitude to the Morninglord, for the golden light that illuminated His creation and His splendor.
The first skeletons gave Foxglove pause. She felt the itching sensation of something wrong as she carefully turned over the body of a monk, clothed in dirty remains of their habit and cowl.
“Gods be with us,” Foxglove murmured, that itching turning fully to foreboding alertness. “May the Crying God soothe the suffering that remains. May the Morninglord give you new life, in death.”
She felt the warmth of Ilmater like a cloak on her shoulders, and her anxiety grew. He was watching, He was listening. There was more here to find, it would seem, and uneasily, she led the group forward, around the upper ruins of Rosymorn.
Each body Foxglove found was a small incision on her spirit; one alone was painful but easily cared for, but they came in droves, the anguish unmanageable, the constant tearing of her soul and empathy as she saw skeleton after skeleton, the remains of Lathander’s devoted.
And then Foxglove saw the ancient githyanki corpses, found the obvious signs of battle, the written log of invasion, and clarity rushed in like the first breath of fresh air after their time underground.
Martyrs, all of them. The Lathanderian monks, clerics, and paladins - those who sought to serve the god of new beginnings, of hope, of ubiquitous altruism - slaughtered in the sanctuary they built, lying dead in the desecrated remains of the monastery which once stood as evidence of their praise of the Commander of Creativity.
Foxglove felt the Broken God’s sorrow, His fury. But still He held her, His warmth an anchor against the unsteadiness that threatened her.
Doing her best to conceal her shaking hands, Foxglove led her companions through a pack of gremishka, into the nature-claimed cavernous ruins of the upper floors of Rosymorn, past the nest of an ancient giant eagle, until they came to a locked door, humming with divine energy.
She wondered if Silvanus knew of this place; if the reclamation of the structure for the wilds and His creatures was the fruit of His work. However Rosymorn came to be ruined, Foxglove hoped Lathander would approve of it now - in the death of this place, new life.
Karlach made quick work of the lock, her fingers and talons more dexterous than the rest of her suggested, and the door swung open. The last thing Foxglove expected to see was godlight, shining through the barricade of beds someone had placed before the door.
Climbing over the furniture, Foxglove’s heart broke.
A Guardian, conjured in a cleric’s final hours. A plea and a promise to Lathander, the cleric must have lost themselves in the need of it, for the Guardian of Faith was still standing, decades, perhaps a century, later.
Turning back to her companions, her face grave, Foxglove warned them of what lay ahead. “Do not touch the Guardian,” she murmured. “Give it space - a body length, or two.”
As her friends entered the room, careful footsteps swallowed by the faint hum of divine magic, Foxglove delicately extricated a burnt journal from under the bones of a long-dead faithful.
To whom it may concern, if this is found, this is the journal of Brother Wellan, novice of Lathander, documenting the githyanki attack on Rosymorn Monastery for posterity. The githyanki launched their attack at dawn…
Foxglove’s fingers shook as she traced Brother Wellan’s words. Dawn - a holy time, a thinning between the material and the divine, in particular for the servants of Lathander. Did the githyanki know? Was it part of their strategy, to strike the monastery at a time most holy? Or did they not know, and not care; did they see the monks as an inconvenience, their faith a weakness?
Carefully, Foxglove edged around the Guardian’s aura, whispering platitudes. She would not harm it; she would let no one harm it. To have lasted so long, to glow still in divine protection, was a testament to the conjuring cleric’s faith, to Lathander’s grief-
Wrath and sorrow wrapped around her like ivy. Constricting, she could hardly breathe-
The comforting warmth of Ilmater became a burning, hissing heat. Foxglove wondered if her feet left scorch marks in their wake, if she might breathe fire if she screamed loud enough.
“I need a rest,” Foxglove panted, one hand clutched to her breast. Gale turned to look at her in concern, eyes widening when he read the fury and anguish painted clearly across her face.
“Chk,” Lae’zel tutted, annoyance unhidden. “We must keep moving. The creche must be farther in.”
Foxglove clenched her eyes closed, gritted her teeth. Sweat was gathering at her brow.
Martyred Father, I beg of thee, Foxglove prayed. Grant me the tolerance to speak in kindness to the uncaring. I will bear the burden of this disrespect. I will suffer. I will endure.
Blessedly, Ilmater’s grace in that matter was unneeded; Gale asked Lae’zel to scout while the three of them rested. The githyanki, eager to find her salvation at last, easily agreed, announcing she’d return within the hour.
“Foxglove,” Gale said calmly, once Lae’zel was out of earshot. “Nice, big, deep breath for me, please - yes, that’s it,” he praised her. Foxglove could barely hear him behind the rushing of blood past her ears, the furious thundering of her own heart, the thousand screams of Ilmater’s suffering echoing through her.
The deep breath she took at Gale’s insistence was like bellows to the fire inside Foxglove, stoking the flames until they threatened to overtake her.
Karlach looked on, deep concern showing on her face. Foxglove noticed the way the tiefling gripped her own hands, as if to stop herself from reaching for Gale, for Foxglove. Another stab of sorrow, of pain; for Karlach, who for all her empathy, could not comfort her friends the way she wanted to.
Martyred Father, I beg of thee, grant me the soundness of mind to soothe the still-living sufferers, in body and spirit. I will take on their pain, I will suffer. I will endure.
Gale guided her to lean, then sit, against the weather-worn hallway: stone, smoothed by time, that once stood as part of Rosymorn’s inner walls. Kneeling before her, he pressed one of her hands between both of his. “What can we do, my friend?”
Foxglove shook her head. What could any of them do in the face of an atrocity?
“He is present, the Broken God, and His mercy has reached an end,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Slaughtered in cold blood, slaughtered by the githyanki, my brothers and sisters in service, the Morninglord’s devoted - how could they? How could they - He is furious, it is an insult to the Lord on the Rack, martyrs discarded like broken dolls.”
“Easy, soldier,” Karlach cautioned her. “You’re burning almost as hot as me, and that for sure isn’t good for you.” Foxglove could hear the frown in Karlach’s voice, could feel the woman’s eyes assessing whether Foxglove’s anguish might manifest in divine radiance, sacred flame-
Gulping cold mountain air, Foxglove prayed once more.
He Who Endures, I beg of thee, grant me the endurance to withstand this pain. I will not wish it away, I will not dishonor Lathander’s fallen, Your martyred children. I will end their torment. I will suffer. I will endure.
The heat faded at once, returning to that soft, glowing warmth. Shuddering, Foxglove closed her eyes against the grief and anguish. Ilmater’s ire had receded, but the pain did not.
His voice, kind and gentle overtop the unending screams wrenched from His throat, ricocheted through her, a white-hot lance.
Be My blade, be My justice once more. So mote it be.
And there - behind Ilmater’s voice, past the terrible and sacred sounds of his torture, there was the chirping of a songbird, the laughter of a young child, the easy stillness of dawn.
So mote it be.
Foxglove could have laughed - she might have, she couldn’t be sure, so shocked to hear another god’s voice in her mind. Her Lord’s voice was a gift and an omen, the rare occasions she heard it. Now twice, in as many tendays. The new voice could only be Lathander, the Bringer of the Dawn, lending His optimism and hope to scaffold Ilmater’s tolerance and endurance and righteous anger.
The blessing of the gods’ attention flowing through her, Foxglove searched for peace amongst the onslaught of sorrow. Collecting herself, she let Ilmater’s warmth soothe her, relaxing the tightening muscles in her shoulders.
“Your kindness is a boon I did not know to ask for,” she whispered, eyes opening to find Gale still kneeling in front of her. She looked up then, and eyed Karlach, longing clear on the tiefling's face. “Come sit,” Foxglove patted the ground next to her. “And I will explain.”
As Karlach lowered herself next to Foxglove, several inches between their bodies, Foxglove spoke.
“Ilmater is the god of martyrs, among His other domains. All of the fallen here - not the gith, not those - but the rest of them, they are all martyrs in service to the Morninglord. Not all who die in battle are martyrs, true, and perhaps some of them were seeking escape when they were struck down, but to be killed on holy ground, when you are in service to the god whose divinity blesses that place, is always an act of sacrifice.”
Foxglove licked her lips, pausing to consider how she might explain the gods’ presence, what was asked of her, what she promised.
“I have spent my entire adult life in service to the Broken God, and He has asked of me many things, but most often He asks that I be the end of His mercy; that I dispatch those who are beyond His forgiveness. And whatever remains of Creche Y’llek - whatever is down there - they are well beyond His mercy, clear targets of His holy fury. He has aimed me, and I must loose the arrow.”
Gale sat back on his heels, hands freed from Foxglove’s. He stared hard at her face - it was almost amusing, to be the object of his study. Foxglove knew Gale’s mind to be complex and brilliant and beautiful, but it was odd to be on this end of it.
“Are you Ilmater’s Chosen?” His voice was even, but Foxglove could see the concern, the trepidation: to be Chosen, to be demanded of, to be cast out - he worried that he was looking in a mirror, and that Foxglove would know the same fate as him.
It would never be that way, for her, Foxglove knew. She regarded Gale’s fear gently, like a nestling in need of protection, but his past and her future were entirely different, she knew.
“No,” she shook her head. “No. Dara, His previous Chosen, died this year. The position is open, but should He choose to appoint another, I would anticipate a healer filling that role - a cleric of Ilmater’s grace,” she sighed. “My methods are not always well-understood by my fellow clergy, but clearly and gratefully I accept Ilmater’s blessings on my actions.”
“I see,” Gale hummed, studying her, concern only slightly alleviated.
“So…” Karlach drawled. “That was Ilmater telling you to go smash in some githyanki skulls?”
Snorting, Foxglove nodded. “In more sanctified words, yes.”
“Lae’zel’s not gonna like that,” Karlach pointed out.
Foxglove nodded, swallowing tightly. “I know. But it is His holy edict, and it is not unwarranted violence. The githyanki slaughtered these monks, every single one of them, unprovoked. And then, martyrs all, they were left to weather the Rotting God’s decay, forgotten to time.”
Foxglove closed her eyes, resting her head back against the stone. It was sun-warmed, even without the direct rays of the sun. The building was Lathander’s own, even now.
“Ilmater’s mercy emboldens me to see Lae’zel to her own salvation first. Once she has been purified in the zaith’isk,” if she could be purified in the zaith’isk, Foxglove thought, “And once the three of you are clear of this place, I will enact Ilmater’s vengeance on it.”
“Oh, f*ck no,” Karlach laughed. “And leave you all alone to fight probably dozens of warriors plus a horde of baby gith? You’re mad, man. And besides - Lathander’s the god of hope, right? We probably want Him on our side too. This will be a nice little present for Him,” Karlach smirked. “His temple all cleared out and ready for a new beginning.”
“You don’t know how right you are,” Foxglove laughed, mouth towards the sky. “He wills it, too. I’m pretty sure He’s watching right now, if you feel like praying,” she admitted, looking at Karlach now through narrowly opened eyes.
“Oh Lathander, Morninglord, grant me Your radiance to beat the sh*t out of some alien invaders,” Karlach grinned. Gale snorted, and a smile stretched across Foxglove’s face.
But Karlach’s words pulled something in her chest - that sadness, the finality and gruesomeness of an absolute death, what she was called to bring to the people of the creche.
All of them? Foxglove thought. The younglings? The innocent?
There was no answer. Only the command from her Lord, still echoing: be My blade, be My justice.
The Bringer of the Dawn, however, had more to say. A golden-orange beam of light appeared as if one of dawn’s own rays, passing over their heads and into the room where the Guardian still stood.
Scrambling to her feet, Foxglove followed it, mesmerized. In the doorway, she stilled as the beam landed on a discarded battleaxe at the Guardian’s feet. Blinking, she stepped towards the Guardian, hoping - wondering - if this was permission, or if she would feel the burning slash of the Guardian’s blade.
Foxglove carefully crept over the barricade again, hissing a warning to Gale and Karlach behind her. “The Morninglord sends a message,” she breathed. “Do not come any closer to the Guardian.”
Carefully, she stood outside of its aura. She thought about talking to it, reminding it like she would a frightened creature, that she meant it no harm. Instead, she focused on her faith, on how she would set this place to rights in Ilmater’s name, with Lathander’s blessing-
And miraculously, she passed into the Guardian’s aura, its divine warmth lapping at her in welcome and not in enmity.
Calmly, she hefted the battleaxe from the ground. It was serviceable, if dirty, and encrusted with amber, topaz, and carnelian. Ceremonial, then - or it belonged to someone quite important. Turning, Foxglove exited the aura, wonder and relief mixing as the edge of the aura rippled, calming eventually to a stop. Still, the Guardian stood.
Gale’s eyes were fixed on the axe. “I think Lathander has more than a message for us. I have a brilliant idea.”
-*-
“Listen to me,” Foxglove yelled through Lae’zel’s screams. “You do not have to endure this, Lae’zel! It will kill you.”
Snarling her frustration, Foxglove could do little but stare as Lae’zel gave herself over to the pain, to the misery of the zaith’isk. There was nothing honest Foxglove could say that would persuade Lae’zel, and she was a sh*t liar, so Foxglove did what she did best: she prayed.
Lord on the Rack, I beg thee, remove her pain. Let her know Your gentle comfort. Breathe ease into her body, grant her Your boon, my Lord, to break free of this instrument of torment. She will not survive. She will not survive this.
It was not Ilmater who answered her prayer. The deep, smooth voice of the Dream Guardian, who had warned her not to come in, who had scorned her when she ignored him, rang through Foxglove’s mind.
Enough!
The zaith’isk erupted in lilac light, crumbling before them. The ghustil, enraged, thrust a finger at Lae’zel.
“You have ruined my life’s work,” she cried. “Your parasite lives.”
“I am githyanki,” Lae’zel roared back. “I will not be ghaik.”
Foxglove held her breath, half expecting to feel the presence of another unknown divine. They’d been too present, claiming oaths and promises, levying quests, guiding the path. She was almost more surprised not to feel the momentary stillness of the gods’ witness.
“Wait here,” the ghustil hissed. “I will gather my tools. We must extract it.”
Foxglove had no intention to wait. She could see the edge of obsession in the ghustil’s eyes, the fanatical need for vengeance that Foxglove knew too well. Striding to Lae’zel, Foxglove laid her hands on the githyanki’s upper arms.
“Listen to me, Lae’zel,” Foxglove said, voice low and intent. She called on all her experience of leadership, knowing in her confusion and grief Lae’zel would cling to the direction of a commander. “There will be a fight beyond those doors. Can you continue?”
Foxglove let what little healing magic she had ease over Lae’zel’s body. There were no physical wounds to mend, but Foxglove could feel the fatigue of the other woman’s muscles. She squeezed Lae’zel’s thin arms.
Nodding, Lae’zel’s face fell into that fierce attention Foxglove knew was her norm in battle. “Confirmed. Then we must see the Inquisitor. The zaith’isk must have been compromised, the ghustil a traitor.”
Foxglove didn’t have it in her to argue with Lae’zel, to reveal what she’d learned: the machine was never meant to purify anyone. It was an object of torture, of extraction, of murder. She didn’t want to think how many people, githyanki or otherwise, might have turned up here seeking salvation, how many bodies tumbled out of the machine, lifeless and violated.
Foxglove didn’t know whether all zaith’isk were built that way, or if Lae’zel was right, and the ghustil was a traitor to her people, having built such a monstrous contraption. It hardly mattered, right now.
“One fight at a time,” Foxglove said firmly. “Let’s go.”
Foxglove buried her compassion for the youth in the room outside waiting for them. For her Lord, for Lae’zel, this killing was justified.
It was a reasoning she’d used enough over the decades of her service to Ilmater, and it rang true. But lately, the toll of the dead weighed on her, their blood loosening her grasp on Ilmater’s teachings and her morality.
Shuddering, she buried those thoughts, too. With what laid ahead of her today, she could not afford to falter. The Broken God and the Morninglord yearned for justice, and justice she would deliver - starting with the githyanki beyond the doorway.
Sharing a grim look with Gale, she counted down silently from five. At one, she kicked open the door and hit the stone floor, the whoosh of something hot and fast ripping past her.
“Arde! ” Gale bellowed, and the room beyond erupted into flames.
So it began. Clamoring to her feet, Foxglove wasted no time, morningstar in her hand swinging back before slamming into the side of a githyanki warrior.
-*-
Foxglove gulped down a glass bottle filled with water, pouring the last bit of it over her face to wash away the blood. Blinking away the liquid, Foxglove took a centering breath, and called her friends’ attention.
“Next steps,” Foxglove said, voice clipped. “Lae’zel, I know you want to report to the Inquisitor about the machine, but what are you going to do when he learns you are infected and the means of purifying you failed to work? And how do we get past the kith’rak? She guards the door to his chamber, and we’re not giving up the artifact to go in.”
Foxglove crossed her arms over her chest, holding firm. Before they found the zaith’isk, the kith’rak questioned them about the prism - which, worryingly, was referred to here as “the weapon” - and refused to speak to them unless they produced the object.
“The Inquisitor will inform Vlaakith, my queen, of the ghustil’s treachery,” Lae’zel argued. “They will find a way to cure us.”
“Everything we have learned up to this point, including from the ghustil, is that our parasites are abnormal,” Gale interjected. “If the githyanki could cure anyone of the little aberrations, they would be doing so already and the threat of the Absolute would be greatly limited.”
Nodding in agreement, Foxglove continued. “I wanted this to work, Lae’zel, but it didn’t. Continuing to engage with the githyanki puts us in danger. There is nothing else they can offer us.”
Foxglove held Lae’zel’s stare, willing herself to breathe steady, to remain naturally still.
She hadn’t told Lae’zel of Ilmater’s command. How could she? The betrayal was a churning poison in her gut. And to know Gale and Karlach knew, were complicit in this betrayal - it was even worse, and Foxglove almost wished they’d turn on her.
But the bonds of friendship, of loyalty, of like-minded survival, tied them closer to Foxglove than to Lae’zel.
It was a bittersweet realization. To have their trust, and to be abusing it so in the name of her god. Was this what her service amounted to?
She heard Halsin’s voice in her mind, the night she held his hand in compassion and comfort.
Even in faith, doubt is healthy. It means you have not yet lost your own senses, your assessment of the world around you. Your goodness, your morality, is a strength you bring to your Lord and to your friends.
Groaning, Foxglove dropped her head forward, running one hand over her hair.
“f*ck, I can’t-” she shook her head. “This cannot be the only way.”
Aware of her companions watching her, confusion and concern evident, she dropped to her knees, head bowed in supplication, mumbling a prayer. She saw Karlach inch towards Lae’zel, hand drifting to the latches that would free the great axe across her own back.
“Guide me, my Martyred Father. Show me the path. Your compassion is endless, Your forgiveness eternal. I beg for Your mercy, in my disobedience. I have served You for nine decades, I will serve You even in my dying breaths,” Foxglove cried, desperation taking over. She tilted her head up, as if she might find answers raining down. “You teach Your children to be faithful stewards of Your will. Will more bloodshed honor the Morninglord’s martyrs? There are children here, the future given form. Grant me the grace to spare the innocent, and I promise, those responsible will know Your fury. I will remain Your blade, Your justice. Please,” Foxglove begged.
“What is this?” Lae’zel hissed. “Spare the innocent? What have you planned?”
Karlach, prepared for Lae'zel's reaction, tucked her fingers over the edge of Lae’zel’s plate, near her neck.
“If you take one more step towards her, you’re going to get real toasty. These hands run hot. And I don’t want to do that, Lae’zel,” Karlach murmured. Gale watched on, hands loose at his sides; a wizard’s fighting stance. The calculation on Lae’zel’s part was quick - outnumbered and outmatched, she would not win a fight against the three of them.
Foxglove hardly noticed. What mattered anymore? Ilmater's Butcher, she reminded herself. She was the Broken God’s sharp edge, the only way she could serve Him, and still, she would fail today.
Shuddering, Foxglove heard first Ilmater’s screams and then His kindness.
Child mine, you suffer, He cooed. Faithful girl, you need not cry. Your way will clear, the paths align. Find W’wargaz. You will endure.
It was not an absolution, but it was close enough. His attention to her, to her prayers - even in her disobedience, He favored her. She could do no more than trust that His will was as good, and pure, and right as it had always been. That her doubt had been received with empathy and understanding, the grace He always walked with.
Foxglove felt Ilmater’s presence slip away. To W’wargaz, the Inquisitor, then. She’d have to explain to Lae’zel what Ilmater and Lathander asked of her, what she had promised the gods.
She had no doubts that that confession would lead to a fight, one she would suffer through. Foxglove wondered if she could convince Gale and Karlach to stand aside, to go back to camp and tell the others of her treason against Lae’zel, in her god’s name, so that she might be spared the pain of laying out her guilt to the rest of them, and instead only face their punishment.
Collecting herself, Foxglove opened her eyes, steeling against the fury she knew would be on Lae’zel’s face.
Only, it wasn’t: Gale was staring at her, face stricken. Karlach’s jaw was loose, eyes wide. Lae’zel was stuck somewhere between confusion and triumph.
Frozen, Foxglove stared back, like a deer frozen at the sound of a twig snapping.
“Does He always sound like that?” Gale asked, voice cracking. Foxglove blinked - did He, did they-?
“That’s the god in your head? No wonder you’re so intense all the time,” Karlach breathed, whatever decorum she possessed forgotten.
“I- what?” was all Foxglove managed to say, racing to catch up. “You heard Him? He spoke to you?”
“He spoke to you, Foxglove, but aloud– we heard Him, too,” Gale mused. “You prayed, He responded. With very clear directions.”
Nodding, Foxglove heaved a sigh. “He blesses us all, then, with His presence.” Assessing Lae’zel, suspiciously quiet, Foxglove swept a hand towards the ground between them. “Will you sit? I will explain.”
There was no easy way to do it, Foxglove thought, as the three of them settled onto the stone floor. How did one tell someone to whom they were supposedly an ally that one’s god demanded the death of their people?
Directly, Foxglove supposed.
“The githyanki invaded this sacred ground,” Foxglove said blandly. “The bodies of the monks outside are not the casualties of war, they are the victims of unprovoked slaughter. Martyrs. Your people found this place appealing for their purposes, and so they eviscerated Lathander’s faithful.”
Lae’zel’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, so Foxglove continued.
“Ilmater is the god of martyrs, and He maintains good relations with Lathander, the Morninglord, the revered of this monastery. They both seek justice and reclamation, by the death of the githyanki occupying the ruins of this place. I am sworn to carry that out.”
Foxglove watched the githyanki carefully, waiting for her to spring to her feet, greatsword slashing down.
“You were afraid to tell me,” Lae’zel said. It wasn’t what Foxglove expected - she expected fierce anger, Lae’zel’s loyalty manifesting as violence - but it was the truth, so Foxglove nodded her head in assent. “Do not be so stupid, she’lak. The blood of thousands have quenched my blade, githyanki and istik alike. Where my Queen commands, I strike. We are not so dissimilar, child of Ilmater.”
Lae’zel ran an appraising gaze over Gale and Karlach, and then Foxglove. “You would not survive such a crusade, even with the soldier and the wizard at your side, but your death is yours to wager for,” she shrugged. “Until you trespass against me, I will stay my blade.”
“I am trespassing against you,” Foxglove said, incredulous. “You just heard a god tell me to kill Inquisitor W’wargaz. How is that-”
Lae’zel cut her off. “No, k'chakhi, a god told you to find the Ch’r’ai, not to kill him. We are aligned in this,” Lae’zel emphasized. “Let us go to the Inquisitor. What comes after, comes after.”
