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The heavens were never that impressive to Aylin. Thoughts of Argentil were just that - thoughts of home, and nothing more. The way mortals spun tales and wishes of their afterlives had always amused her. What could possibly entice them so?
Yet when she’d heard her voice call her name, the way Aylin had graced her lips for the first time in a century, her eternal heart stuttered. She saw her again and understood. The heavens had never been a place - they were Isobel, before whom she knelt and bowed her head.
She wished for nought but for her to be real.
When she cupped her face and raised her gaze, it was her. Her Isobel. Beloved. Changed, but her. She leaned into her touch - gloved, she realized, but hers nonetheless.
She had a room at Last Light. Terrible memories haunted its corners but better than staying at wretched Moonrise. They talked, laughed, and when the past inevitably became too heavy, they cried. A century of sorrow was no feeble task.
Isobel had kept her gloves on as they lay entangled in each other. She tried desperately to hide something from her - perhaps her fingers were as cold as her lips, or as pale as her face. She'd not unbuttoned a single clasp of her robe - perhaps there was no heartbeat beneath her chest, or no breath in her lungs.
There was no need to voice it. Any paladin worth their salt could see it.
Aylin knew at once that Isobel was undead.
But why should it matter? She was keeper of her heart and singer of her joy in all her shapes and forms. To hear her laughter was blessing enough, why dwell on anything more?
But mattered it did - to Isobel.
Then, they had a room in Baldur’s Gate - finally a new bed, devoid of the past. Nothing to remind them of what's transpired and yet still they remembered. It felt an inescapable truth.
Isobel, she found, was afraid of herself. If they had a mirror, she'd turn it. If she was to dress, she'd snuff the candles. She used gloves to hide stiff, blackened fingers and laced her garb up to the neck to hide autopsy scars across her chest. She powdered her face in an attempt to bring back its lively hue and always wore long sleeves, lest the green veins of still blood were visible across her forearms.
It was a warm afternoon, with clear skies and a lively sun. The window was cracked open, and a gentle breeze ruffled the curtains. A moment of peace which they’d longed for.
Isobel stood up from her prayers and Aylin reached out for her small, tender hand. She brought it up to her face, tenderly, simply wanting to feel her skin on hers. She was frigid, but she leaned into her all the same. A million words lay on her tongue - none in a language complex enough to fully express her love.
But Isobel's eyes widened in fear. She searched desperately for a sign she was hurting her with her newfound flesh - and there was none. Aylin had made a point to slowly kiss her palm, guiding her cold fingers down to her neck where they'd made her shiver pleasantly.
She leaned down, kissed her pale cheek, her jaw, and wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the feel of her beloved - returned miraculously back to her. She smiled against her skin. It felt cold and new, but soft and familiar. She took a staggered breath and Isobel smelled wonderfully of incense and the smoke of her candles.
Then her love pulled away.
Aylin straightened up and raised her brows in question. If Isobel had drawn back then she must respect it, but how to begin to understand why?
Isobel's lips moved and seemed to try and find the words. A confession brewed and bubbled but nothing was said.
Eventually, she simply stated she had a wrongness in her stomach and slipped away.
Aylin did not understand.
Though the Absolute lay defeated, their tasks were far from over. The Selunite enclave along the West coast had been most kind to welcome them, but their temple lay in ruin. A pack of most formidable foes had gathered in their cellars too and Aylin had to chuckle - they were rats. Plentiful rats.
Isobel insisted she would come down with her since, nay, she did not fear rodents, and thus they'd descended the darkened stairs into damp stone rooms. They'd smelled mildew that entire afternoon.
The squeaking and pattering of little feet were everywhere. Initially, they'd laid traps, though soon found some of the critters were massive, and likely rabid.
Aylin could barely see down in the depths, but half-elven Isobel was better equipped. She guided her in the dark. Wonderful, wise Isobel - ever her guiding light, such that the cellar became trivial to traverse.
And when the drooling, sharp-fanged rat had nearly seized her knee, it was Isobel’s sacred flame that burnt it to a crisp before it reached her. Aylin turned, smiling, about to jest at her “close call”, but Isobel had winced in pain and her smile instantly faded.
She'd recoiled at her own radiant energy - no doubt a plight on undead skin. She inhaled sharply, then hastily looked up to see if Aylin had noticed. When she'd met her gaze, a stark fear passed over her expression - or was it shame? The flame over the rat's body went out and she could no longer tell.
Aylin had opened her mouth to speak, but, just as soon, Isobel excused herself with a banal lie - one she spun pitifully at best. The paladin was left with a shattered heart.
How to explain that Isobel need not fear her new form? Aylin, never the mediator nor savant, was stumped. All she could do was love her. And love her she did.
Isobel adored lavender.
Its flowers were never impressive nor expensive, but her love liked their smell and delicate purple. When they settled in a room kindly offered to them, Aylin wasted no time in procuring a few coppers for a thick, lively bundle. She knew Isobel's routines like the back of her gauntlet - she'd arrange them neatly in a vase and, when they wilted (as all things must), she'd grind the dried flowers and use them for incense.
Aylin would smell them for days. A constant presence of her beloved, even if she was out.
She came in as she was dressing, carefully lacing her attire, pulling the strings taught and smoothening the fabrics. She glanced up when Aylin slid through the door, and, joyfully, her expression lit up at the sight of the bouquet. Aylin's heart vaulted to see her happy.
She held them out to her and felt oddly timid, like she was gathering the courage to ask to court her. Immortality aside, she felt young. Shy. Naive. Hopelessly enamoured with her noble crush. How sweet to remember they'd loved each other for so long.
Isobel's smile set her free from all the suffering she'd endured.
“Did you get these for me?” she asked, amused, as though she didn't know the answer.
“Of course. The most beautiful bundle they had but, alas, never enough to rival you.”
She cocked her head and Aylin half expected an eye roll but it never came. She smiled, pensively, and seemed to want to say something. The thought must have died on her tongue and she never voiced it.
“Thank you, my sweet angel.”
“For nought, my love.”
She took the bouquet, fingers carefully grasping all the stems together. Aylin had watched her movements hundreds of times and yet had never cast her eyes away. She would move with an unmatched elegance, procure a vase, and arrange each flower like the scene of a painting. The aasimar sighed wistfully, as if waiting for a favourite play to begin.
But something was wrong, and it happened so fast she’d almost missed it.
Isobel’s happy expression faded, her brows raised in shock, and she panickedly dropped the flowers to the floor. They splayed out, testing the limits of the string holding them together. Aylin’s body tensed, instinctively reaching for her sword before she realized there was nothing to fear. No one was in the room bar them, yet Isobel’s face was riddled with dread. She looked down at the lavender like she’d seen a ghoul. Aylin followed her gaze.
The green stems she’d handed to her beloved were shrivelled and grey, their leaves dry and crinkled. The once lively flowers were… dead. She frowned in confusion and bent down to pick them up.
“Don’t!” Isobel stopped her.
Aylin looked back at her. Her love no longer needed to breathe, yet her chest was shaking with erratic breaths. Perhaps a leftover instinct.
“I’m sorry,” Isobel quickly explained, balling her darkened fingers into a shameful fist. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I do it. I… I have to tell you something. Ever since I came back I’m… I’m…” she searched desperately for words and Aylin feared she would faint with panic.
“Isobel,” she reached out, stepping over the flowers to her. “My love, slow yourself.”
She’d gotten her to pause, just enough for their eyes to meet.
Aylin could not bear to see her trembling lip and budding tears. She cupped her face, gently, and hoped she was choosing the right words. “I already know.”
Isobel shook her head. “No.”
“I do.”
She went to protest, but stopped. She looked up at her, pleadingly waiting for her verdict.
“I know you are not of the living. I’ve known since our blessed reunion. It matters not to me, not one ounce.”
Isobel’s throat forced down a heavy gulp. “You knew?”
Aylin nodded. “Had you worried what I would think? I care not how you are. I care only that you are back to me.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“Something else is ailing you?”
Isobel’s eyes did not meet her. “Selune would not acknowledge it, and I didn’t want to tell you. I hoped it would be a nightmare dawn would undo, but no amount of dawns had done a thing.”
“My love, whatever it is, let me carry it with you. Do not burden yourself alone. Neither of us is without changes.”
“You will despise me.”
“Isobel!” She’d brought her other hand to her face, and did not let her turn away in shame. “Away with such thoughts! I would sooner tear my soul to be fed to the hounds of Avernus. You know this. I know you know this.”
Isobel shut her eyes and Aylin thumbed away the tears that fell.
“It’s not just that I’m undead,” she started to say, her voice barely above a whisper. “My magic is different. It’s wretched. Cursed. Necrotic. I swear I don’t mean to but… those are not the first flowers I’ve killed.”
Her chest shook with a sob and Aylin pulled her close. She let her bury her face in her shirt, wrapping her arms tight around her.
“My sweet Isobel,” she said, over and over, weaving it around her beloved’s stifled crying. How to explain that she would love her even if she were a lich? That she’d hold and cradle her even if she scorched her skin off?
“What became of me?” Isobel’s quiet voice tore her heart open. There was nought more painful than seeing her love mourn.
Aylin had no answer. In truth, she had seen clerics wield death before - apostles of dark Gods who revered it in all its shapes and forms. Reapers that could sap life force out of the living, and wield it for their purpose - perhaps for good, perhaps for bad. She had thought it wicked. How naive had she been? Now that she’d seen it at her love’s fingertips she couldn’t help but think it was just another beautiful strand of the Weave. Magic as any other. Sacred, if her Isobel had it.
“We shall find out, together,” she reassured her beloved cleric. “We will discover your newfound powers as one. No more hiding.”
Isobel didn’t say anything but she felt her tighten her arms around her waist. Soon, she lifted her head off her chest to look up at her.
“Why aren’t you afraid?”
Though the situation seemed dire, Aylin couldn’t help but smile. “What shoddy paladin do you think me to be? What is this afraid? ”
The jest might have worked, had Isobel been less distraught. “You know what I mean. It’s evil, awful magic.”
“It is neither, for it is yours.”
“But it isn’t right.”
“You, my wise and just Isobel, are all that’s right.”
She saw her thinking deeply. Aylin could still remember when her eyes used to be as dark as obsidian - now they were white as snow. Still, she lost herself in a boundless depth where she knew her love’s thoughts were limitless. She longed to hear every single one, each more precious than the last.
Eventually, she spoke, “The Moonmaiden has ignored all signs of it. She would not have me. Not like this.”
“Your circumstance is no fault of your own. My mother has little right to condemn it.”
“And if she does?”
“Then it is high time we forge our own path, is it not?”
“With blasphemous magic?”
“Nonsense. Who are we to fight against our own nature? If necrotic powers are your new blessing and you are truly to become a cleric of death, then is it not just another road for us to travel? Another journey we may brave together? And there is no blasphemy in that.”
“You are wildly optimistic.”
“Is it not right that I should be keen to see the powers my beloved wields?”
Isobel held her hand out to their side, looking at herself as though something awful might happen. “And what if I hurt you?”
Before she could say anything more, Aylin took her fingers and lifted them to her lips, pressing a long kiss to her cold knuckles. She smiled at Isobel’s bewildered look.
“See?” she said. “Nothing grim transpired. You will not hurt me.” She pried her fingers open, kissing the soft pads of her palm.
Though her eyes looked tired, a small smile tugged on the corners of Isobel’s mouth. “You really are fearless.”
Aylin had no intention of stopping, nuzzling instead against her sleeve as she continued her kisses to her wrist. Isobel’s perfume was most potent here - reminiscent of the wilted flowers at their feet. When she looked back at her, the tiny smile had blossomed on her cleric’s expression before she beckoned her down to her lips.
She tasted sweet, as she always did, and vaguely of salty tears. Aylin had always been tender, but she’d tried to outdo herself this time - Isobel deserved to know how highly she thought of her, and how devoted she was to caring for her, regardless of circumstance.
When they pulled away, it felt like a veil had lifted from between them.
“I’m sorry for keeping it from you,” Isobel said.
“I understand. It has not been easy for you to deal with, my love. All the more reason I wish to aid you with it.”
“Thank you.”
“You have nought to thank me for.” She draped her hand down the side of her face, happy to see that Isobel was finally leaning into her touch fully. She was no longer afraid that she would pull back from her. “I vow that nothing could pry me away from you, not again.”
“And neither me from you. I love you.”
“As I love you. We are changed, it is true, but this has not. It never shall.” She leaned in, touching their foreheads together. Her love’s expression came out of focus but she could recognise her smile as always. “And I shall get you new flowers.”
Isobel chuckled - a sound that soothed her broken and clattering heart.
“I may still salvage these ones into something. I might-”
“Grind them to a powder for incense?”
“Well…Yes actually. Am I that predictable?”
Aylin laughed, lifting her love by the waist and twirling her with joy. Their laughter blended into one before she put her back down, dizzy, and falling backwards onto a bed slightly too small for them. She never let go, pulling Isobel with her, and their kisses were only interrupted by their inability to be still.
Changed they were, yet all the same.