Chapter Text
“I’ll be back!” Anthony took off running before the words were fully out.
Shadowheart paused in the middle of her comment. “I hope we haven’t seen the last of—“
Anthony was gone. What had been a brief day dream about Amn was now a mad dash under the balcony where Astarion, skin cracking and shouldering had disappeared.
“Oh stop that!”
Anthony froze. The edge of panic was gone from Astarion's voice as he protested.
“Scratch, I mean it.”
Anthony approached cautiously, the sound of obnoxious licking filling the air. Astarion's chest was heaving under scratch’s two muddy paws. Scratch’s face was pressed to Astarion’s, the dog’s tongue running against the newly cracked and flaking skin. It must’ve hurt, but Astarion made no move to push scratch away. He groaned, but his breathing was slowing and his eyes closed. Anthony didn’t approach, turning back towards the heroes that watched on.
Anthony turned back, slowly turning back to the group. He felt himself reaching for their minds, like muscle memory from a missing limb. He’d felt such relief the tadpole had burned itself out, but now the relief was replaced with a rising feeling of nausea that he was alone in his own mind. No Bhaal. No butler. Only him. All of him.
They rejoined the group, keeping a distance between them and him.
“Will Astarion join us for drink?” Jaheria asked.
“We will when the sun sets in a few hours.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Shadowheart murmured, glancing at the crowd that was already beginning to form around them.
“Boo would like to get away from the battle stench.”
“I, for one, would also appreciate a cleaner local.” Gale looked towards Anthony for some type of approval.
“You guys go back to the tavern,” Anthony murmured, the energy draining from their body all as once. “I’ll stay here until we’re ready to join you.”
“Are you sure? Astarion is perfectly capable of finding his own way back.”
“Yes, Gale, I’m sure.” Anthony softened. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Jaheria nodded once, solemn and precise. She and Minsc turned to leave, their laughs echoing off the buildings. Anthony wasn’t sure if the jovial pair was uplifting or sickening next to the void they felt in their chest. Shadowheart and Gale lingered longer, but then, they too were gone. And Anthony was alone, only the muffled sounds of Asterion and Scratch reminding them they were waiting on someone.
And they stood, the energy rush of battle draining all at once. The muscles that had climbed the stem of the nether brain now screamed and throbbed with an ache that felt like it reached into their very bones. The armor that had deflected attack after attack was heavy, like an anchor pulling them into the earth. Anthony pulled Serovak’s helmet off, throwing it to the ground where it rolled. He watched it, a wave of nausea flooding him at it lurched to a stop against Orpheus’ illithid corpse, laid to rest by the sword at Anthony’s hip.
Ketheoric's armor was suffocating. He had survived the battle just for this hunk of metal to wrap around him until his life sputtered out completely. He was most of the way through the motions of pulling it off before he realized what he was doing. The metal hit the ground with a resounding thud.
Anthony stood in the midst of Baldur’s Gate, undershirt stained yellow with weeks of sweat and inconsistency washing. Their leggings were torn in several places, the material thinning from abuse. They stood, heaving, and collapsed into the pier, eyes fixed on the sky that burned with the remnants of the fight. They swore they could still see the vague impressions of departing dragons, though the ache in their chest murmured that Lae’Zel was long gone.
Anthony’s hands shook, but they stilled soon enough as a soul aching emptiness crept in. It was over. Orin was dead. The Emperor was dead. Gortash was dead. He was sad to see the avatar of Bane die, though he wasn’t sure why. Gortash occupied the shadow of a memory in a fractured mind, but it was a happy shadow. It was a shadow that made the corners of his mouth turn upwards. It was a shadow he would have liked to ask about, and now he was dead and whatever shared history had existed dead with him.
Anthony turned their head to face Astarion. The elf sat, eyes closed, Scratch across his lap. Astarion opened one eye and guested to the open spot under the balcony. Anthony groaned, half standing, half crawling to Astarion. They collapsed, Scratch raising his head with the force of it and pulling his body forward so he straddled both of them. Anthony could feel the growing bruises protesting as Scratch crushed them with his weight, but he didn’t utter a word. He sat silent, trying to will the warmth of the dog and the slight pressure of Astarion’s head on his shoulder to fill the gnawing void.
“You don’t have to say here, you know.”
Astarion’s voice cut through the settling debris. Anthony didn’t say anything, struggling to open his mouth and force words through.
“I was a vampire for centuries before I met you. I can handle a little sunlight.”
“I don’t want to get drinks right now.”
“It’s very sweet of you to stick around, but you don’t—“
“Are you asking me to leave?”
Astarion sputtered. “No. Not at all. I just—“
“Then I’m staying.”
Astarion opened his mouth and shut it a few times, eventually settling on silence.
“Are you… okay? You seemed perfectly fine earlier and now you’re all-" he bared his fangs, "scary again.”
“I spent so long convincing Gale not to blow himself up that I didn’t realize I was doing the same thing. I don’t know what to do with myself now that I survived. We survived. All of us.”
“That’s what we do. We killed a devil, remember?”
“How do you keep going? You’re immortal and I’m so fucking tired after a few decades.”
“What like I’d let someone kill all this? Cazador is dead. What’s not to live for?”
Anthony bit their tongue. “You’re right. I just need some sleep.”
“Go back to the inn. I’ll join you when I’m ready.”
“I don’t want to—“
“Get some sleep. I’ll see you when the sun sets.”
Anthony nodded and stood, snaking his arm through the discarded breastplate. He could feel the viscera of the brain sloughing off onto his shirt and down his pants. His creation, splattered over the city of Baldur’s Gate. He wished he remembered why he’d done it. He wished he remembered if he loved it, or took pride in it. It had remembered him and used him. He couldn’t help but feel somewhere that its toying with him was love as he had shown it.
Withers said the memories would overwhelm them, but Anthony wished they understood who they were. Gortash hadn’t described a mindless abomination. The nether brain hadn’t either.
The Elfsong Inn, standing tall like it had for centuries, stood before him. He could see his allies sharing a toast and he froze. He rooted in the satchel at his hip for a scroll. Disguise self. He murmured slightly, twisting his fingers in the way that he’d seen Shadowheart do and the scroll crumbled to dust in his fingertips. Anthony slipped into the inn, right past each of his friends, pushed upstairs, and passed out on the bed before he had a moment to reflect.
And so Durge—now called Anthony—slept. Anthony relished the black void of dreams free of mindflayers or Gods, but the longer he slept the more he realized the void had a shape. And he did not dream, though he thought he might’ve for the name that was on his lips when he woke. Alfira of the Emerald Grove.
The image of her cold, lifeless body covered in blood was so strong he almost thought the smell of battle was coming from her. He sank back into bed, glad for the first time, that the terrible stench was no one’s but his. He sank back into the mind that, for the first time, was also no one’s but his.