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“Every night you can posses me, my friends lives are in danger.” Syleth grit out trough clenched teeth. Itching to glance behind him to find strength in those very loved ones, already picturing Sunny’s determined stare as if willing his own belief and love for Syleth directly into the other Paladin. He knew better than to turn his back on his father however; A foul act he was about to perform regardless. “I will not stand for that.”
“You refuse me?” The avatar of Bhaal as reflected in Sceleritas Fel’s blood narrowed its eyes. “You are my spawn. Your veins course with my unholy blood. Your life is mine. Accept your inheritance or I will reclaim it.”
He was going to die here.
It was an outcome he hadn’t at all considered, but he had not dared to think beyond tearing and slicing and drowning Orin in her own muddled unholy blood for the sin of thinking herself his equal.
His father demanded his obedience, something he’d have given so willingly mere months ago, before Orin aspired to greatness by taking a knife to his skull. In this moment as Syleth stared into the unblinking eyes of this visage of his father came the gut wrenching realization that he would rather die.
The thought shamed him, as a half-forgotten lifetime of worship and devotion screamed at the heresy of even allowing a thought like that to exist in his broken brain matter. Defying your father? He who made you from his divine essence and his essence alone? You who hold no other ties in this world and beyond except for your fathers blood? You who serves no purpose beyond what Lord Bhaal wants of you?
The voice screaming in his head is drowned out by another, gentler, kinder voice.
‘You’re my family too, you know.’ Sunny had said with that blinding smile of his. That face of his was half the reason Syleth had given the half-drow the nickname in the first place.
He had blinked at him in disbelief, simply cocking his head in question. The Paladin had chuckled softly, having expected the hesitation.
‘I’m serious, you mean a lot to me, Swiss.’ Donnie had reached out a hand then, placing it on Syleth’s shoulder when the tiefling didn’t shy away from the touch. ‘You’ll always have a place with me, if you want.’
The memory faded into others of the past few months. Moments of peaceful quiet with Shadowheart and loud laughter with Karlach.
Of tested patience and learning with Gale on proper spellcasting and exciting sparring matches with Lae’zel.
Of Wyll’s attempts at dancing lessons and Halsin’s gentle instructions on whittling.
Of Jahiera’s wary but confident belief in his ability to resist and Minsc’s unquestioned acceptance.
Of Donatello’s unwavering love and support as he struggled with his nature, of learning how to return that in kind when the other Paladin needed him instead.
Moments of learning how to be gentle and love so deeply with Astarion, his Starlight. Something that was so foreign to them both but so worthy of trying and struggling for anyway.
Bhaal, his father, had laid the offer before him.
To die: to rest, to save the world - his friends, his chosen family - from himself. Cursed to wander the Fugue Plane for eternity as a forsaken, godless creature.
To accept: fulfil your purpose, claim your birthright, become his Chosen - in any disobedience be subject to his lash.
It was an easy choice, really.
“I don’t need any of this." Yes, he did. He would not survive without his father, it's the simple truth. "The only family I know are those who fight by my side.” It sounded a tad dramatic coming from him, something that would've sounded more at home coming from Giggles or Sunny. Their influence rubbed off on him.
The divine rage crashed into him the moment the words left his lips. Feeling his blood run icy cold, slowing down to a stop as his body began to spasm against his control.
"You were made to conquer. To devour." Bhaal spoke and Syleth could feel it reverberate inside of every cell in his body as his father's blood poisoned him. Strength fading quickly he keeled over, barely registering the pain as his knees hit the stone. "You reject my blood and so I will reclaim it."
The Lord of Murder reaches out a hand in the reflection, and Syleth's unwilling limp body rose with it. Keeping his eyes shut as tightly as he could muster, for he did not wish to be faced with his friends - his family - as he died. Gods above and below, he shouldn't have listened to them - he should have come alone. Now they had to watch him die.
Bhaal's divine blood seeped out his body, returning hence it came. "I will make another who is worthy." So he said, so it will be so. Bhaal's fist closed around his son's life, snuffing it out. Distantly Syleth registered the husk of his body falling on the floor of the temple he had ruled and cultivated for more than a decade.
For the first time in over a century, silence falls over the Bhaal Temple. No chants, no screams, no prayers.
In the end, his own death brought Syleth more joy than any he had wrought on this land.
It was his last thought before slipped into peaceful oblivion.
Astarion was the first to move, it was a graceless scramble but he cared not for appearances right now. He was however glad for the padding of his armor as he dropped down next to the lifeless body of his lover.
"My sweet?" Astarion's voice wavered as he spoke, reaching out to hold Syleth's darling face. If it wasn't for the obvious absence of breathing, he could almost pretend his lover was asleep. Astarion gently cradled his neck, moving the head into his lap; a familiar position they had found themselves in many nights. He could almost pretend Syleth was really resting.
Absentmindedly he began to clean up Syleth’s face of blood, he needed to see his face properly. Gentle fingers rubbing across soft cheeks - except for the scar tissue on the right side - revealing that beautiful sight. Syleth had never looked this peaceful even when sleeping as he did now in this moment, dead.
Donatello kneeled down opposite of him - Astarion hadn’t even registered his approach - his hands already glowing with the telltale sign of healing magic, the power of Lathander flowing through him.
The Chosen of the Morninglord looked at him, there were tears welling in his mismatched eyes but they searched Astarion’s for permission.
"Gods, what are you waiting for, a written invitation?" Astarion hissed. "HEAL HIM ALREADY!"
Donnie ignored the snide, instead focusing on keeping the flow of the potent magic of his God trough Syleth’s body. It wasn’t the most ideal angle, with Astarion’s refusal to let him go, but it got the job done.
It should get the job done.
So why wasn’t it working?
Donatello frowned, taking a deep breath, digging deep into his faith and his bond with Lathander to muster up more healing magic and forcing it into a body that already felt way too cold. A curse first, then a short prayer that quickly turned to pleas to the Morninglord.
“Please, I can’t lose him, he doesn’t deserve that after everything,” Donnie pleaded to his God, or anyone who could help.
“Try harder dammit,” Astarion's voice broke, sounding more panicked than the harsh words that he spoke as he attempted to choke down his tears.
Donatello tried again, and again, and once more for good measure. Each attempt becoming a lot less gentle until he was simply forcing raw light and life into the body of his friend - his brother, his little brother - with such force that the stone under them cracked with the pressure of it.
“Don, stop,” Gale’s hand on Donnie’s shoulder halted the paladin in his tracks. It grounded him enough for the reality of the situation to sink in.
Gale’s face was hard to see trough the haze of tears that were already flowing so freely. “It’s not working, I can’t-“ he was cut off by his own sob, leaning into Gale to avoid falling over completely. “He’s dead.”
“There- there has to be something,” Astarion said. Denial, anger. “He went trough all that shit just to die for doing the right thing?” The vampire was all but screaming.
Donnie and Gale winced, “Astar-“ Donnie tried.
“Don’t ‘Astarion’ me, I’ve just lost the only person I’ve ever truly cared for!” His voice cracked, and so did the façade of anger as Astarion broke down in sobs, clinging to the body of his lover.
“It need not be so.” the ever calm and familiar voice of Withers spoke out.
Three faces looked up in surprise and confusion at the abrupt appearance of the skeletal companion that had followed them on their journey.
"Can you help?" Donatello hesitantly tore himself away from his friend's body to stand and face the scribe.
"I will not permit this one's demise."
Death was cold.
It had always felt so warm in his hands as he brought others to theirs. But that warmth was only the last of their life leaving them.
A voice.
Echoing out in the empty darkness he had finally found peace in.
A voice that sounded oddly like... bone-guy?
"Thou hast defied Bhaal, thy liege and father, and in doing so hast earned a place among champions and heroes."
Yes, that was Withers. What was happening?
"But alas, thy courage was in opposition to the divine cosmology that bound thee to the Lord of Murder. Thou art now faithless - godless - and doomed to wander the Fugue Plane for eternity."
With every word Withers spoke inertia seeped away, and the more awake Syleth felt in this dusky abyss.
"I will not permit that, though all the powers of life and death dictate that it should be so. I, too, still hold some power, and I invest a portion of it in thee, who hath challenged the gods and now liveth to tell of it."
Wait, no.
"Thy fight is not over, and it is thy fight, for one who can look upon Bhaal and oppose him can survive any crisis."
Please no, it was finally quiet.
"So rise, Challenger of Gods, and prepare for battle once more, Death will not claim thee whilst I endure."
Energy, life, rushed trough every inch of his body. Different from any healing magic he has ever felt. It felt almost divine in nature, but not in the same way Sunny's healing or Bhaal's love had felt.
He is roughly pulled into full consciousness and gods everything hurts. It is a struggle to get himself to breathe as he gasps and chokes for air.
Not able to find the strength to sit up he instead rolls to the side, trying to get his shaking arms under him and push away from the cold stone. Stone that is only slightly colder than he himself feels like right now.
He feels sick. Cold and sick.
The thought barely passes trough his broken brain before his body heaves and convulses and something that is so dark red that it's nearly black is forced out of his throat.
"Darling?" a voice calls somewhere to his right followed by other voices, it doesn't fully register what or who as he shivers and gasps for air in his dazed state.
It takes a moment, and a few deep but shaky breaths, but Syleth finds enough strength to sit upright. Withers looks at him with that endless patience of his.
Annoying.
A fleeting thought of stabbing him for the transgression flits trough his head, and his fingers twitch.
But nothing else.
"Who are you?" Syleth tries to ask, falling into a coughing fit immediately as his body protests.
Withers waits until it passes before he answers, "A Scribe, a seneschal - a keeper of records. And now, thine advocate, both here, and in the City of the Dead," the mysterious being bowed his head humbly.
It did not really answer the question asked, but Bones had always been elusive.
Another wave of nausea crashed into him, doubling over he forced himself to breathe trough clenched teeth until it passed. The cold stone touching his forehead helped him focus, the temple's ever present metallic smell of blood less so.
"I just want to rest - death seemed so peaceful," he whispered to himself against the stone, clenching his eyes tightly shut to keep any stray tears from escaping.
Withers heard him anyway.
"There is no true rest for those like thee, faithless. But when victory is won, I swear I shall find thee a home."
Syleth let out a dry laugh, "I still deserve to die - for all the evil I have done."
Starlight's disproving huff somewhere behind him was shushed by Sunny.
Gods, Astarion and Donnie.
He did not dare face his loved ones right now, everything was complicated enough in this moment. Keeping his eyes pointedly on Wither's face and nowhere else.
"The sole way to atone for thine actions is to do better, in a new dawn. That dawn has come," there was a hint of a smile on his mummified face, it didn't look very flattering pulling on ancient dead skin.
"Bhaal tried to extinguish thee, but his wrath is imprecise. He only succeeded in killing the part of thee he knew. The urge that drove thee to terrible acts. The spark of brutality that made thee his."
Syleth stared at the dried blood staining the stone ground. He hadn't really processed it, too distracted by the cold and the nausea, as his mind was oddly quiet. No itch, no whispering deep in the back of his mind to kill, kill, kill, kill, kill again.
No Dark Urge.
"But there is a new part of you, that hath grown during thy travels. That part, Bhaal could not extinguish. And so instead of destroying thee, he hat made thee anew."
Even when he felt out of it - so nauseous still - and with his eyes focused pointedly at the stone below he could pick out the sound of his Starlight moving closer, the feeling of his hand hovering so close to him. "He's right, you're no monster. You've saved me more times than I can count," Astarion said, finally bridging the gap and touching his lover. A simple grasp on his arm, right above his elbow.
Astarion had never been warm - it came with the territory of being a vampire - but he was now. A gentle warmth seeping into his own cold death skin.
Sunny settled on the other side of him, and were Astarion had been a soft warm glow, Donnie's touch was a scorching sun. Syleth clenched his teeth to keep the hiss from slipping out, despite the initial searing shock he did not actually want Sunny to stop touching him.
"You've never been a monster, you've always had the potential to be good," Sunny said accompanied with a squeeze of his shoulder. "I know it was impossibly difficult but I had faith in you, and I'm so proud of you for making this choice."
He could not stop the single sob that escaped him then.
"The heart of a saviour hath overshadowed the mind of a murderer," Wither's continued. "Thou has vanquished thine Urge."
"My old memories and my past self - I can never get them back?" He looked up at Withers, wondering if the panic he felt was as clear to read on his face as he felt it deep in his bones.
There was so little left. Broken and shattered and cast out by his maker.
"If thou couldst recall every barbarity thou hadst committed, every tragedy thou hadst authored... wouldst thou truly want to?"
No.
Who would truly want such a thing as that?
(Orin maybe, but she was a pile of bones, blood, and gore. Good fucking riddance.)
But he recalled the memory he had regained - trough Donatello's healing - of his slaughtered family at the hands of his younger self with such perfect clarity that he swore he could smell their blood.
"It is a dishonor to my victims not to recall their names."
"All their names are written. One day, if thou truly wishest, I will show thee, and we shall remember them together."
One day.
It would have to be enough.
"Today, thou art born anew,” Withers reached out his hand, as if motioning for him to get up.
Syleth did, he could feel his body protesting as another bout of sickness washed over him but Astarion and Donnie were quick to help steady him.
There to help, as they’ve done so many times before.
He owed them so much, and he loved them so much too.
"Greet the bloodless dawn, child of none,” Withers said.
Child of none.
For he had forsaken the Father that made him.
For he had killed the mother and father who raised and loved him.
There was so little of him left.
A broken brain - with an illithid tadpole crawling trough the gaps - and shattered memories.
But not alone.
A hand filled with light and warmth on his shoulder. A promise of kind smiles and companionship. A family they both had chosen to be for another.
A cool hand on his lower back that made him feel warm despite its lack of heat. A promise of understanding and to protect one another. A relationship they were both learning how to have.
No, not alone at all.
There was nothing left to do, but to write himself anew.