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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 9 days ago

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Tetrad

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm Length: ~4600 words Rating: PG, mostly for getting a bit existential about mortality

Summary:

Selûnite chants are calming, circular, cyclical, the ebb and flow of them wonderfully meditative. Isobel follows along, but for once in her life she feels like she is swimming against the rush of the tide. Wouldn't it be such a boon for Aylin, her mind insists stubbornly, such an undeniable reassurance. The mounting power is palpable, as if there are far more than three priestesses leading the ritual, as if there are hundreds and hundreds of faithful joining in, even thousands, perhaps; an entire sea right alongside the few dozen gathered here. At the end of it, between one blink and the next, she is there—a Shard of Selûne in the luminous flesh.

The Conjuring of the Second Moon is performed every four years, in the midst of summer, on the leap day of Shieldmeet. Four years - a long and a short time.

Four different Shieldmeets in Aylin's and Isobel's lives. Offering fic for August's full moon.

Also on AO3.

—

Tetrad

I. 14th century DR, Reithwin

She's heard the whispers, of course. Some disgruntled and disappointed, others simply barb-filled jests.

Isobel does her best to keep her mind firmly on carrying out what she has been given to do, whatever the reason for the choice may have been.

Of course the lord's daughter gets to lead the chant and subtly shape the entire ritual. Of course, of all clerics, visiting and otherwise, it is hers to stand in front of the altar and pour the offering.

Of course she is the one to catch the luminous immortal eye of Selûne's own emissary.

It chafes, naturally—Isobel is hardly made of stone. But she hears the other half of it, as well, and hopes her blush is not too obvious when some of it is spoken in that quite literally divine voice, so quick to shut down what it believes is misplaced doubt.

How can one hold anything against Isobel Thorm? the surprisingly passionate insistence comes. How, when the ardour and wisdom and sheer dedication she applies herself with are plain for all to see? Her family name and position may earmark her for these duties, but her winning demeanour and the way she excels at all of them make it clear she is more than worthy of being chosen.

"Hear us, Moonmaiden, we who seek to walk ever in Your light," Isobel intones the start of one of the final petitions. Dame Aylin murmurs along with everyone else, head just as bowed, and it strikes Isobel as very strange, suddenly—what does it even mean, for your own mother to be the goddess you serve?

It is but one on a long, long list of things she yearns to know.

One thing Isobel does know very well is that the looks the two of them have been exchanging during the ceremony must be impossible to miss, and that Reithwin's gossip mill will certainly be lively in the days ahead. But it feels just as impossible to tear her gaze away from Aylin for very long, and she does not particularly feel like trying.

The chants draw to a close, the invocations ending the Conjuring of the Second Moon in a brilliant waterfall of moonlight upon the altar. There is no visitation by a Shard this time—to nobody's surprise, for Reithwin most certainly doesn't need help from one of the Moonmaiden's honour guard at the moment.

The faithful file out slowly. Aylin stays, unmoving as the marble she seems to be carved out of, letting the stream of worshippers break and wind around her like water, her attention focused on Isobel alone.

Isobel's own thoughts turn inexorably to last night's dancing, revelry, and masked chases in the tame woods surrounding Reithwin, as if any mask could ever hope to hide who the two of them were. Midsummer follies all, freely allowed to stay as dalliances and passing amusements—but this, whatever it is, pulling at her heart and her very being, feels more indelible and permanent than the inked markings on her skin.

Isobel Thorm tasted divinity altogether differently yesterday, until the early hours of the morning. And if the dark circles under her eyes are a tad more pronounced than usual, well, the elegant lines of the holy symbol hide it well enough.

II. Darkness

The first few decades, Aylin strives to count out the quartets of years, though of the passing days she has only a rough, murky notion.

The outpouring of devotion to her Mother that so buoyed her each Shieldmeet is nowhere to be found or sensed—not here, sunken in the depths of their most hated enemy's domain.

Still, she imagines it cutting through the darkness, that rising devotional chorus from thousands upon thousands of Selûnite throats; imagines it shattering the circles binding her here. Imagines a Shard leaping down to tear her shackles asunder and whisk her away.

But none of these daydreams amount to anything more.

Instead, Balthazar comes to taunt, to provoke, to torment in any way he sees fit. And so he brings with himself reminders of the grand day, remnants of the latest poor wretch who tried to put together an offering to the Moonmaiden in the face of Ketheric's tyranny, as if to rub fresh salt in all the wounds he and his treacherous master grace Aylin with.

What he does not know—smirking, bloated corpse that he is—is that none of it can reach very far through the rumbling mists of the Shadowfell, through that veil the cursed place casts between oneself and reality.

Not when Aylin can close her eyes and see Isobel smiling at her, upturned gaze glimmering in the light of the hundreds of small lanterns lining the streets of Reithwin.

You may not be a Shard, she whispers into Aylin's ear, her lips curled into a smile brushing feather-light against skin, as dawn slowly breaks after a long night of ritual and celebration, but if you wanted to take me away, I would go with you.

III. 15th century DR - Emberhill

There are many steps to many different kinds of healing, most of them known to Isobel rather academically. But in the four full years since her and Aylin's reunion, one has proven very effective for them both.

A novelty—a place neither of them knows. Something far more easily found for Isobel, perhaps, but it is a joy each time to share in a discovery like this, no matter how small. With no regret at never having gotten a chance to before, and no slowly rekindled guilt at not being there to aid for a century.

Emberhill is a tiny town; remote, unmarked on most maps, and further north than their usual travel takes them. But the summer's reach is long this year, and traversing even the Crags has never been easier.

The fiery, volcanic nature of the peaks looming nearby has its own benefits: scalding, rich-smelling water rushes out of the very ground, and it seems to Isobel like someone has carved a little pool to catch it around every corner. There is nothing quite like the warmth reaching and settling bone-deep and the accompanying head-clouding heat to drive out stray unwelcome echoes, be they of the grave or of the Shadowfell.

They came here for rest first of all, and for curiosity's sake. The delight of finding a small Selûnite community has kept them here until Midsummer—and their first shared Shieldmeet in a century.

Isobel is honoured by the many invitations to take the lead, but turns them down politely. Instead, resisting the nagging desire to keep to herself—or herself and Aylin alone—that has been her frustrating companion since her resurrection, she shares and exchanges all she can with the local clergy, from supplies to knowledge, and participates in the preparations for the holiday with gusto.

When the matter of a Shard making an appearance comes up on the very day of the celebration, Aylin scoffs, but does so smilingly, without disdain.

"It is entirely peaceful, and we are here already. What more aid could possibly be needed?"

Isobel feels inclined to agree, no matter her own excitement at the idea. There is simply no need. And yet—and yet, wouldn't it be marvellous to witness such a direct demonstration of their Lady's power, care, and notice?

The mounting power is palpable, as if there are far more than three priestesses leading the ritual, as if there are hundreds and hundreds of faithful joining in, even thousands, perhaps; an entire sea right alongside the few dozen gathered here.

At the end of it, between one blink and the next, she is there—a Shard of Selûne in the luminous flesh.

Her voice rings out like a bell, like a call, utterly unignorable over the awed gasps and whispers of the small crowd—a proclamation in Celestial few can make out the exact meaning of, but that all understand as an announcement of presence. The culmination of the ritual is everything Isobel has ever imagined, and to finally be witnessing it herself feels both entrancing and half like a flight of fancy still.

But then—

"Cousin!" That otherworldly throat bellows, Aylin is embraced enthusiastically in one swooping movement, and the solemnity and grandeur of the moment are utterly broken.

"Cousin…?" Isobel repeats, eyebrows climbing halfway to her circlet.

"Ah," the Shard glances over with a great grin, her hands not leaving Aylin's shoulders. "Not quite literally, perhaps. I may have been of great service to Silverymoon in my time on this plane, but I cannot claim so grand an honour as being the Moonmaiden's own kin. This one, however…"

She turns back to Aylin, who hasn't moved a muscle or made a sound since the unexpected appearance. "Where have you been? Why have you not called on us, or for us, in these past four years?"

Aylin swallows visibly, makes a few uncharacteristically feeble attempts at various beginnings of sentences, then seems to give up, managing little more than a shrug that makes her freshly polished pauldrons clank miserably.

"Perhaps," Isobel intercedes diplomatically, eyeing the curious crowd still gathered around them, "this is a conversation better had in private?"

Their agreement is quick, as is their retreat to one of the more secluded tables set out outside for the festivities. They impart blessings along the way, and the Shard treats with grace each and every villager who comes to their little corner displaying varying levels of boldness and trepidation.

Isobel takes the little distractions as opportunities to stare. The celestial's skin is paler than even Aylin's, and uncannily smooth. The blue of her hair is dark and rich in contrast to the pearlescence of the shoulders and neck it tumbles and flows over, not quite obeying gravity. Her wings, though folded tightly behind her, are awe-inspiring in both their span and the subtle flames licking indigo along each vane.

"Do not ever hesitate to ask, to call for us," she is in the midst of explaining something to Aylin with an almost odd vivaciousness when Isobel manages to focus once more on the meaning of her words. "I was a priestess once, with a husband and a wife and a son—I visited them often and gladly after my ascension. Our Lady is nothing if not generous with Her gifts. Until their time came, one by one, and they joined me in the heights of the silver spires at the Gates of the Moon."

Isobel feels her head crowding with thoughts, making it annoyingly difficult to pick out one to focus on, so she stops herself and catches Aylin's eye instead. Aylin—frowning, perhaps a touch concerned, subdued, and still not quite herself. Not the intended effect—Isobel takes a deep breath and attempts to collect herself in old, familiar, and deep-set ways.

"I am so sorry, I have been intolerably rude. I am Isobel, and if you would permit me the honour of your name—"

The Shard smiles, wide. It crinkles the skin of her face and disturbs the luminescence just beneath it in an enthrallingly symmetric and elaborate way. "There is no need for such formality, Isobel—I am honoured to finally meet you in person, and in my eagerness at this reunion I have quite forgotten my manners. I am Ellidue, and perhaps I have been gone from this world for a little too long." Then, the pleasant smile turns just a touch vicious. "And perhaps some who deign to crawl out of their shadowy hiding places have grown too bold in my absence."

"You will find no lack of targets for your blade," Aylin agrees darkly. "But we persevere, as always, and cut them down like blades of summer grass. It is a vast field, and a spare arm is more than welcome."

"But that is not what I have come for tonight. Unless you know of a nearby target for our ire, cousin?"

Aylin shakes her head, and there is a knowing air about their visitor—Ellidue—that makes Isobel entirely convinced the question was about something else entirely.

It would be so easy to answer where were you for four years? with where were you for a hundred? But if Aylin does not want to raise the matter so directly, Isobel will not do it in her stead.

She wanted this visitation for her, after all, didn't she?

So the topic turns to reminiscing first, with news from the Upper Planes weaving in and taking centre stage. They hear of the most recent mortal priestess chosen to join the ranks of the Shards, and when Ellidue speaks of the occasion, she almost conjures a vision: the soft swells of music that fill Argentil, joyous laughter and lightly chattering voices at this newest welcome.

The night here among the mortal and material is warm, pleasant, and as it stretches on it brightens and softens Aylin's mien to an extent Isobel hardly dared hope for at the slightly rocky beginning. After the troubled fits and starts, the conversation flows as easily as the almost-too-hot water in the shallow little pools in which they dip their feet.

Aylin, her Aylin, is always so easy for Isobel to read. Right now she looks almost comical and utterly endearing, still in her full glorious regalia save for the parts up to her greaves that she dismissed for the sake of the apparently traditional local footbaths.

"I should prepare to take my leave," Ellidue says finally, once they've sat back down after another break for a round of blessings. "Dawn will come soon. There are a few more boons to dole out, and a protection spell or two for me to weave, and then…"

For a moment, at that rather innocuous statement, Aylin is visibly seized by what one might describe as panic, and reaches out for Isobel's waist as if to pull her close and hold her tightly to her chest.

It is writ plainly on her face, now wide-eyed and frozen. An expansion, and a narrowing; the vastness and freedoms of all the planes above her, and her, below, alone once more.

I do not want to be alone again, is all but printed in bold lettering all over Aylin's expression.

"I understand the traditions," she begins slowly, sounding so very strangely small, "but if you must take someone, please, not her. Anyone else. I know well she is the most worthy of any high honour, but…"

Ellidue puts up a hand.

"I have rendered no great service here—it would hardly be appropriate. In fact, this whole thing was a bit of a cheat." She smirks, and it is as beautiful as it is amusing to see on that carved angelic face. "A bit of an indulgence, even. All of us wanted to see you, Aylin. We were so worried for so long."

The powerful, luminous hand cups Aylin's face with immense gentleness. It is odd but wonderful to see her sink into the caress with such ease, to see her small and protected for once.

"It was not my intent to worry you," Aylin begins.

"I know. We all know. Take your time. You are in good hands."

Then, with a meaningful look at Isobel and a brief flutter of enormous wings, the Shard is gone.

IV. 16th century DR - Waterdeep

The City of Splendours is as splendid as Aylin has ever seen it, all done up for the festivities. The House of the Moon is as a pinnacle jewel in this glorious crown, ready for the grandest of Shieldmeet ceremonies to begin as soon as the long summer sun starts dipping down.

For now, however, Aylin's main focus is studying a newly revealed set of artworks, about to be blessed and dedicated as part of the occasion. On the fourth floor of the temple complex, flanking the entrance to a heavily guarded chamber housing a rather spectacular statue of a Shard wrought entirely out of tiny moonstones, is a sequence of four murals.

First, a pillar of light cutting through purple-tinged shadows, and a dome of moonlight, both with an inset of silver filigree and mother-of-pearl. Then, a bright comet cutting through darkness with a trail that the artist chose to depict as a mosaic of hundreds of small mirrors, angled every which way.

On the right side of the door, the walls are adorned with two figures who are, for all stylisation and artistic license, unmistakable. Aylin's gaze slides quickly off of the flattering enough depiction of herself, lingers lovingly on the rendering of Isobel—it is impossible to do her justice, of course, but Aylin is grateful to the artist for the earnest attempt—then finally glances over the carefully lined and embossed lettering underneath each of the murals.

With strength of faith she held, endured, Her beacon stood, by none obscured. Until, unchained, Her silver'd knight Did end the reach of conquering night. To deathless, death; to dead due rest, Justice dealt by Moon's own blessed. In love rejoined, their hands now wield The Maiden's pride, Her Sword and Shield.

"Due rest—oh, I wish!" Isobel murmurs next to her, drawing Aylin's full attention at once. She leans in with a small hand pressed against its favourite and oft-visited place on Aylin's arm, where two lines of gold meet just above the crook of her elbow and outline muscle beneath soft skin—no armour today, only silky silver finery, but Aylin herself is imposing enough even so, should she need to be. "The Absolute crisis dragged on for so much longer than I expected. Do you remember, darling, that time right after, in the small cloister near Daggerford, when I slept for almost two days straight? You were both out of your mind with worry, and rather keen to fight off any who might disturb me."

Aylin remembers, as she does all things. It isn't hard at all to muster up the feelings that were driving her to distraction then. "I feared you'd never wake," she answers, quiet. "I feared something had gone terribly wrong."

"Being dead for a hundred years just takes it out of you, it seems. Who would have thought?"

They have both gotten used to these remarks of Isobel's—jests tinged rather grim, perhaps, but always spoken with that pointed hint of defiance, ultimately. A quiet undercurrent of hello, death, I have heard your clamouring, looked you in the eye, considered, and chosen to occupy myself with different matters.

They have been staying near cities lately, their most adventurous far-flung ranging slowly consigned to a thing of the past.

Aylin, as is her nature, remains unchanged. Isobel does not.

She often says the years have been kind to her, with an air of gratitude that is almost solemn; then, with that twist to her smile, she adds: certainly kinder than a century asleep in darkness.

She feels slighter, lighter than ever in Aylin's arms, and reaches barely up to her shoulder now, though her spine is as unbowed and steely as ever. Her eyes are sharp and keen with that spark that is distinctly Isobel, and even if her steps have slowed, she is as quietly impressive as anyone Aylin could name.

Indeed, Aylin could list her accomplishments and qualities until begged to finally stop, but many bards have done their best already, to varying results. And still Isobel remains ever so slightly apart and never at the forefront, preserving that distance—small but always there—born of gracious humility, and a hint of something else besides.

They have both come to learn, in their travels and adventures and various undertakings over many decades, that Isobel prefers to step forward when truly needed, and to lead from a position oft uncredited, but impossible to truly overlook. Hence, perhaps, the tribute before them now, beautifully realised but oddly late.

"Will you be the one to go with them tomorrow, Silverstar? If they ask?"

Aylin is lost so deep in thought and reminiscence, she almost startles when the reedy, eager voice of a young acolyte pipes up just next to them.

The form of address has been Isobel's for decades, but Aylin still feels a frisson of combined excitement and pride and delight at hearing it. At the way Silverstar slowly but surely replaced any trace of the name Thorm, through Isobel's subtle but deliberate and decisive insistence, and at all the weight it lifted with it.

"Oh, I don't know. What do you think, Aylin?" Isobel turns to her, outwardly playful. "Would I look fetching with blue hair?"

She is distractingly beautiful even when her smile is more than a little wry. Aylin can tell—though she hasn't mentioned it yet, and though her beloved, by far the more perceptive one, most certainly knows that she is aware—that Isobel keeps subtly and carefully preparing her for her own departure, whatever form it might take.

So Aylin plays along, and looks pointedly at Isobel's hair, recently cut much shorter than she'd been wearing it, and any immediate, joking reply dies in her throat as she gets caught marvelling at how it curls charmingly around the tips of Isobel's ears.

In the end, she can only ever be herself, as earnest and ardent as that may be. "You know very well you would be the most radiant woman on Toril no matter what, my love."

The statement is accompanied by a gallant kiss to the back of Isobel's hand, and a thumb gently circling as if to work it into the skin and let not a bit of affection escape.

The true meaning of the words is obvious to anyone within earshot: stay, stay a while longer here with me, for surely we have many more precious years left.

Isobel takes her hand and kisses it in turn, but doesn't say anything more.

The Conjuring of the Second Moon comes and goes. The Shards appear elsewhere this time. There have been rumblings of shadowy Sharran plots in Sembia once more, Aylin recalls, so perhaps that is where they have chosen to focus their efforts.

They are quiet as they leave their chambers to join the feasting part of the celebration, expected to last until dawn—Isobel begged off most of yesterday's revelry, on account of a pained hip and a desire to conserve her energy for today's rituals. The mood feels not quite solemn, perhaps, but it is not particularly celebratory, all things considered.

When Isobel's steps begin to drag a bit more, Aylin is ready with an arm held out for support, angled just so and practised for conquering any number of stairs, ascending or descending.

"Four more years, then, and perhaps I'll see a Shard visit again," Isobel breaks the silence interspersed only with small sounds of effort. "Ellidue was a truly lovely conversationalist."

"Four more years," Aylin agrees and huffs in amusement. "We can aim to spend Shieldmeet in some Sharran-beleaguered place next time, to improve our chances."

"We will see, I suppose," Isobel waves it off with her free hand and a chuckle. "Oh, it will pass by in a flash."

"That it will," Aylin replies and then realises that something has gripped her chest with immense force. Four more years—the weight of the words has settled on her fully. Not much, too much, never enough.

While Aylin's relationship to time is considered by most to be odd or vague or barely there, she herself considers it an active thing to pursue and consider; one that does not come as easily and naturally as it does to even the longest-lived elves.

Ultimately, the truth of the reckoning she has settled on is quite simple: she divides her life into times with Isobel, and times without.

Aylin struggles to draw a proper breath, once again frozen under the merciless gaze of the moonstone Shard, visible through the open door that is now surrounded by depictions of their own story, just off the long staircase they find themselves on. Isobel doesn't stumble, but startles, and turns to look at her questioningly. The crow's feet that crinkle at the edges of her wondering eyes and their interplay with the many-times-reapplied ink are the most intricately lovely thing Aylin has ever seen.

"Would you consider it?" She manages, ultimately, head inclined towards the statue.

And Isobel understands, as is her wont. "Of course I've considered it, Aylin. It is… hardly a trivial matter to grow old, and it seems so, Moonmaiden forgive me, obvious a route."

Aylin shakes her head, raises her brows, suddenly feeling intolerably impatient. "And?"

"And I've considered it. I would consider it again, were it offered, were I found worthy. The change, and the power—would it still be me? That is what I stumble against."

"Of course it would," Aylin finds herself insisting almost without conscious effort, striving to offer reassurance when it is so painfully, shamefully clear she is the one in need of it. "And there can be no doubt you would be found worthy. My Mother has made it very clear She favours you immensely, your significance to my own life and heart notwithstanding."

"Aylin," Isobel's smile is soft but heartfelt, and she is, as always, ready with the exact words both of them need to hear, one hand reaching up to caress Aylin's cheek gently and nudge her to meet her eyes. "Whatever happens, we will only be parted for a short while, if that. You know this."

She does. It is a matter of faith and devotion—things they have both woven and shaped their lives around, just as much as each other. "Walk in silver gardens…" Aylin murmurs the well-worn words.

"Forever," Isobel insists.

Aylin nods and feels more like herself again at last when she takes Isobel into her arms.

"You must know that whatever happens, you will have my love. It is as eternal as I and equally as indomitable," she says softly but fiercely into Isobel's hair, holding her as close as is possible. "And it is yours, forever, as am I. However you should choose to change, it will be my greatest honour to discover every last mote of you once more, within and without."

Isobel hides her smile in Aylin's chest, pressing into it in that familiar, long-favoured way, so that her affection is palpable right above Aylin's heart. "It will be a splendid journey to take, then. Together."

It strikes Aylin rather suddenly, as she stills and settles into the feeling of arms winding around her, of herself cradling Isobel's head with one hand and the small of her back with the other. A wonder grander than any divine manifestation or glorious monument: to come to know another so deeply, to intertwine your lives so tightly around each other, that you make of yourselves one greater whole. A joining of distinct halves that becomes a refusal to be separated, even when apart.

What a marvel, then, to get to do it more than once.

The years go by, four by four by four.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #fanfiction #bg3 #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #fullmoonofferings2025 #we will all simply pretend this was posted yesterday

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 2 months ago

Text

Secunda

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm Length: ~4300 words Rating: G/PG, for a smidge of canon-typical violence

Here's a little bit of Reithwin-era super early (pre-)relationship fluff with a side of Yearning I originally wanted to post for June's full moon.

Summary:

An ill-timed attack in the middle of the night leads to an encounter and a conversation - the first without the barrier of armour or clerical vestments.

Also on AO3.

—

Secunda

There was a certain calm that came over Isobel in the immediate aftermath of a ritual. A notion of mild detachment from herself at the tail end of prayer, during the slow waning of perhaps not the most intense, but certainly the most focused devotion. As if all of her senses were trained on something not quite immediate and material, in the few breaths before she brought her hands down and clasped them in front of her chest; a simple motion that felt like ushering a flock of stray motes of herself back together.

It was in those in-between, suspended moments that she heard her Goddess most clearly, felt Her presence most keenly, and understood Her guidance beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Divination was not something Isobel practised any more than other avenues of typical Selûnite worship. It was not something she considered herself a particular expert in, either. She knew of clerics and priests far more skilled, with great wisdom and insight at their fingertips, nuggets produced at will whenever they were asked.

It had never been quite like that for Isobel—oh, she knew the basic forms of augury, and could cast them competently enough, and interpret what was generally meant most of the time with reasonable confidence. Her strengths lay elsewhere, as did her interests.

Even so, often there were small portents she caught that others missed. Subtle hints to steer her attention. And there were glimmers—little pearls of personal favour, if she dared flatter herself. Sometimes, when Isobel turned a mirror this way and that, the reflection in it did not quite match what it was facing. Sometimes she'd raise a lens or a spyglass to her eye, and see things that were not there—or not there just yet. A silver-washed glimpse of something else, half-hidden, as if waiting for her to recognise it.

The images her mind's eye chose to focus on as she concluded her prayer tonight were neither particularly subtle, nor of a particularly prophetic kind. Isobel felt the tiniest twinge of guilt at her distraction, but batted it away hastily. This was neither the time nor the place to be dishonest with herself, or with her Lady; and her Lady had both everything and nothing to do with the recent stubborn intrusions into Isobel's reveries.

The change of seasons had come to Reithwin slowly but surely, bringing with it the lively bustle of downriver trade and inns filled to capacity. What little of it the warm breeze carried all the way up to her tower-top balcony, at least, was not where the root of Isobel's distraction lay. Instead, her mind drifted insistently to Reithwin's most prominent newcomer, carried into town and into Isobel's life on a breeze just as warm, by the most glorious pair of white wings imaginable.

A clatter drew Isobel out of her contemplative state with great suddenness, and she realised that, in moving to extinguish the candles lining her altar, she'd knocked an elbow against her offering bowl, spilling the milk. Something about the way it pooled and then dripped onto the stone tiles felt deliberate. It prompted her to take a step back, then to turn—as if in gentle warning of the ruckus that was about to take place in the hallway right outside the doorway to her chambers.

It began mere moments later with a loud crash and something splintering into shards.

"Thank you, my Lady," Isobel whispered, inclining her head, leaving the mess be for now and retreating into her room.

It was darker than she'd become used to after keeping the fireplace very adamantly lit all of this year's long-toothed winter. But she did not need lamplight to see clearly; not when the full moon spilled her radiance so generously through every window.

Isobel crept forward, listening to the dull thuds interspersed with muffled grunts and the occasional groan coming from the landing. She grabbed her spear from where it rested against the wall next to the door, barely a second before something slammed into it, rattling it in its hinges.

A damp touch brushed against the back of her hand, followed by a quiet whine.

"Hush, Squire, not now," Isobel whispered, one hand coming to rest in the short, soft fur, fingers curled around the blue collar—just in case the dog needed to be held back. "Stay."

When the next heavy impact vibrated through the floorboards instead, Isobel nudged Squire behind herself, and flung the door open wide, stepping spear-tip first.

There, facing the doorway but gaze focused downwards, still as a statue, with her sword held aloft with both hands, was Selûne's radiant emissary and Her most recent blessing visited upon the town of Reithwin. The leap that Isobel felt her belly do at the sight of Dame Aylin was something at this point anticipated. So she took a deep breath, clawed back a bit more composure, and looked down.

At Dame Aylin's feet was a dark-clad figure in a spreading pool of blood, clearly dead. Dressed for stealth and mobility but bearing those ill-boding dark discs of Shar proudly, with one even clenched in their hand and held out as if proffered. There was no need for secrecy, Isobel supposed, once you were dead.

There was no need for much of anything, when you were one of Shar's. Isobel felt her lip curl in manifold disgust - at the choices that had led this wretch here, and at the mess they had made of the hallway. Of her home.

There was a gouge in the railing of the stairs leading up, and a long, neat slice in the thick, increasingly burgundy carpet. And there, the source of the loudest crash - the many pieces of a grand old vase, tipped over from its stand in the corner. It had been a gift received during one of her father's trade deals and had thankfully never held much sentimental value.

Isobel tallied, and noted to whom exactly the hands-on of it all would be best delegated. A quick word to great-uncle Malus and a makeshift funeral pyre at some later point would be it for the Sharran - she had the steps sorted out in her head already, and did not begrudge herself the way she averted her eyes from the worst of the carnage.

When Dame Aylin finally deigned to move, Isobel's attention was eagerly drawn back to her instead. The resemblance to a statue was done away with in an instant, and, for all her marble-like paleness, the figure before Isobel was undeniably a woman of flesh and blood.

She seemed to be calming her breath with visible and deliberate effort, forcing stiffness and battle-ready tension from her limbs bit by bit. Stowing her sword away into the aether in a veritable shower of light-motes, she stood clenching and unclenching her hands for good measure.

The glow that liked to dance just under her skin seemed to subside as well, though it never extinguished completely. Only then did she turn towards Isobel fully and bow her head, half-braided hair falling across her face, brushing against a jaw so handsomely chiselled Isobel found it necessary to bite her lip.

"My lady, I offer my most heartfelt apologies," she spoke, voice far more subdued than anything Isobel had heard from her up until now. "The intruder should never have made it this far."

One look across the landing was enough to see to which locked door the assassin had left trails of bloodied scraping on and where their purpose must have been.

"It is not through any fault of yours," Isobel insisted. "They clearly knew more than they should have—I'm sure we'll find out soon enough how exactly they got past the guards. And it might be that they waited for my father to be gone, or they misunderstood some bit of gossip and thought to find him in his study. Who knows what they were truly after there."

Dame Aylin looked even more rueful at that, the usual proud tilt of her chin still aimed contritely downwards. "Then I would ask for forgiveness once again. In my haste to dispatch the odious coward, I spared no thought for questioning."

Isobel scoffed, waved a dismissive hand. "I have no doubt they would have wasted our time spouting dogmatic nonsense about their precious Dark Lady, then made for some convenient little bottle of poison, insistent on telling us absolutely nothing of value." Then, turning determinedly to lighter topics, Isobel tried for a smile, though it was still a bit strained. "Besides, you are a guest here, aren't you? I hardly expect you to act as part of my father's retinue and patrol the grounds. It's best to let him deal with that himself, when he returns - the general, and all that."

Isobel fully expected her father's inevitable reaction to be an overreaction, a tightening of security, an insistence on more guards, more patrols, more drills, more training. She wondered idly why she herself wasn't as rattled as she perhaps should have been; why she was more angry than shaken or frightened by an armed assassin falling at the door of her bedroom.

Was it the clear incompetence of a Sharran not patient enough to wait for the long shadows of a new moon? Or was it, perhaps, the illustrious company Isobel currently kept that made it so very hard not to feel safe?

Dame Aylin's hum of—understanding? agreement?—was drowned out by the clang of armour and stomping of boots from below. "Speaking of," Isobel said, stepping briefly back to set her spear aside once more.

It was a matter of moments for the two flustered guards to rush up the stairs, for them to assure Isobel that all members of the household were accounted for and that, mercifully, the worst injury among them would be headaches from a sleeping draught snuck into the ale supply, and then haul the Sharran away as instructed.

Then, with the final sounds of boots on stairs fading away, Isobel found herself alone again with her guest. Our guest, some part of her mind insisted on correcting despite a growing sense of futility, Reithwin's guest.

There was a particular calmness to be found in the immediate aftermath of battle, too, in a silence all the more potent for its stark contrast with the hectic moments just before.

The quiet fell over them, blanketing the hallway, stretching to fill the small distance between them. It should have been awkward, or tense, or uncomfortable, perhaps. It was a stillness in which Isobel felt the excited drumming of her own heart refuse to subside, for no reason that she dared name just yet.

It did not help that she finally allowed herself a closer look at her company. For, just like Isobel herself in her light summer nightgown, Selûne's emissary had clearly been prepared for bed when she was called to confront peril. It made sense, of course—it was the middle of the night, late even for most Selûnites, and she'd retired to the guest quarters on the main floor of Moonrise after all the official business surrounding dinner and Ketheric's departure for Waterdeep was done with.

Isobel found herself very aware of the fact that this was the first time she'd seen Dame Aylin in anything other than the full impressive panoply of her armour. Yet she was just as impressive in her own right, towering over everyone in her vicinity, shoulders drawn back, posture ramrod straight, every limb so casually exposed by soft linen exuding strength. The lack of mail and plate encasing her did little to reduce the unyielding air surrounding her.

But then she moved once more, sending a ripple through whatever spell had settled over Isobel to have her all but staring. Aylin shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then busied herself rolling up her dishevelled right sleeve to match her left—clearly where the assassin had tried to grip and pull at her sword-arm. With a satisfied hum when the sleeve settled just above her elbow the way she apparently wanted it to, she ran both hands through her mussed hair and tangled braids, smoothing them back. It was all done in a way clearly long-practised, hemming herself further into resolutely calm control after the heat of battle, step by tiny step.

It was also a fascinatingly mundane display, and Isobel could not look away - so she did not even try.

Her clothing was relatively simple, but clearly finely made. Would it be more suited for the daughter of a goddess to sleep in elaborate finery? Ought a goddess' daughter sleep at all? Isobel wondered this and many things, and itched to just draw her aside and ask, in this oddly and increasingly comfortable twilight, so removed from the stark light and truths and formalities of the day.

Isobel noticed something else, then, something that had been playing around the edges of her mind as an intriguing absence she'd been failing to pinpoint: there were no wings to be seen anywhere. No sign of the impressive span that helped make an already imposing figure even more so.

There was a line of what somehow appeared to be gold shining across Aylin's collarbone, riding up her right shoulder, slicing through that strikingly pale skin until it vanished under the light material of her very open shirt. And there, under the base of a solid, wide neck currently graced with the slightest sheen of sweat, a broad chest, and a clearly visible swell of softness.

Isobel looked away, looked down… then hastily averted her eyes from the wide expanse of thigh jutting out of the braies—appropriately silver-trimmed—meeting a powerful knee and calf, similarly struck through with a vein of gold. There was rather a lot of the Moonmaiden's own daughter to look at, Isobel found, and it was tremendously difficult not to.

So she came to a decision, cleared her throat and her mind both, and met her eyes when Aylin looked at her once more, jolted out of some reverie or daze of her own.

"You weren't injured, were you?" Isobel gestured to her right-hand side and the dark stains on Aylin's freshly rolled-up sleeve. Likely none of it hers, likely all of it belonging to the ill-fated Sharran, but Isobel had to make sure.

Aylin looked surprised for a moment, but then her expression softened into a smile. "I am fine," she reassured and tilted that chin just so again, to a stuttered hammering in Isobel's chest. "I am honoured by your concern, but it is not my blood."

"It's a cleric's prerogative to ask, as I'm sure you know," Isobel decided to tease. The smile she got in return was somehow softer still, inviting appreciation of an almost startlingly beautifully curved cheek.

"I know, but I am still grateful for it. It is…" Aylin trailed off for a moment, looking for the proper word, then settling after what had to have been a moment of frustration on: "sweet."

When she next shifted her weight—something Isobel was starting to chalk up to a nervous habit, if such a thing was conceivable—the blood-soaked carped squelched underfoot in an immensely unpleasant reminder. Isobel grimaced, noting Aylin's feet were bare - and noting her own soft slippers wouldn't make much of a difference if she did not watch her step.

"Come on, let us take a seat on my balcony, and let me make sure you are completely fine—it is truly the least I can do. And we can clean off a bit, before any of that blood sets in." Then she allowed her voice to soften into plain honesty. "I don't feel particularly sleepy after all of this, and I would prefer to have company, at least for a little while."

Aylin's eyes widened slightly, darting this way and that: between Isobel's face, somewhere decidedly lower, and the open door Isobel still stood in front of. Then her previously mild and indulgent smile turned into what was almost a grin, as she decided to follow and play along.

"Of course, as you wish. I will submit to your most necessary clerical inspection."

Isobel did not take her hand to lead her. But it was a very close thing.

Squire, bless her, had stayed in the room as bid, though she was little more than a puppy and hardly far in her training. At Isobel's return, she ran in a few excited and restless circles around Isobel, and then around herself, until she finally settled into her bed near the door. To Aylin she, amusingly, seemed to pay no mind at all after a rather cursory introductory sniff of a charmingly gentle and careful proffered hand.

Aylin watched patiently as Isobel fetched a bowl and a washcloth, and helpfully held the pitcher in which Isobel conjured fresh, clean water. When they stepped outside, they both paused in front of the altar. It was a brief moment, no longer than the space between two breaths, but Aylin's grip on the pitcher visibly loosened - together with some tension that had stubbornly thrummed through her all along, now made obvious by its absence.

For her part, Isobel noticed that the spilled milk from earlier was nowhere to be seen. The surface of the altar and the floor below it were both pristine, the candles neatly snuffed out, the silver-engraved bowl perfectly centred. It seemed a bit of an odd way to accept an offering—one she'd somewhat bungled, at that—but Isobel decided not to question it and turned her attention to Aylin instead.

It occurred to her a moment later, as they sat down on the balcony, wordlessly agreeing on pulling the little side-table and two of the chairs to be in the brightest spot of the night's most direct beam of moonlight, that this was perhaps exactly what her Lady intended and wished to encourage.

"So," Isobel began playfully, as she took one large hand between hers and turned it this way and that, checking for any sign of injury and marvelling at a masterwork of muscle and tendon, "is fighting off Sharrans in nothing but your nightwear a common pastime for the Sword of the Moonmaiden?"

Aylin let out a sharp laugh at that, almost a guffaw. It felt delightfully spontaneous. "It is far from my preferred manner of encountering them, but they stand little chance against me either way. They would struggle to fell me were I to be wearing nothing at all."

It was said boisterously, with a warmly amusing bravado, but also as plain fact. Isobel found herself both utterly convinced and utterly distracted by the conjured imagery. In place of a reply, she let go of Aylin's hand and pushed her own chair further away to give the rest of her a look-over. At the scraping sound, Aylin paused in her dabbing at her bloodied sleeve, hand holding the dampened cloth hovering as if in question.

But then it turned out the Sharran did land a hit. There was an oddly coloured and rapidly darkening bruise blooming on the inside of Aylin's left thigh, almost at the knee, visible now as her braies had ridden up when she sat.

"You're hurt."

"Oh," Aylin seemed flustered, even - that Isobel's eyes chose to linger there, perhaps? "I did not notice, truth be told."

"No matter," Isobel tutted, then raised her fingers, already aglow after a murmured word. Aylin looked like she was about to protest, but then sat back the tiniest bit, allowing Isobel easier access. It was the work of a moment for Isobel to trace gently around the bruise after that, barely touching at all. "There, all gone. Perfect."

"My lady, you truly did not need to—"

Carved from stone Aylin certainly wasn't. Not with that charming silvery blush gracing her face.

"I wanted to," Isobel responded simply. "There is no need at all for you to hurt, or to be in any discomfort. Especially when it is so very simple for me to alleviate it. Why would I ever not?"

Aylin shook her head, her free hand - the one Isobel had held between hers so recently - curled in the soft, loose material of her shirt. It was almost as if she were gripping at her heart. "Once again, your concern for me is touching. Deeply so. I—"

Though she'd only known her for a short while, Isobel was entirely certain it was not often one got to see Dame Aylin speechless.

A frown on that noble brow, and the moment of silence and hesitation became one of quiet confiding, of confession, as Aylin draped the now-stained cloth over the lip of the bowl before her with great care. "I am honoured and delighted, each time my Mother sends me to a place such as this. Seeing Her people, blessing them and protecting them, in Her name - it is a tremendously rewarding duty."

"And getting to know them?" Isobel asked with a coy little smile.

Her smile was returned, but the edges of it were tinged with sadness. "To an extent. I fear, sometimes, that… that my presence draws untoward attention to places Shar would not have looked to, or perhaps not so closely. That in a desire to protect and aid, I instead bring peril."

Aylin's jaw clenched visibly. "It is a pattern that causes me… vexation. It feels, ever more and more, as if the moment my feet find perch somewhere, they arrive." A dismissive, scornful tilt of the head was enough to indicate the traces left by the Sharran assassin and for her point to be understood.

But then she sighed deeply, and allowed the slightest slump into those astonishingly broad, upright, ever-proud shoulders - Isobel wondered, briefly, if it was different when her wings weren't hidden away. "I do not wish to be a harbinger of woe."

"You are not," Isobel rushed to reassure, adamant - feeling somehow offended on Aylin's behalf, that she'd dare think and speak so of herself. "You could never be! For one, the Sharran was clearly here for my father, not you. And all the shades of villainy they choose to fill their days with aren't your fault. Your presence has been nothing but a blessing. For Reithwin; for all of us here."

For me?

Aylin looked taken aback once more, eyes wide and shining and fixed on Isobel with an almost overwhelming intensity. But she did not reply, or argue, or attempt any rebuttals at all. Instead, their conversation tapered out into a silence that was as soft and comfortable as the moonlight it found itself surrounded with.

Isobel decided to interrupt it, to indulge, and allow one of her crowding questions from before to surface.

"Do you sleep?" She blurted out rather inelegantly. It earned her not a stern or dismissive glare, but a fascinatingly clear and light bit of laughter.

"She may have a formidable constitution and deep wells to draw on, but eventually even Dame Aylin needs rest." As if to punctuate that claim, Aylin leaned back in her chair. Isobel chose to ignore the put-upon little squeak of its strained wooden joints. "I learned long ago that exhausting myself and bringing myself to the very brink rarely bodes well for those in my charge. And so… I sleep." Then, the smile turned a bit more conspiratorial. "I enjoy it, as well. A soft bed, a feathered duvet, warm or cool depending on the season - it is its own delight, is it not?"

Isobel's mouth went dry. She had not meant to imply or even call to mind the vexingly lovely images that chose to parade themselves through her head at that comment. Luckily, Aylin seemed otherwise occupied, distracted by something.

"Lady Thorm—"

"Isobel."

A wide, wide smile, catching brilliantly in the moonlight. "Isobel, then. If you would permit me a moment of honesty."

"Oh?" Isobel couldn't help but tease. "Only now? And here I thought paladins weren't supposed to lie."

Though Aylin's expression didn't change, she did not let the playful interjection waylay her. "I would not call it a lie, not even of omission. Call it, perhaps, a revelation."

"What is it, then? This revelation?"

"It will sound odd, perhaps, but I know of no other way to phrase it: it is so astoundingly, marvellously easy to talk to you, Isobel." The way her entire being seemed to brighten as her mouth formed the name was unmissable. "No matter how numerous my host of years upon this mortal plane or the breadth of my experience, this feels… singular."

"I understand exactly what you mean - I feel much the same. It just seems…" Isobel felt the tips of her ears burning and her mind groping around for the right way to express herself, "natural." The rest she couldn't stop herself from laying out in a great big rush. "As if I'd known you for decades, but, bizarrely, as if I don't know you at all, and want to learn everything there is to know about you."

Aylin clearly didn't begrudge her any of it. In fact, if anything, she seemed delighted by the response, leaning closer and resting her elbows on the small table between them. "Then I hope we will be graced with many more chances to talk. But," and here she looked nigh-heartbroken, whilst Isobel found herself developing a new level of appreciation for the expressiveness of that face, "the hour grows late."

She then reached across the table and raised Isobel's hand to her lips, pressing a perfectly polite and appropriate and achingly tender kiss there. The silverlight glimmered in the depths of her eyes as she looked up, all her and far more than just a reflection of the night's bright, full moon. It was impossible to look away, and startlingly difficult to take a proper breath, too.

"I will leave you to your respite, Isobel. And I pray my Mother will grant you only the sweetest of dreams."

You don't have to go, Isobel wanted to cry out after her as she rose, wanted to take her by the hand and pull her back down. Stay! Stay and talk with me all night.

"Good night, Aylin," she said instead.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #fanfiction #bg3 #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #selune is the coolest mom and 100% knows what she's doing btw

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