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brokenbowstring-cobbledcoffin · 3 years ago

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it will no longer be a whisper; when it is your blood on my hands i will scream

SUPER angsty, SUPER dark fic about elthiilith meeting minthara. the concept of them having bad blood was just so enticing i couldn't not write it. here it is in all its 4,164 words. featuring @lustyargonianmaid 's oc maeve because the concept of her being elthiilith's daughter figure brings this all into focus.

us'dalhar - A conjunction I made up meaning "my child." A combination of “uss” or “ussa” (mine or my) and “dalhar” (child). I have a feeling such a phrase would be used more with apprentices or disciples than actual familial ties. As affectionate as it sounds, i imagine in drow culture it’s frequently used as a patronizing phrase, as well.

“Oi! Ain’t no party in ‘ere– we’re doing the Absolute’s work!” Barked a bald goblin, snarling as she spoke, “State yer business. Now.”

Elthiilith was easy to oblige. She drew herself up, prim and proper, and tilted her head to look at the creature from under her brows. The corners of her mouth lifted ever-so-slightly into a violent promise– just like in court. “I’ve got an audience with the one in charge.”

The goblin looked her up and down, before nodding. “You one of those Moonrise types, then?”

Elthiilith pocketed the name.

“Your kind usually don’t deal with Boss Ragzlin and Priestess Gut. Guessin’ you’re after Minthara–”

Minthara. Minthara. Minthara.

Elthiilith didn’t listen to a word the goblin said, the name bouncing off her skull like a nightmare. She blinked the memories away– the dining hall, the slap of the whip on skin, Ilivardra screaming–

“Seems we’ve pegged all three marks– Elthiilith?” Wyll’s voice spoke behind her, but she barely registered it.

“Enough gabbin, yous. You want Ragzlin, Gut, or–”

“What did you just say?” Elthiilith strode up to the goblin like a woman possessed.

“Oi– whaddaya mean?! Back off!”

“The name of the drow. Say it again,” She growled, grabbing the goblin by her long, fleshy ear and yanking, “Because I know I didn’t hear you right.”

She was aware and unphased by the knocking of arrows and barking of the other three goblins in the hall. The goblin in her hand reached for her weapon and Elthiilith simply snatched her wrist up and away.

“Weapons down, you fiends! Haven’t you learned to bow to your betters?” She heard Astarion snarl.

The goblin stared up at her with dark, wide eyes as fear naturally formed on her face. “N-Nightwarden Minthara, ma’am.”

Elthiilith’s eye twitched, and for a flash of a moment, she saw red. The goblin yelped, and only then did she realize she had crimson blood trickling down her hand from where she’d scratched her cartilaginous handle. She quickly snatched her hand away, wiping the blood on her coat. She ignored the way her fingers trembled, but barely masked the quaking of her voice. “Very good. I expect you to… continue to use her full title in the future.”

The way she spat ‘full title’ seemed on-par with her cruelty to the goblins, but she knew her companions knew better.

The goblin brought one hand up to clutch her ear, lazy rivulets dropping from the gash Elthiilith’s blunt nails created. “Y-Yes ma’am. Of course, ma’am.”

“Now, the Nightwarden, where is she?”

“S-She’s in tellin’ the warchiefs wot’s wot. Just p-past the spider pit.”

“Good. You may be useful yet.” Elthiilith turned sharply on her heel, walking up to the large, wooden doors. With a shove, she forced them open.

—

“Well, well, well,” Wyll commented beside Maeve, “Looks like the chief’s finally gettin’ in the spirit of things.”

Astarion picked up his pace until he walked beside Elthiilith, whispering harshly to her, just loud enough for Maeve to pick up, “–It’s good to see you getting so in-character, darling, but I’d rather you not sicc an entire goblin camp on us just because you’re feeling a little murder-y.”

“And I’d rather you stay the fuck out of my way,” Elthiilith bit.

Shadowheart looked around anxiously, and now even Maeve was feeling a little nervous. Astarion turned and shared a glance between them all, brows raised at the audacity and face almost pleading “someone with a little more diplomacy, fucking stop her.”

Gale studied Elthiilith’s form, speaking lowly to Maeve, “That, right there, is a woman ready for war.” A beat, where Gale turned his tense gaze on her, “Go get her.”

As Astarion fell out of step with Elthiilith’s, Maeve caught up with her opposite side, hands curling easily around her elbow and tried to slow her down. The older drow jerked her elbow to shake her off, and when that didn’t work, Elthiilith leveled her golden, mad-touched glare onto Maeve.

“If you wish to keep those hands, us’dalhar, you’ll let me go right now.”

“What’s this about, Elthee?” Maeve’s voice was soft, innocent. The glare lifted, for a moment replaced with surprise, or alarm, or some combination of the two.

Elthiilith turned her gaze sharply away from Maeve’s, eye still twitching, arms still tense, hands still balled into fists. Finally, she spoke through her teeth, “Ancient history.”

Astarion wheeled to her other side, a picture of aristocratic impatience, “Yes, well, I’m sure we’d all love to know if this ‘ancient history’ is going to get us killed. We don’t need details, of course, just to know what we’re walking into.”

Elthiilith drew an exasperated breath, before her face shifted from annoyance to admittance, “I… I don’t know. It’s been ages since I’ve even thought about her. Minthara.”

“Really? How in the hells is it that you two know each other? Is the underdark that small?” Wyll asked.

“Please. Menzoberranzan is not a small city, by any means… but the families that rule it are.”

“Of course, nobody knows how to start a good blood feud like the ruling class,” Gale quipped.

Elthiilith took another breath, visibly deciding what to share and not to share. Finally she looked around at her companions. “Minthara’s a member of House Baenre, the first and most powerful house in Menzoberranzan. It’s obviously the goal of any ambitious bard to be invited into their House– not only for the prestige, but for the opportunity. I performed there frequently for a time. I only knew Minthara professionally.”

Maeve squeezed Elthiilith’s arm, urging her to continue.

“She…. She killed my daughter.”

The words were so simple, matter-of-fact, as though it was something she hadn’t come to terms with. Maybe it wasn’t.

“I… I’m sorry, Elthiilith,” Gale was the first to offer his sympathies, only to be met Elthiilith’s cold, defensive snarl.

“I don’t need your sympathies,” She bit, barely above a whisper, “This all happened ages ago– before you were ever thought of, let alone conceived. I’ve grieved enough for my stupid spawn–”

Everyone politely pretended Elthiilith’s voice didn’t break.

“In all of those years, she still has her head. Why?” Lae’zel asked.

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Vividly. Assassinating a Baenre is an impossible task at worst, and a torturously slow death sentence at best. Besides, one can always have more children.”

“You didn’t, though,” Maeve pointed out.

The glare Elthiilith shot her was telling, like ripping the scab off of a healing wound.

“You’re on a quest for vengeance, chief?” Wyll asked, determination in his eye.

Elthiilith looked up, before nodding slowly. “Something like that.”

“You want vengeance? Fine. But you’d best control your thoughts around this ‘Minthara.’ She’s undoubtedly a ‘True Soul’ as well, so expect her to go poking in your brain.” Shadowheart was curt, as always.

Maeve gave Elthiilith an assuring squeeze, before letting her go.

“I am nothing if not the epitome of control,” Elthiilith hissed.

Astarion snorted beside her, “Tell that to the goblins.”

—

Elthiilith could hardly hear over her own racing heartbeat, but her mask was an eerie illusion of serenity. She pinpointed a memory in her head and kept her focus on that, eyes straight ahead, as the form of Minthara Baenre came into view. Goblins moved out of her way as she walked, companions following behind.

“I do not have time for interruptions from under–” The words died on Minthara’s tongue as she looked up, and Elthiilith felt her fists clench. It was obvious, Minthara recognized her.

Elthiilith felt their minds touch, just as Shadowheart had warned her she would– a cold hand caressing her brain. She swatted it away, but not before she got a glimpse of who it was that commanded Minthara– one of the ‘Chosen.’

There was a fond smile on Minthara’s face, and it took all the willpower Elthiilith could muster not to snarl. “My, my. So the infamous Deathwhisper has come to join us, and as a True Soul no less. It’s a great pleasure to see such a familiar face.”

“I could say the same,” Elthiilith bit curtly, “I can only assume your House was thrilled at you coming to the side of the Absolute, Nightwarden.”

“Ignorant fools, the lot of them. Surely you understand, no power would be gained under the will of Lolth.”

“Oooh, that kind of heresy would earn you at least a hundred lashes from the Matron Mother,” Elthiilith’s mask was a perfect fit over her rage– was that not how many Minthara delivered to her own daughter, so many years ago?

“The matron mothers are the only heretics here. I serve the Absolute devoutly.”

She caught the eye of Maeve, whose brows were furrowed. Elthiilith swallowed, before giving the most subtle nod.

“…Elthiilith, your eyes. Are you ill? I’m sure Priestess Gut could–” Minthara spoke, sending a sharp knife of dread into her stomach.

“I’m fine,” She snapped sharply, ignoring the way her features paled, “…The Absolute has saved me from my sickness, although my eyes remain.”

This seemed to please Minthara, “A miracle. Praise be, sister.”

“Praise be.”

“If that is the case, will you be able to join my hunt?”

Angry thoughts bubbled onto the surface of her mind, You are my hunt, and it took her a moment to quell them. She tilted her head, “A hunt? Whose our target?”

“Worshippers of a false god. Their existence is an insult to the Absolute’s claim on this region.” Minthara spat with all the vitriol of a believer. With a glance at the map spread across the table, she continued, “There is a weapon the Absolute seeks– I’m sure those wretches have it hidden away there. We will find it, amongst the dead and the ashes.”

Once again her mind intruded into Elthiilith’s, and her annoyance was almost enough to reveal the imagery of Minthara’s blood spilling over the floor. But instead she turned her thoughts to what was presented before her. Minthara’s giddy, sick excitement– the same kind of glee she wore in the hall that day, while Ilivardra lay bare-backed and bleeding below her, screaming her apologies and her pleas to her mother–

No, there, there was a weapon. She ignored how hard it was to breath, that weapon was–

Shadowheart’s anxiety spiked, because yes, the weapon was the artifact she was carrying. The odd, spiked, isocahedron with runes carved into it that protected their band from the… “Absolute’s” influence.

Shadowheart steeled her mind, but Elthiilith felt herself slipping, spiralling.

“I see not all of Lolth’s teachings were in vain?” She spoke, ignoring the probing of her mind, and looking Minthara in the eye.

The sadistic glee in Minthara’s face melted into frustration. “Lolth teaches nothing. The Absolute has delivered me to this divine path.”

Elthiilith felt her face twist into a violent smile, “She certainly taught us to maim and to kill. You cannot deny how well She indulged your preternatural taste for violence. Perhaps the Absolute is simply taking advantage of Her hard work?”

Minthara snarled, “Hold your tongue– I will not indulge this blasphemy.”

“Oh, it’s nothing but jest, dear Minthara,” A purr laced into Elthiilith’s voice, and her vision washed red. Her hands flexed over the edge of the desk as she came around to Minthara’s side, itching to feel her blood run hot over her palms. “Surely the Absolute wouldn’t deprive you of your divine sense of humor. She couldn’t be that cruel, could She?”

There was a flash of nervousness in Minthara’s eyes– and Gods, has it been so long since she’s seen that look in someone’s eyes. She forced laughter, but Elthiilith watched her eyes flash to both of her hands. No, no knives yet. It’s not like she needed knives to carve her open, anyway.

She thinks one of her companions whispered her name, but she didn’t hear it. She leaned over the map, looking at Minthara through the tops of her eyes. “Here, I’ll tell you what, Minthara. As a show of good will and great company, I’ll show you where the heretics are.”

“You– You know where they hide?”

Wyll was definitely yelling, now. Elthiilith still ignored him.

“Of course– when have you ever known me to not be teeming with useful information, dearest?” She spat cockily, ripping a dagger from the wood of the table and holding it over the map, “And, perhaps now that we are both free of Lolth, we can laugh about how ironic it is that one of Lolth’s favorites looked so horrid in Spidersilk?”

Minthara leaned over her shoulder in a way Elthiilith could feel her stiffen as she recognized the insult. So the bitch remembered, then? Elthiilith’s jaw tensed and she studied Minthara’s face, eyes wide in shock.

And then she grinned, mad and lazy and all-too-gleeful.

“You asked if I was sick, Minthara,” Elthiilith laughed, “I’ll show you how sick I can be.”

Minthara punctuated Elthiilith’s sentence with a sharp cry of pain, as Elthiilith slammed the tip of the dagger into her useless bracer, through her hand, and into the table.

“Now!” Wyll shouted, drawing his blade and turning to the goblins who were panickedly drawing their weapons.

Blood splattered across the map, hot on Elthiilith’s hand. She grabbed Minthara by her armor and spat in her face. “Do you even remember her name?!”

Minthara growled, grabbing the handle of the dagger and yanking it free, swinging it up towards Elthiilith’s face. Elthiilith stepped back, drawing her rapier. The blade flew past Elthiilith’s face, grazing her cheek and splitting her ear. Minthara drew her mace and shield, ready to fight.

“Are you serious?! You’d spill my blood over one worthless spawn? We are better than petty feuds, chosen by the Absolute!”

“Shut up about your Absolute!” Elthiilith shouted, thrusting her blade in at Minthara, only for it to be blocked by her shield, “I’ll rend your flesh from your bones!”

She hastily jabbed again, and Minthara parried effortlessly, catching Elthiilith’s chin with her mace, the crack of her teeth against teeth loud enough to ring in the hall. She stumbled back from the impact, while Minthara closed the distance. Her mace was raised, shield presented in front of her, held by her wounded hand. Elthiilith pressed herself against the wall and jumped, pressing both feet flat onto the shield and shoving. Minthara cried out as the jostling affected her wound, blood dripping to the ground as she stumbled back. Elthiilith snatched the crossbow off of her hip and loaded it quick as she could, before squeezing the trigger. The bolt landed dead in Minthara’s knee, and she shouted. With a grimace, she ripped the bolt out, before a whisper and a glow healed the wound. Teeth gritted, Minthara advanced.

It had given Elthiilith just enough time to get off of the ground, sliding out of the way of Minthara’s mace smashing about where her head just was. Elthiilith thrust her rapier through the gap in Minthara’s defenses, cutting between her ribs. Her shield struck against Elthiilith’s side, throwing her back over the table. Another roll, another dodge, and Minthara’s mace destroyed it. Elthiilith spat blood to the stone floor.

“She was a child! Not even in her seventh decade!! And you flayed her to death!”

Elthiilith exploited the limp Minthara approached with and drove her rapier into her side. Minthara shouted in rage, before swinging down on Elthiilith’s knee with her mace. Elthiilith screamed.

“Perhaps if you and that cave rat of a consort you had taught her some manners–!”

Elthiilith growled, free hand grabbing the top of Minthara’s shield and wrenching it down. The mace struck her head; for a moment the world was dark. But a whispered word knitted her bones together and Elthiilith’s eyes snapped open, pulling Minthara’s shield to the floor, her arm still trapped with it.

She used Minthara’s shoulder as a brace as she stood up, bringing all her weight down onto the shield. The snap! and scream that ripped from Minthara’s throat made Elthiilith’s blood burn.

“Elthiilith!” Shadowheart shouted, “Pull yourself together!”

“Just kill her and let’s get the hells out of here!” Astarion roared.

Elthiilith grabbed a handful of Minthara’s white hair and pulled her head to look up. “You are not allowed,” Elthiilith’s voice was a low, spitting growl, “to speak of my blood like that–”

“Too late for that, minstrel,” Minthara lifted her mace, “You have no blood left to speak of.”

Elthiilith screamed, the kind of fury that thundered, its own kind of spell of fear. Her rapier clattered to the stone, and she brought her hand digging into Minthara’s throat.

“I damn you to the Hells!”

“I am chosen by the Absolute, and will return to her side, even if you manage to kill me!”

Elthiilith dragged her to her feet, snatching the discarded dagger from its place in the wall and driving it into her shoulder. Agonizingly painful, but non-lethal.

“I’ll drag you there myself!”

Minthara whispered the healing word to herself again, and brought her mace up to strike, but Elthiilith caught her arm and changed her momentum. Elthiilith avoided the blow, but tumbled to the floor.

“You’re weak. I’d like to see you–”

Minthara’s body was sent sideways into the wall by a violent blast. Elthiilith forced herself up from the floor, glancing at the origin.

Wyll winked at her, before gutting the goblin in front of him, “Get ‘er, chief.”

Elthiilith snatched her rapier up from the floor, breathing hard as Minthara fumbled to push herself to her feet. With the flick of her wrist and a yelp from the floor, Elthiilith cut across Minthara’s arm, causing her hand to fall limp and the mace to tumble to the floor.

She crouched over Minthara, breathing hot in her face, blood dribbling from her nose and mouth now. “I know the rumors about me, Minthara…” Her voice was a growl, “I know what they think I did to those people, the statues I sculpted in their flesh, the scenes I painted in their blood.”

Her hand closed over Minthara’s throat, and the Nightwarden began to squirm. “Let me tell you, they’re all true. But, I’ll share one secret with you.”

The knife ripped out of Minthara’s shoulder, blood splattering across Elthiilith’s clothes.

“They were all dead already. I killed them painlessly, you know. But you? I’ll give you the privilege of feeling the pain of all of it.”

Minthara wailed, a sound so desperate and fearful it made Elthiilith’s heart clench in her chest. She gasped around Elthiilith’s hand, “Y-You’re mad.”

“Yes, my dear,” Elthiilith whispered, softly, sadly, almost tenderly, “That is what grief will do to you.”

Elthiilith’s hand forced Minthara’s chin up and drove the blade through her throat. With a gargling sigh, the light faded from her red eyes.

No, no no no no!

The knife was ripped from her throat, only to be plunged again, and again, and again. A guttural growl transformed into a scream. She was supposed to hurt this woman, supposed to make her regret the just-over-a-half-century worth of pain she’d caused her. But a corpse can’t weep, a corpse can’t cry– why did she have to be so soft-hearted–

Blood painted her hands and clothes, streaming down Minthara’s blue-hued skin. Ethiilith’s hands balled into her hair and she pulled, unable to shake the trembling of her hands or the tears in her eyes.

“Elthee,” The voice was soft, and a hand grabbed her shoulder. She looked up– pathetic, she’s sure, with the wideness of her teary-eyed stare– at Maeve, who had tears in her own dark eyes.

Oh, gods, she looked like Ilivardra like this– as if her daughter might have grown up.

“It’s time to go.”

—

It was a miracle they made it back to camp without alerting many of the goblins. Elthiilith had stumbled into camp with a limp, silent as the grave. No one said anything, even Lae’zel. Elthiilith was still soaked in Minthara’s blood.

“I cannot believe her,” Shadowheart hissed around the campfire, “Going in, almost getting herself killed–”

“I’ve never seen her so angry,” Gale muttered, “She truly was a woman possessed.”

Wyll nodded. “Vengeance will do that to you. I’m… not proud of it. Did… Is that what I looked like, with Spike?”

“No,” Astarion spoke simply, “You were much cleaner after him.”

“Yes. Elthiilith’s display was significantly more satisfying to watch.”

Lae’zel’s comment earned her a set of unnerved glares, to which she just chk’ed and walked off.

“…Has anyone talked to her?” Maeve asked softly.

Everyone exchanged a guilty glance, save for Astarion, who simply huffed, “Oh hells no. I don’t really want to get the Minthara treatment.”

“Astarion,” Maeve chastised.

“To be fair, if anyone were going to get the… um… ‘Minthara treatment’, it would be Astarion,” Gale offered.

Maeve turned to Gale, before turning her eyes on their other two companions as well. “So what are you three’s excuses?”

Wyll’s face dropped to the dirt below, and Gale avoided her gaze. Shadowheart simply stared her down, “If you think she needs a shoulder to cry on so badly, why don’t you do it?”

Maeve held her gaze, before standing up. “You’re right. I will.”

“Mae–” Gale spoke, a little hurriedly. He had a look in his eyes, begging her not to go, “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Maeve gaped at Gale, “You’re afraid of her?”

“She did give us… plenty of reasons to walk softly around her, darling,” Astarion’s face darkened.

“She’s not heartless!”

“And you’re sure about that?” Shadowheart raised a brow, “You’ve seen how easily she uses people. It honestly puts Astarion to shame.”

“I’d take offense to that,” Astarion quipped, “If I didn’t think you were absolutely correct.”

“Did we not see enough proof of the otherwise, tonight?” Maeve bit, before turning and walking away from the campsite, leaving a crackling in the air like lightning about to strike.

—

Elthiilith buried the dagger into the tree with a shout. Sap dribbled out of the gashes already formed. Sweat dripped down Elthiilith’s brow, mingling with blood still dried to her skin.

“Elthee?” The voice made every fiber of Elthiilith’s body tense.

“Why is it always you?” She hissed through her teeth.

Maeve's steps were light and graceful until she was in Elthiilith’s space, unafraid of the rage radiating off of her in waves.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m the only one not worried you’re going to bite my head off.”

“Did today teach you nothing, us’dalhar?” She punctuated her sentence by stabbing the tree again, “Be smart like them.”

“Hm…” Maeve considered, sitting on a rock in Elthiilith’s vision, “No.”

Elthiilith’s dagger struck the tree three more times before she dared to speak again. When she did, her voice was croaky. “Damnit, Maeve.”

“You should put the knife down, and come wash up.”

“I’m not done yet.”

“When will you be? When you cut a hole through that tree?”

Elthiilith’s hand stuttered, slipping off the knife as she tried to pull it from the tree. In her anger, she punched the tree, and the pain was immediate. She clutched her hand to her chest, and the weakness in her arms finally registered.

“I shouldn’t have killed her,” Elthiilith finally spoke.

“Yes, you should have. She was a bitch, and she had it coming.”

“No, I shouldn’t have killed her yet.”

Maeve was quiet.

“I… I should have cut off her fingers. I should have buried every blade in that room into her shoulders. I should have pried out all of her teeth and made her a little crown. I should have made her suffer, damnit! But I didn’t– I showed her mercy. She didn’t deserve that.”

“She was scared. She looked at you with nothing but fear in her eyes. Isn’t that enough suffering?”

“No.”

Elthiilith stumbled to the stream, sticking her hands into the icy water and watching blood color the water. Maeve moved to sit next to her.

“Ilivardra lived for three days after Minthara’s punishment. In agony. And despite everything I did– everything I did to save her– she died in agony. Minthara deserved nothing less.”

“Oh, Elthee,” Maeve’s voice was soft, full of pity.

“I had sixty nine fucking years to decide what I was going to do to that bitch once I got my hands on her. For nothing.”

“But it’s over now, right?”

Elthiilith stared into the water. Nothing was going to bring her family back, but she’d known that for ages. Honestly, she had long ignored Ilivardra’s death. She never thought she’d get her opportunity for vengeance. This was… more than she could ever hope for.

She rubbed her hands together before shaking them off. She nodded. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

Maeve smiled, putting a hand on Elthiilith’s shoulder. “I think she’d be proud of you.”

“You didn’t know her.”

She rolled those ebony eyes of hers, “Fine. I’m proud of you, then.”

Elthiilith bit her lip to keep from crying.