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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 21 hours ago

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Moonmaiden's Reconstitution

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, minor appearances by a few supporting OCs Length: ~10000 words Rating: T, for angst and references to canon-typical violence. Summary:

"We have grown up on tales of your exploits, hearing about the Sword of the Silverlight. It is a nigh-unimaginable honour to be able to thank you in person. On the eve of a grand ceremony, no less, here at the heart of Our Lady's worship!" Unimaginable, Aylin thinks to herself with a rising bitterness, casting another glance over the large hall, skirting over heads and faces, failing to find the one she yearns for. How long need one be gone for, to pass even from imagination?

A year after the defeat of the Absolute, their travels take Aylin and Isobel to Waterdeep, to the House of the Moon, where they are both driven to confront things they were trying to avoid.

Contains various flavours of angst, dealing with trauma, and emotional hurt/comfort, as well as a bath. Also contains the author thinking the House of the Moon is cool, while also finding it very convenient and fitting that it has very detailed writeups and maps… that are about 100 years out of date in-universe, save for one little addition and a brief mention in one 5e adventure. This started off as a bit of a followup or companion piece to With Tremulous Cadence Slow before growing completely out of control.

Written for day 4 of Aylin/Isobel Week 2025, for the prompts: Returned to the fold of time | Hero worship, smitten, argument, anger

Also on AO3.

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Moonmaiden's Reconstitution

Dame Aylin is ill at ease.

Even here, in the mightiest citadel of her Mother's faithful, where Her face gazes down on Aylin from statues and reliefs and frescoes around every corner. Where the night is as bright as it should always be: lit gently with motes of moonlight and pale droplets embraced in the petals of a flower-garden; lambent silver filling fountains and pools, shining from secluded chapel niches and lofty domes alike.

The House of the Moon is as magnificent as any palace other than Argentil could ever hope to be. White stone intricately carved, tiled marble; blue and silver everywhere one looked, topped with gleaming gold. Why, if Aylin felt like it, she could don her armour, stand stock-still next to a line of statues, and the visitors passing her by would surely be none the wiser.

How could anything here be wrong, be out of place, when the entire complex was built not to align with the crisscrossing of streets and city infrastructure, but to provide views on the moonrise and moonset on those special days when Selûne would climb highest in the sky and bless Her faithful with Her direct light and loving gaze the longest? The entire brilliant arc of the moon's nightly travel could be comfortably beheld from underneath the temple's domes, enchanted to become transparent when touched by moonlight.

Aylin has been here many times over her many years in her Mother's service, indulged in many chances to come to know it well in all its occasionally overwrought splendour. She has always been welcomed, too; each of her visits proclaimed a portent of blessings to come - or as a timely warning to shore up the defences before an imminent threat reared its often shadow-wreathed head. The welcome has not faded, even after more than a hundred years of absence and a transition in leadership.

With the familiarity comes also the disquietude of all the changes a place goes through in a century. It's at least doubled in size, for one; Aylin cannot muster any complaints about that. But then there is the frustration of a hallway she'd trod down dozens of times suddenly leading her to somewhere completely unexpected, of finding rooms whose functions she'd once relied on confusingly repurposed, or the disorientation of an entire silver-tiled wing she doesn't recognise at all. Domes and cupolas looming over her where before there was nothing but a view of the sky and sea.

Isobel only ever visited here when she was very young, with her mother, and what little she can recall from then is so vague as to make everything more or less new to her. Her delight every time she exits onto a sea-view balcony is contagious, and a most welcome distraction. The thrilled glimmer in Isobel's eyes when they first stepped into the temple's grand library and she realised she could levitate up into the air remains unmatched. The sight of her simple joy at the not-quite-flight, taking both of Aylin's hands in hers and pulling her along until they faced the very tops of immense bookcases, is something Aylin will treasure for the remainder of her eternal life.

As for the rest of it, well, Aylin wrestles with her odd bouts of rudderlessness and feels a tiny prick of envy.

And then there is that tremendous, eye-catching tower that Aylin will, of course, be flying a glowing trail around during the upcoming ceremony of, as they've chosen to term it, the Moonmaiden's Reconstitution. The very tallest in Waterdeep! the High Priestess proclaimed it while leading them around on a tour upon their arrival. As befits Our Lady of Silver, one of the silverstars flanking her agreed with great enthusiasm.

High, high, high above the city, remote, untouchable, quietly watching from afar…

Fitting, is it? Aylin feels her gut churn whenever she catches sight of it, and says nothing. For better or worse, nobody seems to notice.

Since their arrival, the two of them have helped with everything from rite-related formalities and daily services, to all the practical aspects of worship the temple housed and offered. They've blessed, healed, advised, trained, studied maps and records - there is more than enough here to fill their days, even without venturing into the fabled city of splendours proper.

But even as occupied as she's been, Aylin's thoughts keep catching on the one prominent effort expected of her in the future, and the cause for their invitation and detour to Waterdeep in the first place - the ceremony. Official-looking correspondence from the House of the Moon had found them, somehow, in the midst of their travels; a summons written in an elegant script, in a dark blue ink with silver residue set in for a sparkling effect. The House has always been somewhat ostentatious, which Aylin can't say she dislikes.

For some unknowable reason, the perfectly benign and even likely to be lovely occasion has felt like a sword hanging over her head ever since, a strange shroud over her near future.

It was publicly proclaimed and announced not long after their arrival, underneath the very Dome of the Moon, weeping its silver haze brightly over the gardens. Aylin didn't mind the ever-present chill there, but she'd noted with some gratitude Isobel was dressed in a new and warm set of robes. The High Priestess, meanwhile, was in her fabulously grandiose outfit, and yet still looked so small and unassuming when stood next to Aylin herself. The joy and approval from the crowd were immense and swiftly and raucously demonstrated - though the promise of a grand feast or two somewhere in the proceedings may have played a part in that.

But the one thing Aylin remembers most prominently from that day is not listening to and approving the various plans for celebrating the blèssed return of the Moon Daughter, nor is it the speech she herself delivered, as heartfelt as always, for she knew no other way to be. No, she remembers barely making it through the formalities due to being impatient and almost giddy with the anticipation of showing Isobel a part of the temple she'd yet to visit, and one of Aylin's all-time favourites. For, oh, if Isobel's eyes lit up at the sight of the sea, she was going to adore this!

She remembers taking Isobel's hand in hers as soon as could possibly be considered polite, giving it a quick kiss, then pulling her along out of the jubilant crowd and down the first set of stairs, towards the magical, unique spectacle that was the fabled Hall of Wind and Waves.

She remembers stepping into the enchanted area first, immediately exclaiming in joy at the sensation of the salty spray on her face, the excitement of the fresh sea breeze in her feathers, the rocking and creaking of the ship's deck under her feet. Knowing it to be an illusion had never made the rush of it any less real.

She remembers when the part of the experience that included a spell-wrought sense of solitude fully set in, somehow concealing even Isobel's hand held in hers. Aylin found herself fighting a tightness in her chest utterly out of tune with the freedom and exhilaration the illusion had ever evoked in her, lurching forward and marching on to exit the enchantment as quickly as her feet could carry her.

She remembers she'd felt such a fool for forgetting that part. Later, when she'd reached some sort of calmness once more, when a flushed and thoroughly, endearingly windswept Isobel found her again, quiet and leaned against the library wall. When Isobel, now awash with concern, looked askance at all of Aylin's claims that she'd merely left to let her properly experience all of the conjured sensations for herself, but remained quiet.

How very unlike her, to forget - it sticks in Aylin's mind still, days later, like the tiniest pebble stuck in her boot and refusing to be expelled. The fastidious nature of her memory has ever been a point of pride. It stings, that it has let her down in this way, and that it has led her to this… embarrassment. Weakness.

What Aylin has not forgotten since is to plan her way around the third floor of the temple carefully, never even brushing against the limits of the enchantment.

The ceremony is only a day away.

Returned to the fold of time, Aylin called herself once, in the turbulent times of the Absolute crisis.

Returned, bit by bit over the past year, to the midst of many of the richly varied communities under her Mother's guidance and protection, as scattered as they are devoted. In her search, she has found that some have been lost forever, and found some that have changed enough to be unrecognisable.

Aylin had known so many of their particularities, once; all the fascinating local twists on how worship was to be performed, how respect was to be paid, how the moon was to be honoured in each of her phases. And be it ceremonies or feasts or celebrations or blessings, she was all too happy to participate and contribute. Rejoicing and basking in her connection to her Mother, gladly acting as a conduit for whatever was required, Aylin has never dreamed nor dreaded that it could be otherwise.

Now there is this foul, niggling thought, insistent on making itself known at the most inopportune of times - do the people, does this world, even want her back?

In a century, some of them have been born and died. Villages and towns have sprung up, others have disappeared. A century should never have mattered so much, or been so long and impactful a time for an immortal. But it seems to Aylin sometimes that every moment of the past hundred years is carved in her mind in grand and disproportionate scale as well as detail, and it drags her down like the clawed hands enforcing her imprisonment in the Shadowfell.

Most of all, she remembers the faces. And after each and every face, a death.

Will these people, feasting in her honour now, welcoming her with open arms, turn against her as easily as some in Reithwin did? Or will they hang on until the very last, desperate moment, and give in only then?

Aylin feels unpleasant, cool perspiration gather on her neck, and wants to curse at the way it stains the pressed collar of her fine shirt.

None of these are the people she once considered allies, comrades-in-arms, even friends. Heroes she used to adventure with, her contacts in temples, in enclaves, the soldiers she had led into mighty battles, and out of them into moon-blessed triumphs. Where are any of them now? Surely some of them still live - those of elven blood, at the very least. Shar could not have gotten to all of them, though she'd have doubtlessly tried. Where to even begin with tracking them down? When?

And what has Aylin done, in that time?

Died. Suffered. Raged, with futility as endless as her lifetime is to be.

Brow furrowed in frustration, Aylin gazes at her pristine reflection. Outwardly, she is the very picture of splendour in her silvers and blue brocade, outfitted to match both the occasion and the premises. Her wings remain tucked away for the evening, which she now regrets agreeing to.

"Brooding again?" Isobel interrupts. Clad in her fine new dress-robes, she wraps her arms around Aylin from behind, and peeks around her at the image of both of them in the mirror. "I understand. The smaller enclaves seemed so much more… manageable."

Aylin shakes her head. "It will be fine," she says, tugging a finely embroidered sleeve into place. "I am ready to leave. Shall we go?"

The crowd gathered in the refectory for the feast on the night before the ceremony is far larger than anything Aylin anticipated, filling up the great hall even with many of the long tables removed. Isobel, guided away by a veritable flock of white-and-silver cloaked priestesses as soon as they stepped foot into the hall, remains nowhere to be seen.

A senior cleric, drunk on a combination of wine and awe, has cornered Aylin and is regaling her with a lively tale of how she herself turned a sordid, ill-omened winter into an illustrious triumph over a band of marauding Sharran assassins. Striking in the dead of each icy night, in utmost silence, they'd driven several towns almost to extinction - until, of course, the Moonmaiden sent Her radiant daughter to dispel the darkness, leaving them nowhere to hide to escape retribution.

They rattle off names of the villages Aylin saved, then point out with particular pride the one they themselves hail from. Aylin nods along, sips at the drink in her hand - a tasteless thing she does not recognise, thrust upon her as, she supposes, another honour. Only, she remembers it hadn't been winter at all, and the Sharrans had been the very antithesis of subtle - they'd left a trail of burning wreckage along a narrow mountain pass, first cutting the villages off by causing a large rockslide at its end. Aylin, and her wings, had been the people's quickest hope for reprieve - and so reprieve was gladly and swiftly granted.

An entire generation of accomplished devotees to Selûne stemmed from there, the cleric claims, pride mounting. A fine crop of acolytes sprouted from the seeds of inspiration sowed by Aylin's own deeds.

Unimaginable, Aylin thinks to herself with a rising bitterness, casting another glance over the large hall, skirting over heads and faces, failing to find the one she yearns for. How long need one be gone for, to pass even from imagination?

It was her, yes, and those were her deeds - more or less. But tonight she feels such a gaping, yawning divide between herself and that radiant paladin, not yet so blemished by world or duty. Something has appeared between them, vast and unforgiving. Something that, for better or worse, seems not quite so obvious from outside.

Aylin has never felt such an odd jolt at the concept of affirming yes, I did that, with a simple nod and scarce few words. "I do indeed recall the region, as well as the incident. I am pleased to hear it has recovered."

"More even than that! You saved so many: not just the lives of those who were there to shake your hand afterwards, but the lives that sprang from them, that flourish there even now. It is a thriving community, you know - why, I would not dare to impose, but if you have the time, if some quest or another takes you near there, I would urge you to visit and witness for yourself."

And yet nobody came for me for a hundred years, is all that Aylin can think suddenly, bitter bile peaked in the back of her throat, the pettiness and unfairness of everything, of everyone here, herself included, of the entirety of the Realms and beyond, making her want to scream, or retch, or curse, or a hundred other unbecoming things.

"You will have to excuse me," she mutters instead, providing no excuse at all, and extracts herself from the conversation as quickly as possible without manifesting wings to fly directly upwards. "Moonmaiden's blessings!" She thinks at the very last moment to throw over her shoulder at the poor, faultless cleric, her insides already steeped in guilt.

There are two behaviours a rowdy Selûnite crowd exhibits when confronted with Dame Aylin. The first is being almost magnetically drawn to her presence, pushing against each other to come as close to her as possible; to graze and touch, perhaps, a gleaming pauldron. The other is to part before her like an awed, scurrying sea, and it is this second one Aylin is relieved to experience tonight.

It makes it easier to reach the stairs, to make quick and steady progress towards where she and Isobel have been put up in a place of honour on the fourth floor, overlooking the garden.

In her retreat, Aylin's hand brushes against a smooth white wall, and she remembers, vividly and with a jolt, orchestrating fine marble being brought over all the way from Reithwin to complete both a reconstruction after some Sharran-inflicted damage and an expansion of the premises. A sign of our enduring faith, Ketheric Thorm had spoken so proudly over the heavily laden ships departing downriver, the very ground under our feet offering up its riches to honour the Moonmaiden, entwining two places of utmost dedication to Her, forever.

Forever.

Isobel returns, eventually, from wherever the celebration had taken her, or wherever she had squirrelled herself away to avoid the worst of the crowds. Aylin watches her slip into the small but elegant antechamber of their quarters, and watches the polite, refined mask slip from her face at the same time. Every step she takes after kicking off her shoes, every little bit closer she inches to where Aylin is sitting, brooding on the edge of their bed, makes a small weight lift from her shoulders.

Isobel takes one look at Aylin, takes in her moody slouch, and meets her gaze with an exhausted smile. "There you are. I was half-convinced you'd still be down there, enjoying the ruckus - perhaps causing some of your own."

"Not… not today," Aylin replies, sounding as tired as she's ever heard herself be. Isobel kisses her temple, then sits next to her, and doesn't say anything like you would have loved this, once.

"I am hardly at my best, either. They asked me to lead a prayer in blessing of the ingredients intended for tomorrow's part of the feasting, and I just froze. All I could produce were horribly shallow platitudes. Hope prevails! I stammered out over some leeks and potatoes, Light conquers darkness! And then I realised, gods, isn't it odd, to quote one's own engraved epitaph? Would it be considered in poor taste?" Isobel grimaces, then chuckles at the absurdity of it all. She draws closer to Aylin, leaning against her shoulder in a way almost conspiratorial, eyes widened in mock-curiosity but still crinkled with amusement at the edges: "What if it's not the done thing in the big city?"

Her laughter at her own jokes is bittersweet but contagious, and Aylin gladly joins in, shaking off a bit more of whatever shadows seem to be clinging to her with every chortle and titter and giggle either of them produce.

"Their wine is rather strong. And I must have lost my stomach for both wine and grand events and loud crowds somewhere along the way," Isobel says, then shrugs. "Perhaps along with my actual stomach. Who can tell?"

It is horrible, yet also hilarious. Aylin wants to protest, in between guffaws, even thinking about that grim period, seeing what was once the person she adored most in the world be interred in cold marble. But Isobel makes it so… palatable. Light, but darkly amusing - for a precious moment, it's like it happened to someone else, like there is enough distance between them and it all to allow them to breathe freely.

"Let's go to bed. I feel like I could sleep for a century." Isobel winces and drags a hand down her own cheek, clears her throat of something unpleasant. "Ah, no. Awful phrasing. Just horrible. Please pretend I did not say that."

Aylin nods solemnly, then wraps her arms around Isobel's waist and tips them both backwards onto the covers in one swift movement. Isobel's little squeal of surprise turns into giggles soon enough. Though increasingly breathless, the giggles - Aylin notes with some satisfaction as she keeps fuelling them by pressing feather-light kisses to the parts of Isobel she knows to be most ticklish - do not turn into coughs that night.

As the day of the ceremony dawns, the first rays of sun find Aylin already awake. It is hardly Selûnite custom to rise so early - the moonlit night belongs to them, after all - but her reason is simple enough: she hasn't slept at all.

There were no night terrors jarring her awake in a sweat, nor shades of the past clinging in their nightmarish wake and denying her respite; no coughing fits from a guilty, apologetic Isobel, rousing them both. The night went by peacefully, quietly, with the mellowest rays of the almost-full moon filtering hazily into the room, setting Isobel's softly and regularly breathing figure all aglow. A rarity, such uninterrupted peace.

And yet Aylin spent it restless for reasons she still cannot name or explain. It felt, at moments, like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin and exist, for at least a little while, as something else.

She would have gotten up, and gone for a flight - anything to dispel this nervous, gnawing energy. But with Isobel so sweetly asleep on her chest, when she'd had such a trying few months on the road - Aylin did not have it in her to even risk jostling her beloved.

So here she is, and here she must sit with herself and her own thoughts for company. And there are few things Dame Aylin despises as much as having nothing to do but think, with simple acting being out of the question.

Her salvation finally comes in the form of Isobel squirming, mumbling sweetly against her skin, nuzzling into her as if looking for more warmth to leech - Aylin welcomes her to it, always. She tightens her arms around her, and digs them both further into a nest of duvets and blankets.

"Good morning, my love," Aylin whispers into silvery hair, to a charmingly unintelligible reply as Isobel entangles their legs further, then makes no other moves towards awakening. But she seems to melt against Aylin with the added warmth, and Aylin feels some of her miserable concerns melting alongside.

The gnomish youth walks up to them in the cheery daylight of the sunny morning, in the middle of their stroll around the outer temple concourse. He seems nervous but excited as he approaches, clears his throat, then wipes his hands on his robes. Their light grey colour and half-moon trim proclaim him an acolyte.

"Excuse me for the intrusion, but I… If I may have a moment of your time, Nightsong, I—"

Aylin whirls around on him in an instant, stepping closer only to loom over him terrifyingly, threateningly. "What did you call me?"

"Aylin," Isobel says in a hiss, herself yanked to a sudden stop, then places her best attempt at a calming hand on Aylin's arm. Aylin shrugs it off, somewhere at the periphery of her perception.

Nightsong nightsong nightsong is all she can hear - the dismal soundscape of the Shadowfell. Knives in the dark; cowards staying just out of reach of a woman bound but never helpless; taunting, mocking, jeering, cutting, stabbing. Killing.

"One of her lackeys, are you, slipped through the net?" Aylin manages through teeth clenched so tightly her jaw twinges with pain. "Thought to follow me here and catch me unawares? In my sleep, perhaps? Ho, but would that suit your yellow-bellied sort so well!"

There are visible beads of sweat on the acolyte's forehead as he tries to stammer out a reply, frozen in appropriate terror. "P-please, I, I only meant— I didn't, I didn't mean anything by it—I heard—"

"What?" Aylin roars into his face, eyes ablaze, arms thrown wide in a futile attempt to encompass the whole of her rage and the whole of her disgust. The insistent but weak pull on her sleeve she barely notices, now. "What did you hear? That your dark lady had a captive waiting for your blade? That easy sport was to be had, her fickle favour earned with but one display of wretched spinelessness? No more! No more, and never again!"

"No! No, please, I— your honoured titles, I thought it was just… just a title, I—"

"Aylin!" Isobel is there, suddenly. In front of her. Her Isobel, darling Isobel. Larger than her slight stature would suggest - or is that merely how far Aylin's vision has narrowed? Her clear, sweet voice is barely audible over the sound of Aylin's heart drumming in her own ears.

Two small, familiar, ever-cherished hands take Aylin's trembling one between them with aching tenderness. Sunlight warms Aylin's face, a breeze tickles her cheek, carrying over the smell of fresh bread and the damp of morning dew. The tension rushes out of her so rapidly Aylin fears, for a moment, she might just collapse into a heap on the ground then and there.

There are people around them, hushed, frozen stock-still, staring. There is a quivering young man behind Isobel who looks to be in tears.

Isobel takes in everything about Aylin in one long look - she sees and understands, as always, far too much. Aylin swallows with some difficulty, mouth unpleasantly dry, and a bitterness slowly but insistently crawling up her throat.

Isobel turns to the acolyte, voice so very soft, careful, and gentle: "Are you unharmed?" Oh, Isobel. Isobel, Isobel, Isobel, the calm in any storm.

"I-I think so, yes," the man - the boy - answers in a thin, reedy voice. But there were boys in the Shadowfell, too, near the end of Ketheric's campaign; no less doomed for their callowness, and no less determined in their efforts. He is pale, his robes visibly stained with sweat, and his wide-eyed gaze does not leave Aylin. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any offence."

Aylin wants to speak some kind of apology of her own, but her lips manage only soundless, futile movements. And, herself the coward she was just accusing this man of being, she surrenders to it, averts her eyes, and hides behind Isobel - avoiding the glances she keeps shooting Aylin's way.

"That is a relief to hear," Isobel says sweetly, soothingly, taking and smoothing over the entire unpleasant situation with enviable and practised skill. Her voice, now that Aylin's own mind allows her to hear it, is truly a balm for every ill. "A great relief to us both. Please do not worry, we know it was a misunderstanding. Can I help you, perhaps, with whatever it was you needed?"

"It's… it's nothing really important. It is to be my first attendance at a formal ceremony and I had some questions. And, and the, uhm, Dame Aylin," he enunciates it so very carefully, "Dame Aylin is known for her open, welcoming nature, and willingness to instruct and share her great Mother's blessings. My teacher told me, they remember, from. From before."

Isobel's friendly smile is strained in that subtle way that, Aylin thinks, only she can recognise. "Perhaps another time, hm?" She asks, head tilted charmingly, and who could ever disagree with her? "Dame Aylin has been on some very trying missions of late - we should let her rest up and recuperate, so that she is at her best for the ceremony."

The acolyte nods, bows deeply, and leaves on still shaky legs.

Isobel takes her hand without another word and guides them back towards their quarters. Aylin does not protest.

She and Isobel take their light lunch in their room, trays set upon the unmade bed, legs tangled in feathery duvets.

Quiet companionship. That is all.

And then Isobel gets up to leave, off to participate in midday prayers. Mercifully, after one good look at her, she offers to excuse Aylin with some white lie or other.

Aylin, in her misery, doesn't even notice the chafe of her pride as she agrees.

Isobel does not return for quite some time. It is long past the chimes ringing out to mark the end of the daily devotions, fast approaching the start of their preparations and meditations in advance of the ceremony.

So Aylin gathers herself, shakes off the soft temptation of cowardice, and ventures out.

Her first guess, the temple's grand library and one of Isobel's favourite hideaways, does not produce any trace of her beloved. But the search does not take long from there; a little ways further down the quiet hallway she hears Isobel's voice from one of the unused chambers in this array of housing quarters.

"There is… something…" Isobel stammering, hesitating like that is highly unusual. Aylin's attention is arrested on the spot, and she steps closer to the door cracked only slightly open, listening keenly. "Some foul residue of death, some rot, still within me. I have failed to expel it on my own. I have tried prayer and ritual and herbs, but…"

"What would you ask of me?" It is the voice of the High Priestess; serious, but with a definite touch of concern.

"A blessing," Isobel sounds, to the untrained ear, perfectly composed and polite. But Aylin senses an undercurrent of uncertainty, even fear, in her words. A tremble so slight it is barely perceptible. "A restoration, or rejuvenation of some sort - perhaps a retaking of vows? Any vows you and Our Lady would deem fit. It is only that… none of my own spells have had any effect, and time has not truly helped."

Every word out of Isobel's mouth feels like agony. Like a hot, searing knife of shame cutting into Aylin's belly - that she is so weak, her dearest Isobel would prefer to suffer in silence rather than burden her, and wait for so long for an opportunity to seek help. If her own stalwart champion could not help her bear her burdens, keep her happy and hale - what was the thrice-damned point of her?

Aylin clenches her teeth and tries to calm her breathing, resting the back of her head against the wall - it would not do to alert anyone to her presence, to interrupt Isobel's doubtlessly hard-won consultation. The High Priestess was always a busy woman, and especially so in times surrounding celebrations and grand occasions, holy days and rituals.

"As for the, ah, incident… word has doubtlessly reached your ears—"

As soon as she tries to focus on the conversation again, Aylin freezes, aghast at the realisation they are talking about her, about her failure in broad daylight in front of half the temple.

The High Priestess is choosing to stay quite diplomatically comforting. "Rest assured no harm was truly done - save for the harm that was already there, that remains to be dealt with."

Isobel's sigh is deep and long. Though Aylin cannot see her, she can picture so very clearly that way she holds her hands together and runs her thumbs over the seams on her gloves when she is thinking. "I am… not sure how."

"You love, and care, and listen. And intervene against her worst, unwise impulses. I should think that will suffice, eventually."

"Eventually," Isobel repeats, as audibly disgruntled as Aylin has ever heard her allow herself to be in company. And it stabs at her with mild and bittersweet amusement, that in some way her darling is running out of patience, wearing it desperately thin, just as she is.

"We are rich in experienced clerics here," the priestess continues, her voice gentle but not quite descending into pity. "We have seen such things many times, alas. I am afraid time, and care during that time, have proven the only reliable cure for ills like these."

"I worry. For her. For myself."

"It is only natural. You love her."

"I do," speaks Isobel with the determined, silky softness over that core of steel - her darling will not be daunted. Aylin almost wants to grip at her chest, with how her heart swells in its eternal home. "And… well, we have tried rest. We have tried travel and pilgrimage. We have tried removing ourselves, a bit, from everything. Perhaps that was my mistake. Being back here has been… challenging in ways I did not quite expect."

"Look up," Aylin herself follows the High Priestess' instruction - the ceiling, growing slowly transparent as moonrise draws near, still has visible designs of all the moon's phases running around it. Round and round and round in their destined cycle. Forever. "Our Lady shows us many faces. But Her fiercest countenance She shows towards Shar, the ancient enemy who would sink us all into darkness. Fierce battles must be fought, when your opponent will not stop or deign to show mercy, when they are hell-bent on your eradication. Is it not then right, if we must fight, to have those who are trained and taught to do so lead the charge?"

"I suppose so, yes," Isobel sounds cautiously uncertain of the point being made.

"The Sword of the Silverlight is our best defence, after all, as they say - a good offence."

"She is," Isobel agrees. "And she loves being this. She genuinely enjoys her duties and does not wish to be excused from them - and I understand."

And that is the beauty of it, Aylin thinks with yet more warmth blooming in her chest, for Isobel does. Even with the concerns she has voiced over the years, on some fundamental level she sees Aylin like none other ever will. For Aylin counts herself blessed to have been granted clear and glorious purpose, to have been born to do such good, to take up arms for a cause so worthy and noble and right. Not many can claim this. Her oath is no great burden foisted upon her, no tragic anchor weighing her down - it is one of the precious things that kept her truly alive and holding together the pieces of herself throughout her captivity. She takes great pride in all that she is, and great satisfaction, too, and wishes to relinquish none of it.

What is troubling to her, in fact, are those rare occasions when the satisfaction wanes, when the joy of her gladly-borne duty slips just a bit out of reach—

"For all of her singularity, she was not— you were not meant to be set apart. Not from the world, or from the faithful, or, I should think, each other. You have suffered a great injustice, during this century of sundering, and now the most immediate parts of it have been undone. Now there is a sense of moderation to be found, a balance to be struck, and you have yet to hit upon it. From everything I have seen, I believe you will, as surely as I believe that I will look upon the sky tonight and be graced by the light of Our Lady's face."

"So you must also understand why I worry for her," Isobel insists. "A century may not be long in her seeing of the world, her understanding of time. But the wounds are so fresh. No matter how many times she rises after being felled, how far she flies to enact Selûne's holy will and keep Her faithful safe, or how much genuine joy she gains from this, eventually she needs healing and rest like all of us do."

"How fortuitous, then," the priestess' smile is audible, "that she has a skilled cleric at her side."

"For as long as I am able, I swear it," Isobel states, voice slightly raspy with unpleasant reminders. "Though I might not be… oh, never mind."

"Spoken as if you were the paladin of the pair. Very well, Isobel Thorm. You have already dedicated one life to serving Selûne. I myself do not see the need for this reconsecrating - but since your resurrection was unusual, to say the least, and you yourself feel the need, I have no objections. You have my blessing, and you will have it at the ceremony." Then, far more pointedly: "For all to see."

Isobel did not bring up the tongues wagging in ugly gossip, the venom injected into the name Thorm whenever it was spoken, or the cruel rumours; those and all other reasons for her not exactly hiding, perhaps, but keeping so often to either their chambers or the quiet library after the first few days of their stay. That this has not failed to escape the High Priestess' notice was, perhaps, to be expected. "Thank you," Isobel says quietly, only slightly embarrassed.

Aylin's glare was usually enough to silence any unjust insinuations aimed at Isobel for the sin of her parentage, but she couldn't be everywhere at once. And the cruel words seemed so often to resume once her back was turned. Perhaps a different demonstration could indeed help quell this utterly misaimed ill will - or perhaps it is, once again, a question of time, and of memory. Aylin is not blind to how often Isobel has introduced herself using nothing but her given name this past year, but has not commented upon it, either.

The conversation seems to be reaching its end, and Aylin realises she feels wretched. She cannot undo her intrusion, she cannot unhear what she has heard - so she does the one thing that befits an honourable paladin. She waits quietly until Isobel is finished, and when she exits the chamber, Aylin steps out from her hiding place, head contritely bowed, ready to accept her judgement.

Isobel understands immediately - her face drops in a way Aylin finds agonising, especially since she is the cause - then she closes the door behind herself rather pointedly. She tries to muster up a more characteristic, wry little smile, but the frustration in it makes it crooked. "I assume there is no point in asking how much of that you overheard?"

"A thousand apologies, my love," Aylin lowers her head further, reaches for Isobel's hand slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. But she does not, and Aylin heaves a sigh of relief as she brings it up to her lips for a gentle kiss. Her thumb rubs little circles into the cool hand, hidden beneath the sturdy leather of Isobel's gloves more often than not. "It was not my intent to intrude, and yet— and yet I did."

"I do not want nor need to be coddled, hovered over, or put under a fancy glass-crystal bell. I would like to remind you of this, Aylin," Isobel does not raise her voice, but her words carry a distinct sharpness.

"But it is my own most hideous failure that you do not feel you can confide any of this in me. Doubly so when I add my own burdens to yours, I…" Then, a rush, something actionable. "If I can somehow prove to you that—"

"Aylin, stop," Isobel is quiet but tense, brows furrowed in visible irritation.

Aylin bows her head again, swallows, re-centres herself in silence for a moment, and speaks the truth. "Then I want you to know that I hope, deeply and ardently and with every fibre of my eternal being, that you get whatever it is you desire out of the ceremony. I hope your burdens are eased, even if I am not the one to ease them. That is all."

Isobel's mouth is still twisted downwards in quiet anger, but she relaxes a bit with a long exhale. "Thank you, Aylin. Now, our bath awaits. Let's not waste the time we have been given, and have the attendants say they emptied the chamber for nothing."

It is difficult to remain at all tense or displeased when immersed in hot water. The steam rising from the clear surface seems to form a wall between Aylin and the rest of the world, with all its troubles and concerns; a pale shielding dome, much like those oft conjured by Selûne's servants.

Isobel, herself visibly mellowed by the warm, finely-scented water, is letting it wash away the worst of her foul mood, and is focusing on inhaling the damp air deeply and slowly. Aylin still feels horribly guilty over it all, and so they sit, uncharacteristically, at the opposite ends of the shallow recessed pool. It is a rare treat and privilege still, to have a bathing chamber so large all to themselves.

For the guest of honour to prepare for the ceremony in privacy, ostensibly, was the reason Isobel gave for this arrangement yesterday. Aylin thinks Isobel simply knows her too well, and is far too crafty for anyone's good.

With a heated head set against cool tile, Aylin's thoughts seem to swim against each other lazily. Not much is expected of her tonight, honestly - all of it is so very far from any challenge to her abilities. A swoop across the Dome, like a shiny bird of prey. A bright trail around the tower. A proclamation in Celestial, with some rather rote blessings. But visibility is the goal of the endeavour, first and foremost, and being noticed is something Aylin knows how to accomplish all too well.

It is horrible to imagine that rat Lorroakan being alive still, or going along with the initial plan of convincing him Aylin had been killed. Horrible to think of there being more of his ilk, and with Aylin drawing attention to herself like this—

She shakes her head with a growl, damp hair whipping against her face - what a preposterous thought to even begin to indulge! Dame Aylin hiding, cowering, obscuring her very existence - out of what, fear? She, who is meant to be a beacon in the thickest, vilest darkness!

For the ceremony is above all a signal to Shar and her followers, whose schemes against her Mother and Her flock Aylin was distraught but unsurprised to find out had escalated severely in her absence, as word of her disappearance spread. It is crucially important to send a message: the Selûnites are protected once more, the Sword of the Moonmaiden returned, as sharp as ever.

Only it isn't quite, is it?

Which nobody can know. Not even Isobel, Aylin would have said - but it has always been impossible to truly hide anything from Isobel.

"Aylin," Isobel's voice comes, suddenly, from right next to where Aylin has reclined. She startles, a bit - she hadn't even noticed her wade over closer.

"I am sorry," Aylin speaks up at once, turning to meet her eyes. "my intrusion was unbecoming—"

"It was," Isobel is determined, merciless, but there is a slight rueful smile dancing around her face. "And I was a fool - we are both fools for attempting to hide from each other, all in the name of supporting the other. We will achieve nothing this way."

"Agreed," Aylin mutters, wincing just a bit at the contents of her most recent thoughts.

Isobel moves even closer, until they are sitting thigh to thigh, still comfortably immersed up to their shoulders. Aylin notes, to some relief, her smile seems far lighter and brighter already. "I demand recompense, then, Dame Aylin, and I will consider the matter settled for now."

Aylin immediately sits up, causing the water to slosh out onto the stone tile. Fresh alertness blows away the last traces of her warm haze. "Whatever you would ask of me, you will have," she exclaims ardently, taking one of Isobel's hands out of the water and running her lips along the damp skin. Then she pauses, hesitates, swallows in trepidation. "Only, do not ask me to leave your side or be apart from you. I could bear a great many things, but not that. Never that."

"Oh, Aylin, my darling. I couldn't bear that, either," Isobel wraps her free arm around Aylin's neck, clings so closely to her she is almost sitting in her lap. Aylin makes no move of her own, but simply basks in her presence. "All I ask is that, to make us even, you share one of your troubles with me. Whichever one you want - goddess knows you have been stewing in them this past tenday, and have told me nothing at all."

Aylin's teeth worry at the golden scar that bisects her lower lip, and she considers the arrangement as Isobel's hand traces a comforting pattern down her neck to her shoulder and back up again, smudging droplets in its wake. Then she inhales deeply until her ribs strain, and exhales slowly, watching her breath disturb the curtain of steam before them. Finally, she begins. "I would have gotten utterly turned around looking for the old bathhouse, had you not led me here. If I let my mind drift or wander for even a moment, I end up lost, staring at some unfamiliar chapel in a dead end hallway. It is maddening that I cannot even trust my footsteps in this, a temple to a goddess of guidance and navigation and my own holy mother. More than a hundred years out of date," Aylin scoffs at herself, letting an agitatedly gesturing hand drop back into the water with a splash. "Perhaps they were right to call me a relic."

"Don't say that!" Isobel doesn't take those words very well, and Aylin herself is not sure just how jokingly she'd meant them.

And Aylin remembers, in a rush and with a wince, the sight of Isobel stowing away her cherished robes that very morning. Darling Isobel, as displaced as she. The Selûnite vestments found around the Heartlands haven't changed very drastically, but what is different became noticeable as soon as they first left Reithwin behind them, all those months ago.

Isobel has not made any alterations to her robes. She carefully mends what she can when she needs to, and has acquired a new set in addition, from one of the first enclaves they visited. The point was, according to her, to alternate depending on company and comfort levels, and to not wear out her original, precious set quite so much.

She touches them and puts them away so carefully and reverently every time - one of the rare surviving bits of a Reithwin one hundred years ago. Some parts of them, Aylin remembers being told, originally belonging to Isobel's mother in her youth.

Aylin leans down so their foreheads can press together, and closes her eyes.

"Perhaps it would help if you told me how it was before - something you were particularly fond of," Isobel suggests, a gentle, soothing hand running up and down Aylin's upper arm. "Or, better yet, something you hated that they've now fixed - surely there's some of that, as well?"

Aylin hums, casting her mind back, combing through a thousand little fragments. The kitchens have clearly gone through some well-thought-out changes, considering the lovely fare they've been serving - or perhaps, a small part of Aylin pipes up, it is merely that she has still not had her fill after a century of unwilling fasting.

She shakes her head, as if to physically direct her thoughts down different avenues. "The addition of the tower is… altogether too much, in my view. But the newly expanded east wing, with that row of inner terraces that look out across the gardens - that is truly lovely."

Isobel huffs out a small sardonic laugh. "You know, I myself have grown quite wary of people who strive to build very tall towers, claiming this is meant to honour Our Lady. When instead, all it feels like is them trying to reach for Selûne herself, for whatever their own selfish reasons."

Their peace is suddenly interrupted by the clear ring of a set of silver bells, and a polite summons from just outside the door - a reminder that their time here is up, and their duties call once more.

The ceremony goes by without incident. Afterwards, very little of it seems inclined to stick in Aylin's mind - like so much running water, it has passed her by in a blink, and it would be futile to try and retrieve it. But she has done it, and it is an immense relief. There is even a tentative sense she has captured some small piece of herself that had been floating around aimlessly, and slotted it back in its proper place.

Because throughout the proceedings, however long or short they had truly been, thousands of pairs of eyes stayed on her, rapt, and Aylin sensed from them nothing but hope, and joy, and amazement. No covetous glares, no ill intent. A great many of these people wanted a great many things from her, but none of them anything Aylin was not willing to give.

It is a good, much needed reminder of a truth Aylin has always known: there is no faith without the faithful. The people are what truly matters, and her place is among them.

Formalities done with, they all proceed to the festivities quickly enough. Aylin is congratulated, thanked, praised for her efforts as they go. She shakes so many hands, dispensing yet more blessings amongst the crowd as she navigates the grandly decorated hall.

She is trying, as always, to find the one person she would not hesitate to say matters above all others.

The one moment of the evening Aylin can picture clear as day, as if it were engraved in her memory, is this: Isobel, radiant, receiving acknowledgement, crowned with silver blessing to a great and roaring cheer - and, hopefully, finding at least a fragment of whatever peace has kept eluding her.

But Isobel is nowhere to be seen, again. Aylin takes a deep breath and allows herself to plunge into the crowd, tries to focus on drawing on that sense of connection she'd felt so keenly while up in the air, doing a showy loop for them all.

She finds her first target quickly enough, even though he is small enough to get lost in a crowd all too easily: the young gnomish acolyte who'd performed his role as the main altar attendant with gumption and gusto and relish.

Aylin stands a politely pronounced distance away from him, and extends her hand when he turns and notices her. She is relieved to see him only nervously hesitate for a blink before stepping forward and taking it - a slight, sensible amount of nervousness that Aylin is well used to.

"I wish to congratulate you on duties well-performed. As well as reassure you I bear you no ill will. My ire this morning was entirely misaimed," Aylin says, quietly, drawing a bit closer to him for some semblance of privacy as the crowd continues to be rather loud in their rejoicing. "And I was entirely at fault."

"Thank you, Emissary. Bearer of the Silverlight. Dame Aylin," the acolyte rattles off only some of her numerous titles, enthusiastically shaking her hand with both of his. "I apologise for my disrespect, and I swear it was not my intent. It was merely something I overheard and mistakenly counted among your long list of accolades. It sounded, forgive me, poetic enough."

"The Nightsinger has her moments, her sick amusements," Aylin tries to wave it off, and finds her teeth gritting in mounting anger - now with nobody to aim it at. "How were you to know? I have been gone for a miserable century. That moniker has spread far enough, even with much of its true meaning lost along the way. Once a thing like that takes hold, takes any root at all… well, let us just say I will have a time of it, disabusing people of the notion."

He nods, rapt, hanging on Aylin's every word, a low fire burning behind his eyes. Still, Aylin notices to her amusement, holding on to her hand and shaking it. She extracts it with a light tug and curls it into a determined fist between them. This gesture, too, is mirrored, and Aylin smiles sharply.

"Rest assured, and mark my words well: I am, have ever been, and shall always be Dame Aylin. Nightsong was only ever a curse, and foul Shar's attempt to claim me as her own. She has not, and will not succeed."

"Selûne willing," the acolyte agrees, a matching passion mounting in him as well. "May She guide our hands. I, for one, will not allow Shar or her lackeys to steal any more from any of us."

"A comrade after my own heart," Aylin claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. His knees only buckle for a moment, and Aylin's grin widens. A moment of brilliant clarity comes over her - a segment of her birthright, as well. "We will meet again. An illustrious future awaits you, I have no doubt - my Mother will ensure it. Continue your training here. Dame Aylin, the Nightsong-no-more, shall await your stalwart companionship on a quest of great import, one day. Together we will do Our Lady most proud. May I have your name?"

The acolyte beams, straightens his back, and squares his shoulders. The half-moon brooches on his ceremonial garb, polished with great care, catch the light as he moves. "Glint, my lady. Not two moons out of my novitiate, so I fear it may… it may yet be a while before we do anything of the sort."

"An auspicious name, Glint," Aylin nods, and then speaks a reassurance for the both of them, infusing it with every measure of certainty she can. "Worry not; there will be time enough for everything, now."

They are comfortably away from the world, sequestered in their quarters, long after the night's festivities have ended. The moon has sunk out of sight, and the first tease of grey dawn has started to bleed into the sky.

Snuggled deep in the cocoon of soft blankets and coverings and feathers that has become their usual, they are twined around each other so tightly it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Neither of them would have it any other way.

That is when Isobel dares ask her question, in a voice so quiet Aylin fears she would have missed it, were she not so utterly attuned to perceiving and absorbing everything about precious, cherished Isobel.

"Do you sense… anything different about me?" When Aylin doesn't respond save for a brow furrowed then raised in question, she amends: "The ceremony - do you think it changed me in any way? Did the blessing… take?"

Aylin is quiet for a while. Leans back as far as the thickest duvet will allow to almost feign taking a better look at Isobel. Peels away a few layers of soft coverings and runs a light hand over a bare shoulder, down a pale arm. Closes her eyes to hear better, then takes a deep breath of the incense-infused air.

"I do not sense any change," Aylin can only ever be honest, though the way her words seem to cut gaping wounds into Isobel makes her want to spout deceits worse than a conniving devil. "But I did not notice anything off about you before it, either. You know this, Isobel. You know I cannot lie to you, and I would not even if it was within my power."

Isobel smiles, then the chuckle she produces turns into a tearful hiccup. "I think I pinned too much hope onto one silly thing - I think I somehow convinced myself this one simple miracle would solve all my problems. And the truth is… I do not feel any different at all, either."

"I think the miracle we both received is a little more complex than a single temple blessing, no matter the loftiness of the premises," Aylin replies softly. "Even if we are both still grappling with its many aspects."

There is a long quiet. A trouble for a trouble, Aylin thinks, remembering their arrangement.

"I did not want them to know," Aylin manages, finally. She hates how subdued and defeated she sounds suddenly; how small. Still she continues. "I did not want anyone to know. Not even you, who I cherish above all others. But it is impossible to hide from you."

"There is no shame in it—" Isobel begins.

"But there is," Aylin insists immediately, and curls tighter around her, the feathers in the duvet rustling in tandem with her wings. "It is shameful, it is a fallibility, it is a weakness. A year, and I am still like this. A year, and I am undone by a single word. I could have gone too far today, hurt an innocent for the crime of a phrase overheard, a mere misunderstanding."

"Perhaps you could have. But what matters is that you did not."

"Because you called me back from the brink. Isobel Thorm," she murmurs into Isobel's hair, trails fingers beneath a thin camisole, across the skin of a sharp hip and a soft belly, warm and real. Grounding in a way nothing else could ever be. "Witness to my wax and wane."

"As you are to mine," Isobel murmurs back, just as quietly, the sound almost stifled against Aylin's collarbone. "I did not want them to know how I felt," she says, mild rasp audible in her voice. "I did not want you to know, I did not want Selûne to know."

Aylin guffaws wetly, hides her tears in Isobel's hair as she feels her own skin grow damp where Isobel's face burrows against it. "What a pair we make. What a match."

"We always were, were we not?" Isobel laughs as well, soft, barely-there, and yet it feels more genuine than any other sound she has made today. She takes one of Aylin's hands between both of hers, presses a soft kiss to the knuckles, and holds it to her chest. "Nothing can change this - no matter how we ourselves might change."

"She is always so wise, my Isobel," Aylin whispers, feeling a bone-deep exhaustion slowly but surely settling into her, weighing down all her limbs.

"Yours," is all Isobel replies, as both of them sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.

They leave Waterdeep by ship.

Isobel seems, outwardly, her elegant and composed self, but Aylin can see the way she is thrumming with thrill and delight as they climb aboard in the chill that clings to the air just before dawn. Her previous excursions were only ever confined to little river boats and the Reithwin lakeside - Aylin, meanwhile, was more used to flying to her destinations. The joy of the two of them sharing a novel experience is buoying, making Aylin's insides leap far more than the waves rocking the still-moored vessel would justify.

Once they've deposited their belongings in their tiny cabin belowdecks, they return above to witness the departure and bid their silent farewells to the city. Suddenly, instead of resting them against the railing, Isobel throws her arms around Aylin's neck, feet tiptoeing just barely on the swaying deck. "Pretend the strength of that last wave surprised me - it's not like I have my sea legs, after all," she whispers against Aylin's lips. "Clearly I should have practised more, in the hall."

"Clearly," Aylin smiles into each salt-tanged kiss Isobel punctuates her sentences with, and holds her close. This time, the wind and waves and briny spray are real, and Isobel is not going anywhere.

"Thank you for indulging me," Isobel murmurs, before letting go and slipping down to find her balance again. She stays pressed against Aylin's side as she does, one arm around her waist.

"Hardly an indulgence," Aylin waves it off. "Perhaps you will decide you hate it within the first day of travel. Then we shall simply have to make our excuses and apologies to the captain, and rely upon my wings again."

"Why would I ever hate it?" Isobel looks up at her, both eyebrows raised.

"I admit, I have my concerns. The incessant rocking to and fro… the cramped cabins…"

Isobel smirks and presses, somehow, even closer. "I can think of worse things."

The cries of the crew start up around them before Aylin can think of an appropriately heated reply; a spectacle of ropes snaking about, anchors rising from the harbour's depths, and sails unfurling in the wind.

Aylin takes another deep, fresh, bracing breath as she looks up. She meets the face of the moon preparing to descend below the horizon and surrender the sky to ruddy, golden daylight. The wind turns just so; the ship cuts sleekly through the sea below, and leaves the pier far behind within moments. "We have a fine journey before us," she states with great certainty.

Isobel hums her agreement as the lights of the city slowly disappear out of view.

#aylinisobelweek2025 #dame aylin #isobel thorm #aylin x isobel #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #one of the reasons this is so long is because it basically absorbed my ideas for days 2 and 6... so here i am with this monstrosity. enjoy #this has occupied so much of my brainspace these past few days i am so relieved to finally post it

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