The Cub Speaks

“Well. Today was not at all terrible.” Astarion hung his hat and cloak by the door, then did the same with Imrae's outer wear before he pulled him close. “How about you, my sweet? What's your verdict for your first Solstice celebration?” “I could have done without all that blasted ice and snow.” Astarion laughed. “There's just no pleasing you, is there?” “You know that is not true.” Imrae reached up to tug a few of Astarion's curls back into place after the hat had flattened them, a helpful gesture if oneself could only check by touch. When their eyes met again, there was that special sort of suspicious innocence in the drow's gaze that promised mischief. “Would you like for the night to be over?” “Now now, I didn't say that.” “That's fortunate, because I have another gift for you.” Imrae dissolved their embrace, not without planting a gentle kiss on Astarion's lips, and sauntered into the middle of their parlour while undoing the clasps of his festive robe, revealing the layer underneath. Dark, figure-hugging, and exposing much of his glyph-inscribed skin, the traditional drow garment he had kept hidden left little to the imagination. Not that Astarion needed to imagine anything after all the time they'd spent together. “Too much?” His drow's question and the touch of diffidence that entered his voice and posture made Astarion realize that he had gone still to stare in fascination without blinking or breathing, and sweet Imrae had taken it for discomfort or overwhelm. Perhaps he was partially correct. “This can be for viewing purposes only,” Imrae stated, his right hand grasping the left to prevent himself from fidgeting, a habit as ingrained as Astarion's reflexive smile and laughter. “I know.” Still, it was always nice to hear it out loud.

“Take inventory and count every arrow among us. We will not move until we know what we’re up against.” It was not looking much better for the rest of them: spells depleted; bodies broken, wounded, and exhausted; swords, maces, and armor in dire need of repair. Except, perhaps, for the Druids. Illevios’s gaze settled upon the robes of the druidic spellcaster in his company. Meeting the searching gaze of Thistle, the Circle of The Land Druid from the Wealdath forest, he asked, “Can I still count on your sister?” The Rock Gnome gave a decisive nod, placing a turquoise-studded, gauntleted hand over her chest. “You can, I can feel it. Hetty is the swiftest flier of our circle.” But even her smile faltered at the corners as she spoke. Her face was streaked with earth, her wild curls interspersed with twigs and red berries. Her braids had begun to unravel at the ends, and her robes had turned more grey than white from the dust of rough travel. The Druid laid a protective hand over the injury on her upper arm, nearly reopened by the hastened climb. Looking down at himself, Illevios found his own condition equally lacking and murmured a quick prayer to Corellon. “Chii chii chii!” Everyone rose to their feet, dropping what they were doing. Looking up, the Ranger-Knight found another member of his company, Oswell, a Half-Orc Cleric, pointing towards the open grey sky and giving the hunters’ sign for bird. Could it be...? Blessed with keen sight, Illevios spotted a gyrfalcon. Its white-speckled wings cut and wove through the clouds as it dived with impossible speed towards the cover of the very tree in which their company had found refuge. With an audible gasp, Thistle rushed past the Forest Warden, her relief and revived spirits plain for all to see, nearly knocking Illevios off his feet in her haste. In a flash of gold, a nearly identical Rock Gnome appeared before them, dressed in garb fashioned much like the one now embracing her in a tight hug. Barely catching her breath and restraining her over-eager twin, the Druid the Ranger knew as Hetty met his gaze, weary but sharp. “The First Druid is on the move.”

— From Chapter 3: The Black Hand

Gale notices her before she notices him noticing. It is a small mercy. Deia stands beneath the pale spill of moonlight, her hair tied back from her face, black waves gathered without their usual silver chains and sharp little ornaments. No dark paint on her mouth. No shadow around her eyes. Nothing dramatized, nothing arranged to strike first.

She looks almost unarmored. The thought catches somewhere beneath his ribs and stays there, stubborn as a hook. He has seen her dressed in black silk and fire. He has seen her with blood on her face and a blade in her hand, with her horns crowned in silver and her smile honed to a killing edge. He has seen rooms bend around her simply because she entered them already knowing they would. This should be gentler. Easier. It is not.

“What?” she asks.

Gale blinks.

“Hm?”

Her eyes narrow, but there is no true threat in it.

“You are staring.”

“Yes,” he says, because lying seems both pointless and unwise.

Deia’s mouth shifts, reaching instinctively for a smirk and finding, perhaps, that she has left the sharper version of it elsewhere.

“Should I be offended?”

“No.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Possibly.”

That earns him a look.

“Gale.”

He steps closer. Slowly, though not with hesitation. He has learned the difference.

“I have seen you look like a queen of ruin,” he says softly. “Like a storm given manners. Like every warning in every old story decided to become beautiful out of spite.”

Her expression stills. His hand lifts, then pauses, asking the question without words. When she does not move away, he touches one finger lightly to the tip of her nose.

“But this,” he murmurs, “may be the most dangerous you have ever looked.”

Deia stares at him. Then, to his quiet triumph, color rises faintly beneath her pale skin.

“That was absurd.”

“It was sincere.”

“Worse.”

He smiles.

“I know.”

She looks down, briefly, as if the ground might offer her a weapon against tenderness. It does not. Traitorous ground.

“I am not dressed for anything,” she says.

“No.” His thumb brushes near her cheek, careful as the turn of a page. “That is rather the point.”

Her eyes lift again. There is something wary in them, and something painfully soft beneath the wariness.

“Do not make a holy thing of it.”

Gale’s smile fades into something quieter.

“I won’t.”

“You are about to.”

“I am about to be very brave and restrain myself.”

A small laugh escapes her before she can catch it. There they are: the dimples, sudden and devastating, appearing like two secrets the night has no right to keep. Gale’s breath leaves him.

“Gods,” he says, helplessly.

Deia points at him.

“No.”

“I said one word.”

“You said it like a man about to write poetry.”

“In my defense, I am suffering.”

“Good.”

But she steps closer when she says it, fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt. Her smile lingers, shy and wicked and gone almost as soon as he sees it. Gale catches it anyway. He always does.

I ate the stew because my body required nourishment.

I wasn't hungry but I had begun to understand that meals served purposes beyond merely sustaining the body. Sharing food was an act of companionship, a ritual of closeness people performed almost instinctively. It mattered to them, and increasingly, that meant it mattered to me.

The wizard had spent a surprising amount of time preparing the stew and appeared even more invested in everyone's reaction to it than strictly necessary. He informed us—twice—that it was based upon a family recipe, though circumstances had forced him to substitute several of the original spices. He spoke of this as though it were a tragedy of moderate significance.

I nodded dutifully, thanked him for the meal, and refrained from mentioning that the combination of rosemary and thyme reminded me vaguely of bathwater. Some observations are best kept private.

Besides, he was so pleased with himself that I lacked the heart to diminish it.

After dinner, I gathered the dishes and carried them to the stream.

The water was wonderfully cold. The summer air still lingered warmly around camp, but the stream flowed down from higher ground and carried with it a pleasant chill that numbed my fingers as I worked. I knelt by the bank, cleaning bowls and spoons while the sounds of conversation drifted faintly from the fire behind me.

And, despite my best efforts, my thoughts wandered once more to the lute. The instrument rested in my tent, yet I found my gaze seeking it whenever the opportunity arose. Even now, separated from it by distance and canvas, I was thinking about it again.

The fascination annoyed me. Something about that lute lingered. Not insistently or aggressively, simply present, like a half-forgotten thought refusing to disappear entirely no matter how often I turned my attention elsewhere.

I rinsed the final bowl, set it aside to dry, and stared into the water for a moment.

Perhaps there was magic involved. Perhaps not. Whatever the cause, I found myself increasingly curious in a way I could neither explain nor dismiss.

The reality was simple enough: we might die tomorrow.

At that point in our journey, death felt less like a distant possibility and more like a scheduling conflict we were attempting to postpone. We carried mind flayer parasites behind our eyes. We had no cure, no answers, and only the increasingly fragile hope that one existed somewhere ahead of us. For all I knew, I might transform during the night, and whatever remained of me by morning would have very little interest in lutes.

Under those circumstances, there seemed little reason to ignore a mystery simply because it was small.

I placed the cleaned bowls into the crate we used for storage and rose to my feet.

The lute had occupied my thoughts all evening, it seemed only fair that I finally discover why.

And if the answer proved disappointing—well. There were certainly worse ways to spend what might potentially be one's final night as oneself.

I lowered myself onto a log someone had thoughtfully placed near the fire and began to tune.

The instrument was out of alignment, each string a little too sharp or too flat, as though it had been neglected for some time. I closed my eyes and leaned in, adjusting by feel more than thought. It came as naturally as breathing, familiar in a way I could not yet account for or even understand.

Around me, the camp remained still, no one spoke.

Only the fire did—its steady crackle, the occasional shift of embers—accompanied by the distant sounds of night settling into itself.

I heard movement at the edges of perception. Fabric brushing, careful footsteps, the soft clink of dishes being set aside with exaggerated caution. They were trying not to disturb me.

It was… unnecessary and oddly considerate.

When I was finally satisfied with the tuning, I rolled my shoulders back, stretching my neck until it gave a sharp, unceremonious crack. A few heads turned at the sound.

I did not care.

My fingers found the strings before any conscious thought could intervene and the first melody arrived without invitation. Not chosen or constructed, simply remembered, as though my hands had been waiting for permission my mind had not yet given.

The lute felt familiar beneath my fingers in a way that unsettled me. Not because I remembered it, but because I did not. Every movement came naturally, every adjustment of my hands instinctive, yet I could not recall learning any of it. There was no memory attached to the knowledge.

I plucked a few strings, listening to the notes ring through the evening air. A simple melody followed, my fingers finding it without instruction or conscious thought. The motions felt as natural as breathing.

And then did I open my mouth.

Singing, too, was not a decision.

It simply… happened.

I tested it cautiously at first.

I had not intended to. My mouth simply opened as the melody unfolded beneath my fingers, words rising unbidden from somewhere buried deeper than memory. A soft ballad emerged, gentle and melancholic, carrying the sort of longing that seemed older than I was. I could not recall where I had learned it. I could not remember hearing it before.

Yet I knew every word.

Every note.

Every pause.

The realization stole my breath for a heartbeat.

My voice carried effortlessly, rich and clear in a way that startled me. It was not merely pleasant. It possessed weight, presence. The sort of voice that naturally drew attention without ever demanding it, capable of filling a room not through volume but through simple certainty.

I felt it immediately. Not in my throat or my lungs, but in my soul.

The sensation struck with such force that my hands nearly faltered upon the strings.

I had done this before.

Not once or twice or even hundreds of times, but thousands. I knew it with the same certainty I knew how to walk or breathe. This was not something new. This was not a talent discovered by accident beside a cold stream on a night that might have been my last.

This was a piece of myself. A piece I had lost.

The realization settled over me slowly and all at once, the way certain truths do—arriving gradually until suddenly they are simply there, fully formed and undeniable.

For so the last days, I had stumbled through my own life surrounded by fragments; missing years, missing names, missing pieces of myself that existed just beyond reach, close enough to sense but never to hold. Every discovery had felt foreign, like uncovering evidence of another person's life and being told it belonged to me.

This felt different.

This did not feel like a stranger.

This felt like me.

Before I could stop myself, I smiled. A genuine smile. The sort that arrives before you realize it is there, before you have decided to allow it.

My fingers continued moving effortlessly across the strings. My breathing adjusted instinctively to support the song. My back straightened, my shoulders relaxed and every part of me settled into place with the ease of something returning to where it had always belonged.

For the first time since waking aboard the nautiloid, I was not discovering something I had lost.

I was remembering who I had been.

And for one brief, precious moment, I was not lost. Not a woman carrying a parasite behind her eye and a lifetime of missing memories behind her smile.

I was simply a musician.

And somehow, despite everything, that felt more like myself than anything else.