Moonlight

SUMMARY

Shadowheart finds solace in Marcy, a drow bard, as she deals with the aftermath of Nightsong’s revelation.

NOTES

My humble contribution for Love by the River - a Baldur's Gate 3 zine.

Check out the AO3 collection here, and download the zine for free here

Thank you to Leona and other zine mods for having me!

The soft rustle of Marcy waking up stirs the silence within the tent. Her first conscious movement is a gentle pat on the bedroll beside her, a gesture by habit. Empty. She pokes her head out of the tent, greeted by the soft glow of the dying campfire a few meters ahead.

They’ve camped on the outskirts of Rivington, a haven nestled between the wilderness and the village that awaited them. The cool night air is a welcome reprieve; Marcy did not miss the dense, stifling atmosphere of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Above, the moon hangs high in the sky, casting its silvery light upon the camp.

Across the campfire, Gale’s tent stands nearby. He had volunteered first watch, now absorbed in reading a tome. A ball of light hovers next to him, lighting the pages.

Marcy steps out of her tent, the night air clinging to her skin like a cloak. She approaches Gale, clears her throat and asks him if he’d seen Shadowheart. Gale points her towards the cliff overlooking the city of Baldur’s Gate. She finds Shadowheart there, sat cross-legged near the cliff’s edge. Her long black hair cascades down her shoulders, and something silver glimmers, catching Marcy’s attention. As she walks closer, the silver blur morphs into a clearer shape: a blade poised against the dark strands.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

Her presence startles Shadowheart, who almost cuts herself with the blade. “What in the Hells? Marce?”

“Sorry, I woke up, and you weren’t there. I asked Gale and he—” she heaves an apologetic sigh, running her fingers through her dark curly hair. “I… wanted to check up on you.”

You know, after everything that happened, she wants to say. The unsaid words linger in the air, a frequent occurrence as of late. Shadowheart’s core beliefs had shattered before her eyes, and the goddess she’d worshiped discarded her as if she was nothing. It’s no wonder that her joy, her smile, and the lightness in her step have all but disappeared, as if drained from her. That Shadowheart allowed Marcy to share the tent was a small miracle. Even then, they barely exchanged words with each other; only their arms wrapped around each other, the warmth of their bodies offering comfort amid a world constantly upending their lives.

“You didn’t have to,” Shadowheart says, her voice a mix of gratitude and reluctance. “But I appreciate it.” Her gaze drifts to the blade she’d dropped. From this close, Marcy recognizes it.

“Is that the ceremonial blade you used in the Gauntlet?” she asks.

Shadowheart nodded. “It’s nothing but a tool, now.” She glances at Marcy, sighing. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” she huffs, her fingers playing with the strands of her hair. “I thought a change might be good.”

Marcy sits next to her. “What is?”

She waves the blade over her face, then points it at her head. No, her hair.

“You’re cutting it off? Why?”

A hint of a wry smile crosses Shadowheart’s face. “It weighs heavy on me. I want to leave it behind. Start anew.”

Without waiting for Marcy’s response, Shadowheart takes a deep breath and cuts through the dark strands of her hair. The blade glides smoothly, each lock falling to the ground. Her hair falls short of her shoulders, the ends forming a hard line that parallels her jaw.

Marcy cradles Shadowheart’s face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the curves of her cheeks. “You look even more beautiful now.”

“I know.”

“Though, this thing,” her fingers move up to her fringe, “needs a bit of work, if I must be honest.”

“How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“I jest, I jest. I think it looks adorable,” Marcy says with a grin. “But if you’re going to change your hair, you might as well go all out, right?”

Shadowheart squints, her nostrils flaring a little. “Fine, do what you have to.”

Marcy’s concentration is clear in the furrow of her brow, careful consideration given to each precise cut. When she finishes, she runs her fingers through Shadowheart’s newly trimmed fringe. The strands now frame the edges of her face, styled with a subtle, elegant sweep to the side.

“There, better,” she sighs in awe, taking in the view of her.

Shadowheart reaches up to touch her hair, tucking the fringe’s length behind her ear. Strands of white graying hair peeks through the black.

“Oh.” Marcy spreads the strands of cut hair on the ground and finds other silvering strands. She holds it up to Shadowheart, who gasps in horror.

“No. I’m too young to be graying!”

“You are four and forty.”

“In half-elf years!” Shadowheart says, indignant. “Hag.”

“Take that back. Right now.”

“Never,” she says, laughing, and it is a delightful sound to hear. So delightful, in fact, that Marcy finds her lips on hers, smiling against the kiss. They linger for a moment, foreheads touching, fingers tracing each other’s jaw.

“I love you,” Marcy says, giving her another kiss.

“I know.” Returning the gesture, Shadowheart replies: “I love you, too. Even though you’re a hundred years older than me.”

She hums approvingly against her lips. “You have quite the penchant for older women, don’t you?”

“Would that your demeanor prove as mature as your age.”

“Naughty,” Marcy tuts in disapproval, but still she smiles. “I have a brilliant idea.”

“Your ideas always involve some sort of life-threatening situations, I should know that much.”

“It’s a good one, I promise. A solution to your predicament.”

“Fine,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “What is it?”

“You could get rid of the greying hair… or better yet, turn it all silver,” Marcy suggests. “You’re no longer the daughter of darkness, after all.”

“You’re mad if you think I will agree to such… such madness.” Shadowheart gazes at the array of locks splayed on the ground, the white strands a sharp contrast to the sea of black. The light in the dark. “But perhaps there is truth in what you say. I’m not sure I want to follow Selûne, so soon after…” Her voice trails off. She needn’t say further. “What I do know is that I want to distance myself from Her. From Shar. As far away as I possibly can.”

Marcy places her hand in hers, intertwining their fingers. “Let me.”

“Thank you.” Shadowheart smiles gently. “Gods know you need to touch up your own hair. Your roots are coming in.” She reaches, running her fingers through Marcy’s black hair—short and curly, and now drow white strands of hair peek a few centimeters from her scalp.

She frowns. “Already?”

“Indeed. We both have work to do.”

Armed with herbs and dye, Marcy mixes the ingredients into an alchemical paste suitable for hair transformation. Certainly, having an artisan do it for you would yield better results, but this is far from Marcy’s first venture. Hair dyes rarely come by in the Underdark, and drow are not known to conceal their ice white hair; in fact, it is usually the opposite, where women, particularly those of a high social standing, wear their hair in increasingly intricate styles. Marcy, on the other hand, transformed her hair into the darkest black with far less suited materials. Tonight, with increased resources, the work will be easier.

“This will hurt,” says Marcy. With a conjured mage hand, she gingerly applies the paste onto the strands of Shadowheart’s hair. “It’ll burn away the dark. In a chemical reaction sort of way. But not like Karlach’s literally burning hair. Come to think of it, does she have fireproof hair? I’ve noticed she has crimson highlights. I wonder how she maintains it. Unless it’s all natural.”

“Your nervous tic doesn’t exactly spark confidence in your skill.” From Marcy’s peripherals, she can spy Shadowheart smirking.

“I’m confident!” she blurts out. “I just didn’t realize how different it would be to dye someone else’s hair. I’ve no problems messing up my own hair, but yours…” The drow clears her throat. “Well, too late for that now.”

“You better not mess up, else our companions will need to find a new leader,” Shadowheart replies.

“You’ll find I’m quite hard to replace, my love.”

“I find that you’re quite right, regrettably so.”

“Hush, you.”

Marcy continues her work, applying the pigment, taking care to cover her entire head. She can feel Shadowheart’s scrutinizing eyes on her, raising the hair on her neck and arms. Not of unease, but of love. Perhaps she likes the idea of her watching more than she thought.

“Thank you,” says Shadowheart.

“Don’t thank me yet. We need to let it sit for half an hour before we can rinse it off and see the results.”

She chuckles. “That’s not what I meant. I’m… grateful for you. Ever since the Nautiloid, you’ve done nothing but save me. You trusted me even when I couldn’t trust myself. And your trust gave me the strength to follow my heart. I can’t fathom repaying what you’ve done for me.”

“Give yourself some credit,” Marcy says. “You made that decision. You saved Dame Aylin. And it’s because of you that we could defeat Ketheric Thorm.” She pauses, briefly contemplating whether to share her fears with her. The weight of worry kept her awake for countless nights, fearing the many things that could go wrong. Like the fear of losing her love to the Dark Lady. “In truth, I feared for you. I feared you would kill her. Murder is not so uncommon in Menzoberranzan, and I’m no stranger to the whims of a cruel goddess.”

“Lolth, the Queen of Spiders. I’m familiar with her… work.”

She nods. “Precisely. So, I understood, truly. But it couldn’t have been anything else but your decision alone. No amount of my persuasive tongue could have convinced you otherwise.”

Shadowheart frames Marcy’s face with her hands. “That means a lot to me. More than you know.” She kisses her again, this time soft and lingering. “Mm. Perhaps you could practice that persuasive tongue on me. After all, we don’t know when Shar will strike again. And… you were really good last time.”

Heat swiftly rises to Marcy’s cheeks. “O–of course. I can definitely do that. Perhaps not right now, but I would–I would love to practice. My tongue. On you. If you like, that is.”

Shadowheart laughs. “How is a bard like you so easily flustered? You write bawdy songs all the time.”

Marcy averts her gaze. “It’s different, coming from you.”

“Oh, coming, you say?”

“Shut up. It’s your turn to dye my hair.”

With the mage hand, Shadowheart applies the dye on Marcy’s hair, covering the drow white roots.

“You know, you never told me why you do this. I’ve scarcely met drow before, so I may be unfamiliar with your customs,” says Shadowheart.

“It’s not a custom,” says Marcy, “but a personal expression kind of thing. Let’s just say… it’s my own form of rebellion against the standards of drow society.”

“How intriguing. Is it really that bad down there?”

She shrugs. “It’s only bad for women who don’t particularly crave power. I find solace in singing and composing songs, and I would never sacrifice this passion for something as insignificant as societal power. If wanting the life of a bard means being treated like dirt, then so be it.”

“I can’t believe I ever said I envied your life in the Underdark,” Shadowheart says.

“Not your fault. I had only told you of my happy memories growing up there.”

“You’ve had happy times, at least.” Her voice trails off. No doubt she’s thinking of her own forgotten childhood.

“We can always make more happy ones.”

Shadowheart casts Create Water and with the help of Marcy’s mage hand, she rinses off the chemical dye in Shadowheart’s hair. She massages her scalp with firm and practiced hands, both corporeal and spectral, meticulous in washing off the dye. Beneath her, Shadowheart closes her eyes, heaving a contented sigh. She looks beautiful like this, silver hair casting a radiant glow on her face, reminiscent of moonlight. For a moment, Marcy imagines a scene: Shadowheart, an elegant drow lady, and her, a lowly outsider vying for her affections. In another life, perhaps she would never have left Menzoberranzan. In another life, perhaps Shadowheart would have been a Dark Justiciar, and their love would have remained clandestine. She would follow Shadowheart into the darkness, all blind, and nothing but her hand to guide her. She’d do it.

Fortunately, fate smiled upon them, and Marcy wants for nothing.

“How do I look?” Shadowheart asks.

“Ravishing.”

She smirks. “Down, girl. We’ll have time for that later. Let’s wash that dye off your hair first.”

They swap places, and with the same technique, Shadowheart rinses the dye off Marcy’s roots. As she looks up at Shadowheart’s face, she can’t help but fixate on the slant of her lips, the faint furrow in her brow, and the determined squint in her eyes while she concentrates on washing Marcy’s hair. It has been quite some time since she had displayed anything other than a constant frown on her face. Marcy longs to relieve her pain, but if there’s one thing she’s learned, it’s that she can’t fix everyone.

Once Marcy is done, she calls upon a gentle gust of wind to blow through their hair and dry it.

“Are you feeling better?” Marcy asks.

“A little,” Shadowheart replies. “A new hairstyle won’t solve my problems. My parents are still in harm’s way, and we have yet to get this tadpole out of our heads. But this—” she twists a lock of silver hair around her fingers, “—this feels good. It feels like a fresh start. With you.”

Marcy’s heart flutters in her chest. With so much hanging in the balance, she dares not think of their future. Nevertheless, she allows herself a fleeting moment to envision a life alongside Shadowheart, filled with new cherished memories.

Her hands cradle Shadowheart’s face, gazing upon her with warmth and affection. “There is still much work to do. We’ll save your parents and we’ll be free of this damned tadpole. You won’t have to face it alone.”

Shadowheart smiles. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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