When They arrive, They bring a storm. Not the kind that waters the earth and clears the air; the kind that you watch happen as magic tears a space apart. Fray does not hear Wyll and Karlach shout, nor does he hear Gale’s frantic rushing for a quill and paper. He hears the crackling power of a god.
Fray throws down his pack. He feels his knuckles tighten, nails digging into the flesh of his palms. His heart has become a rabbit’s heart, stammering wildly in his chest. He stands, and he feels Right’s eyes upon him.
Lae’zel has appeared as if from nowhere, sword in hand. Astarion has melted into the shadows. There is a terseness in the air, and it threatens to snap the silence.
The Great Revealer holds his sword. They hold it aloft, gleaming with holy light. Frayed Saint, They say and do not say; They are two gauntleted arms rigid in their stance, yet the words shake the earth. O best beloved. Where are you?
“Here, lord,” Fray calls out. He wills himself to move, and now he can feel every eye upon him. He puts them out of his mind. All his concentration must go to trying not to tremble as he strides to the disembodied arms in the middle of camp. He hurries into a kneel once close enough, head bowed.
Not like this, something in his mind begs. Not here. Not like this.
Before him, the sword is lowered, its tip bristling toward him. Long has it been since I heard your prayers, Saint. Is it not so?
Karlach spits something in Infernal.
“It is so,” Fray signs swiftly. It is with a sudden horror that he realizes a familiar magic is settling over him, one he knows well. Any sign he makes will fill the minds of his companions as clear as speech.
Not like this. Not like this.
The Revealer does not lower the sword. What manner of thing so distracts you? They say and do not say. I find you here among the shadowlands. Do you hide from your god?
“No,” Fray signs. He tries to keep his face as straight as possible. “We travel to Moonrise Towers, at the heart of this place, to confront the evil that lies there.”
The evil, the Revealer replies. The words scald Fray’s ears, so scathing they are. And this is a very great evil, is it not?
“Yes. A despot who—he aims to enslave the Sword Coast. We aim to end him.”
So I see. And these others that you have with you. They are your allies, all?
Not like this not like this not before everyone please mercy please
“They are,” Fray signs.
The silence that follows is nothing short of painful. Behind him, Lae’zel hisses something in her mother tongue. “And who are you to command such deference?” she says, disdainful. “I see no more than two fists departed from their owner.”
Fray does not, cannot know how it is that the Revealer perceives the world. All the same he feels their attention pass from him to Lae’zel and back, tighter and sharper. Do you not speak of me to these ‘allies’ of yours? Do they know not whose power it is you borrow?
“I know who you are,” growls Karlach. “You’re that bloody thing he gets all his worst ideas from.”
The attention swings round to her, and Fray panics. “Forgive her, my lord,” he pleas, hands flying. “She—she is vital to our success. We need her strength.”
Was it you, then? asks the Revealer, leveling the sword toward Karlach now. You, who leads my child down the path of deceit?
Karlach snarls. “The fuck are you talking about, mate?”
“Most High, she’s done no wrong—”
The runes carved into Fray’s neck burn so hot that his cry of pain rings out over the whole camp. He clutches at it, choking, and Karlach bellows, howling for the Revealer to let him go. He feels the space around him narrowing, becoming furious and single-minded. Fray’s mind floods with fear. He does the only thing he can think of; he grabs on to the one ability he possesses that does not answer to the Great Revealer.
<Don’t provoke Them,> he pleads through the tadpole. Its delight is palpable as it reaches out to Karlach’s. <They won’t hesitate to kill you. Let me speak to Them. Please.>
Karlach’s eyes dart toward him, lingering. Her face sparks with anger. Her answer does not come in the form of words, only flashes of emotion: hatred, disgust, worry. All on Fray’s behalf.
He cannot see Right, but he reaches out to them as well. The tadpole gropes in their direction, only to be met with a cacophony of emotion. It’s not like Karlach, each feeling distinct and nameable. Right’s mind is a haze. Only one thing floats above the rest: the overwhelming urge to flee. <Don’t move,> he tries to tell them, holding fast to his own fear lest it reach them. Instead he does his damnedest to show them his care for them, the authenticity of that drunken vow all those nights ago. <I’ll allow no harm to come to you.>
If not you, then the other, the Revealer says, and the sword They hold draws a slow arc through the air as it turns to find its new target. Fray stays still. He is already between the two. But this does not keep Right hidden, and when the sword-tip finds them the Revealer stills.
You.
There’s a scuffle, hooves on hard dirt. Fray does not dare take his eyes off his god. The hand the Reveals does not hold the sword in curls into a fist. Name yourself, whelp, that I might know who it is that befouled my saint.
Fray is not expecting to hear Right answer at all, let alone to hear them give a hysterical bark of laughter. “Your saint?” they cry, shrill and fearful. “Like he’s livestock? But I suppose that’s why you felt justified in putting a collar on him! Right?”
There is a moment of icy, furious silence.
Your NAME, hellspawn.
Fray feels himself begin to tremble.
“I’ve already said it,” spits Right. “I should think a, a-a-a god ought to be able to work it out from there!”
A moment later, Right screams.
Fray leaps to his feet, and even as it happens he marvels at himself. He is running to Right. He is turning his back on his own god, for a tiefling. Wonders never cease.
He reaches them, but there’s nothing he can do. They’re doubled over in pain, mouth hanging open as if panting will relieve it. It makes every nerve in Fray’s body rebel, makes him feel like his head and limbs are separate entities from his own body. All the same, he has only one direction before him. He has done what he has always done when the lives of those he protects are on the line.
He rounds on the threat, and draws his sword.
Before his eyes it melts out of the Revealer’s hand. When he swings it down from his shoulder it is whole and entire, gleaming despite the shadow that drips through the air like rain. Even as he does he knows it is fruitless. The Blade of Saints does not belong to him. It never has.
He’s distracted for but a moment as Karlach appears as if from nowhere, weapon drawn. Lae’zel too is here. Both are snarling at this new enemy, though in Fray’s ears it is all so much noise. It does nothing to stop Right’s tormented shrieking.
Fray’s throat feels like it will split apart with fright and desperation as he cries out, “I acted of my own accord! Does your scripture not say that each living thing may have the dignity of justice?”
The arms, now unburdened, hang motionless for a moment. Fray’s pulse tears through his ears. He does not think about what he is doing. He cannot afford to if he is to get through this.
Slowly, Right’s wails fade to ragged breathing. Fray notices it, barely, but it is shoved out by the Revealer’s sharply signed command.
Come here, boy.
Fray does not move.
The Great Revealer’s voice strikes him like a hammer. You would quote the scripture to me and in the same breath disobey? You would defy your own god, your own faith—all to protect that THING? All to lie with it and taste of its tainted flesh?
“I—”
You would throw your love for Me aside to fuck a TIEFLING?
Fray stares. There’s the secret out, but in truth he scarcely registers it. He is frozen with the shock of such vulgarity from his god. Never has he heard such language from them. It frightens him in a way he does not understand.
The sword grows hot in his hand. The god’s fury pulses through it, seeping into his blood. Fear yet grips every part of him, but another feeling follows it as the way he has been spoken to sinks in. The feeling shocks him out of his stupor, alien in this context, but no less powerful for it:
Anger.
The Great Revealer says, O Best Beloved, you know it is not even a person.
The anger blossoms into fury.
The sword thuds against the earth as Fray throws it down before him. Words swirl in his head, too many for him to possibly get out, emotions too ragged and complex to even begin to sign. Words have never been his strong suit; Fray has always been a man of action. He can think of only one thing to do that will come close to expressing the way his insides writhe and boil. He takes another step toward where the Blade of Saints lies inert on the ground, and spits on it.
There’s some reaction from his companions. He will not remember it later. What he will remember is the hands of the Great Revealer curling into fists, and then moving toward him, as if attached to a walking body. Suddenly they are attached, a complete humanoid form striding toward him, clad in the most beautiful armor he has ever seen. Their face is hidden behind the golden helmet, and only darkness can be seen beneath its visor. They seem to grow larger with each step, until they surpass even Halsin in both size and stature. As they reach the Blade they put out a hand, and it flies into their grip; somehow it too increases its scale, until it is of a length appropriate to their body. When they stop before Fray he feels he is made drab and ugly simply by proximity, and he knows he is visibly shaking.
The Great Revealer, revealed. Never in Fray’s life has he seen the Revealer in their wholeness. It is a thing reserved only for moments of great triumph, or of great punishment.
The Revealer’s helmet tilts down at him. The sword hangs limp in their hand. Did I not tell you, child? they say. Fray finds no anger in it, but instead a sadness, a woundedness. Somehow this is worse. Were you not warned that the company you keep would blind you to their evil?
“N—n, not blind,” Fray gets out. “Not blinded, but unblinkered.”
O, Frayed Saint. I have failed you.
Bewildered, Fray tenses. He can feel more than one tadpole reaching out for him, telling him to run or fight or fall back, but he can’t focus. Part of him can only hear Right’s ugly breathing. Still, he lifts his chin, staring into the empty helmet. “I—I relinquish my claim to the Blade. I want it no longer. I will not condemn the innocent in your name aga—”
He is cut off by the sharp, sudden sound of a gauntleted hand the size of his own head cracking him across the face. Fray crumples, barely keeping from falling outright, and for a moment his vision flees him. There’s more shouting: the unmistakable roar of Karlach flying into bloodlust, githyanki cursing, and the crackle of magic. Something whistles over him, multiple somethings, arrows and bolts and lances of arcane energy. He lifts his head just in time to see each projectile bounce harmlessly off some sort of ethereal shield that now surrounds himself and his god.
O, I have failed you, best beloved, the Revealer says. It is pitying. The words weigh Fray down like stones in his stomach. I granted you your sainthood too soon, perhaps. So naïve. So gullible …
Blood ebbs down his cheek from where the metal bit too deep. Fray is rigid, frozen with shock. Hot shame floods him, the disgrace of being so treated before his companions eating at his dignity like acid. Manhandled, cuffed like a disobedient puppy, condescended to. As though he is too stupid to make his own decisions. He can feel his face flushing crimson with his injured pride.
You will cease this tantrum, the Revealer is saying now. You will return to the compound, and after I have decided on a suiting punishment for this gross failure you will begin your education anew. Should you prove yourself worthy—
“No.”
Fray stands. He swipes at the blood on his face, surreptitiously pawing away the tears that sprang to his eyes. He wants to look at anything at all but the Revealer, but to do so is a sign of submission he can no longer stomach. “I relin, linquish my claim to the Blade,” he repeats, layering as much iron into his words as he can that they might keep him upright. “I renounce my faith. I turn my back on your t—teachings.”
The sadness that had a moment before colored the Revealer’s presence shrivels away. All Fray can detect now is a disbelief, a growing rage. He does his best to brace himself for whatever is about to happen. No doubt he will be struck dead, if he is lucky. If he is not he expects more runes carved into his skin, like hooks in his flesh, trying to puppeteer him into obedience, or something even worse. His throat is aflame, and he can speak no more. He is glad, he thinks, that his last words were in defense of beliefs he himself arrived at. Perhaps it will mean something in the end.
When the Great Revealer finally speaks again, their voice is unlike it has ever been: a hiss, edged with a bitter anger Fray cannot interpret as anything other than childish. You like tieflings so much now, boy? they sneer. You would rather indulge your disgusting fetish than listen? Fine. If you’re so wise and worldly after two entire months out of my house, you’ll have no objection to this.
Before Fray can so much as process the sudden change in demeanor, magic grips him like the claws of a falcon around a mouse. It sinks into him at every point, focused along the wretched, hideous scars that mar his body like cattle branding. He gets only this warning before the material plane itself seems to lose its grip on him. He cannot fathom where he is except that it is elsewhere, and soon even that feels like too certain a claim. His head spins as the magic tears through him, doing something he can’t understand. The only comfort he can find is in the fact that he is not in pain. He cannot feel anything at all.
Just for a moment.
Sensation returns in the form of his hands and knees hitting the dirt again. It’s strangely cold. His head lurches down, feeling too heavy; trying to shift his weight he loses his balance and falls on his face. There’s something wrong with his legs. He tries to kick them out, struggling to stand; something else moves instead, narrow and thin and the red-orange of a ripe apricot. He kicks again. The red things move again. This time he notices the two black hooves on the end of them.
Then he is being hauled upright by his hair. He yells and scrabbles to release himself, but the massive fingers that his own brush are thoroughly unmoved. He’s up too fast, he can’t find his center of gravity, it feels like he is standing on his toes.
The Great Revealer bows low to level their faces. Fray’s struggling comes to a sudden halt. He opens his mouth to say something—a curse, a hex, a plea—and is stayed when his tongue hits sharp points it has never struck before.
The sight of you disgusts me, comes the Revealer’s grinding voice. That your will should be so weak, your heart so fickle. You will stay in this form until you recant your heresies. Do not pray to me before such a time.
The hand that holds his hair drops him. For the third time he falls to the earth. The Revealer is gone before he hits the ground.
The first one to get to him is, of all people, Lae’zel. She appears as if from thin air, pulling him up to a sit and performing a systemic triage. The whole time she mutters in her githyanki consonants, and her hands are icy on his skin. Karlach follows moments later, propping him upright and launching into a stream of words he can’t possibly comprehend. He sinks into the soothing heat of her side instead, hoping his ears will stop ringing. Wyll is here now, and Gale, and even Astarion can be seen lingering at the back of the crowd with a furrowed brow. It’s not until Fray lays eyes on the smear of gray that is Right taking pained steps between the others that he has any kind of useful thought.
“Hurt you,” he rasps, reaching out for them. Right stills. Their eyes are huge, their ears swiveled forward. “Healing—you—”
“I’m fine,” Right says shakily; they are not fine. They are wobbly and even as they speak they must lean on Gale’s proffered arm for support. “No, you—you’re—”
They trail off. Their other hand comes up to press its knuckles to their lips. His touch, rejected. Fray starts to pull back his hand, and then notices the color of it. Red-orange, like a ripe apricot. He stares at it, unable to make sense of his very skin turning so vivid a color, or of his fingernails having morphed into small, sharp claws.
“Is he hurt?” Karlach is asking Lae’zel, whose lip curls in what might be concentration. “What did the godsdamned thing do? Is it like Wyll again?”
“He is unharmed by my eye,” Lae’zel says, drawing back. “The same as the thief. Pain without evidence.”
Fray is out of words. He stares at his hand. He peers down at his legs, seeing the delicate feet of a goat where his boots should be. There is something long and flexible wormed down one of his trouser legs. His head keeps tipping if he moves it too far.
“Better than Wyll, I should say,” comes the velvet voice of Astarion as he too now parts the crowd. He holds something round and ornate in one hand, and after regarding Fray for a moment he offers it to Right. They take it, clearly reluctant, and drift down to one knee before Fray. Astarion goes on: “Wyll looks a freak with only the horns. Our little warrior will at least be able to pass as something natural.”
Right bites their lip. They turn around the hand-mirror so that Fray can see himself. They are tense and agonized-looking the whole while, as if they expect Fray to scream when he sees the horns curling up from his brow, the whites of his eyes turned black. He cannot scream; he has no voice. All he can do is watch in the reflection he watches Karlach tuck fallen hair behind his newly elongated ear and press her face against the side of his head, expression a knot of worry; watch as Right drops the mirror and takes his clawed hand tight in theirs.