Forsaken by Shadows 58: Sacred Fire

~23. Sacred Fire~

Mazira

Mazira stood before a mirror, secluded in a small prayer room, unclad to her waist, her eyes fixed on the teardrop etched on her chest. Surrounded by eight spindly legs, topped with a horizontal crescent at the point of the droplet, the scar was, objectively, a work of art. Its likeness to the banners bearing the same symbols that hung around the halls of House Tear was fairly impressive, considering the medium with which it was created, on a canvas that certainly wasn’t sitting still. 

For six years, she had avoided looking at it directly. She averted her gaze every time she changed, kept her hands from brushing against its shape as often as she could. Every dress, blouse, and tunic Mazira had been given by the Zovarrs was designed not only to hide the mark from the world, but to veil it from her own remembrance as well.

Maybe that’s why she couldn’t take her eyes off of it now. In mere minutes, Toloruel’s last great claim on her flesh would be obliterated. Solaurin hadn’t gotten his way. After three cycles of thoughtful prayer, Mother Lara had summoned her to the temple with instructions to prepare for her Ordeal. 

It was finally time. Regardless of the outcome, of whether or not her plan to burn and re-heal her skin would result in perfect texture, Mazira would never look upon the ghastly symbol again. She had a plan for failure, in the form of a tiny vial of acid (sold to her under the pretense of needing to dissolve stubborn lichen from the rock garden) tucked away in the bottom of her wardrobe. If Eilistraee’s sacred fire couldn’t cleanse her, she’d take matters into her own hands. 

At least the scar left wouldn't be shaped like memories better left shed. At least, when she chose to expose her shoulders, she could look Rismyn in the eye without bearing his own regrets in her flesh. He’d once confessed to desiring the scar on his cheek so he would look less like his brother, a resemblance he lost more traces of every cycle they lived in Launa. Joy and gentleness had transformed him into a new person, and the days of cowering away from Rismyn’s frightful temper were so distant they seemed but dreams. 

Yet how fast would his sorrow return, if the scar on her chest had been laid bare before him? How dark would his shadows grow, if he had to be reminded that somewhere in the world, House Tear, his family, still existed. 

She understood now why he’d wanted his face to remain scarred, even if the mark had been given by the same tormentor. As she turned slightly to glimpse the monstrosity on her back, she thought there was nothing she wouldn’t do to erase all traces of House Tear from her life. 

A knock sounded on the door, but Mazira didn’t startle. She’d been expecting someone to come for her eventually. She tucked her arms into the sleeves of the violet silken robe she’d been left to change into, readjusting the folds to make sure she was covered, before calling, “Come in,” to whoever was at the door. 

Ti’yana poked her head in, her midnight-pitched skin taking on the hue of encroaching dawn as she stood nervously, her eyes full of apprehension and pity. “They’re ready for you.” 

Mazira swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, and nodded. Ti’yana reached a hand out, and, after considering, Mazira took it, their fingers threading together like starlight woven through darkness. 

They walked together, hand-in-hand, a dark elf and faerie, united in purpose, against all odds of their heritage. If ever Mazira needed proof of magic and miracles, it strode beside her in the form of a dear, dark elven friend.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Ti’yana said, as she led Mazira down a short corridor that ended at simple wooden double-doors. “We can find another way, choose a different Ordeal…” 

Mazira squeezed her hand, hoping to convey all the strength of her warm affection for Ti’yana in that simple gesture. “If there were easy Ordeals, they wouldn’t call them Ordeals.” 

Ti’yana’s eyes sparkled, but she looked away before Mazira could see if any of her tears escaped. “It’s not fair. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like. Receiving those scars… and what you’re to go through just to get rid of it… It just isn’t right!” 

Mazira said nothing, because what was there to say? Ti’yana wasn’t wrong, but lamenting it wouldn’t change anything. Her life had taken tragic turns, but there was no rewriting the past. The best she could hope for was a fresh start, a repriming of the canvas to begin again.

Canvas that just happened to stretch over her bones, that was intricately connected to all her nerve endings. 

No, she wouldn’t think of that. She would think only of her skin renewed and unblemished. What it took to get there would be worth it.

They reached the doors, and Ti’yana went ahead to pull one open, revealing a small chapel lit with warm faerie fire that danced along the walls. Six rows of wooden benches lined an aisle that would take her to the altar, a surprisingly ordinary slab of gray stone, bereft of gilding or adornment. Carved into the wall above was an arched window of stained glass, depicting a sword surrounded by a circlet of flames. 

This was supposed to be the cozy chapel, small and quaint, for more intimate ceremonies such as weddings and dedications. Solaurin had described it as such, a place where the stones had witnessed happy memories and jubilant vows. 

But as she stepped forward, in a room designed to evoke a sense of religious reverence, with twelve pairs of crimson eyes fixed on her, she couldn’t help but recall the words Toloruel had so often whispered to her. 

You’re destined for the altar, my pet. 

Mazira swallowed air but couldn’t breathe. She’d been briefed, loosely, on what to expect in the ritual. She was going to have to disrobe, to lay on the altar and let the Eleven see to her burning and healing. Her hopes that Solaurin alone, perhaps with one other priestess, could see to the Ordeal had been overruled. All members of the Council of Elven had insisted on being part of the ritual, and Mazira couldn’t exactly argue with them, not if she wanted them to approve her candidacy for the clergy. 

Yet every step she took toward the Songblades walked her back in time. She’d seen the sacrifices House Tear gave to Lolth. She’d hidden in the corner of the chapel as Matron Xatel, flanked by her daughters, carved hearts still beating from chests, as they rained blood on the masonry of devotion. She’d watched it all in horror, at Toloruel’s behest, so she’d know what to expect when her turn came. 

A teardrop on her chest, to remind her to whom she belonged. 

Her hand slipped from Ti’yana’s, clutching the folds of her robe. 

A spider on her back, to remind her to whom she was destined.

“Mazira?” 

Ti’yana’s voice sounded distant, reaching through murky water to find her. Jolted by her name, Mazira realized she’d stopped. Somehow, she stepped forward, again and again, her muscles moving independently from her mind.

She halted before the altar, her heart thundering in her ears. The faces that stared at her from the other side of the stone table seemed cold and alien, even though Mazira knew she knew them. Women of the Order, priestesses whom the shadows had forsaken, dark elves who embodied light. They were going to help her, to grant her desire, and maybe, allow her to join them. 

It was just going to hurt a lot, first. 

This plan had seemed far better when it only existed as an abstract idea in her head. Shaking, Mazira finally looked at those who stood before her, and found her gaze trapped by a familiar stare.

Surrounded by his Songsisters, Solaurin stood directly before her, regal in his priestly garb. Ready to preside over her ritual of pain, while Mother Lara stood at his side, abdicating her rightful position of prominence as a compromise to Mazira’s request to let only Solaurin near her with fire. 

The recognition grounded her back in reality, back in the chapel of Eilistraee, not the blood-bathed halls of Menzoberranzan, and though cold sweat beaded down her spine, the fear of what she was about to endure made manifest, she was finally able to taste the oxygen in her lungs. 

Solaurin spoke. “Mazira.” 

She’d expected his voice to boom, the way she’d come to know it when he gave his formal addresses, but it didn’t. His tone was full of gentle warmth, the ghost of a zephyr from surface summers long lost. His gaze mirrored his daughter’s apprehension, and something more. Something Mazira couldn’t identify. 

“You have marks on your body you wish us to remove. Is this correct?” 

Mazira nodded, then remembered she was supposed to be impressing this council to garner their support. “Yes, sir,” she said, prying her fingers from the fold of her robe and letting her hands drop to her sides. 

“Show us,” Solaurin said. 

The word had barely finished echoing in the chapel before Solaurin turned his back on her, and for a brief moment, Mazira’s heart ached. He’d turned his back on her scars, as though unable to look upon her pain.

Then her cheeks heated as she understood what he was asking her to do. Solaurin hadn’t turned his back on her in rejection, but in protection of her honor. She was meant to stand before them clad in Eilistraee’s Mantle, a polite way of saying clad in nothing but the hair that adorned her, which wasn’t nearly as concealing as the goddess’. 

Was it wrong, that this part of the Ordeal felt worse than what was coming? Pain she could endure, but this? These elves were going to see her exactly as she was, each hope dragged from her nails. Every cut, every flaw. Every bone her curves couldn’t hide, despite all the weight she had gained, and every shameful day burned into skin. They were going to see her weakness, her wretchedness, and know her in ways no one else had. 

Not even Toloruel had reduced her to such vulnerability, disgusted enough by her appearance as it was. The closest she had come was sharing a room with Ti’yana and her body heat with Rismyn after they emerged from the river.

What was it she said to Ti’yana? If it was meant to be easy, they wouldn’t call it an Ordeal. 

Mazira lifted shaking fingers and tugged the sash away from her borrowed robe, letting the silk fall away from her skin. The women stared at her impassively, studying her with the same curious interest that Mindra once had, when waiting to see if her newest toxin was effective. 

But these women weren’t Mindra. They had forsaken the way of shadows.

“The symbol of my slavery has been branded here,” Mazira said, in a voice surprisingly calm. She touched the tear-drop shape, as if it wasn't obvious. “I wish it to be expunged, along with this.” 

She rotated slowly, showing them the spider that took up the full span of her back. Though she couldn’t see their reactions, she heard a collective gasp, a rustling of robes as the women shifted in discomfort. 

Should she be proud that, in a city where almost everyone bore scars, hers were still considered impressive? Gritting her teeth, Mazira turned back to face the women. 

“What about the one on your stomach?” 

The question came from Mother Lara, whose eyes had been drawn to the vertical gash which had once nearly ended her life. 

Mazira’s hand went to the scar, having not even thought of it. Whenever she beheld herself in the mirror, it had never troubled her, not like the acid scars. She considered, then shook her head. “This I wish to keep. I received it the day Eilistraee set me free. It reminds me of miracles, not misery.” 

There were murmurs at that, though whether approving or disapproving, Mazira couldn’t say. 

“You understand,” said Solaurin, with his back still turned. “That in order to remove your scars, we will apply sacred fire to your skin, burning the images away?” 

“Yes.” 

“And we will follow behind with healing magic, to right what has been wronged?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you understand that we cannot guarantee that this will work?” 

Mazira thought of the vial of acid she had hidden away. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. “Yes.” 

“Then come forth.”

Mazira didn’t know how she found the strength to ascend the dais, Ti’yana trailing beside her. The women moved to encircle the altar. Forge Mistress Elynia spread a black linen over the stone, and Mazira perched on the edge, before swinging her legs up and laying on her back. 

Another black linen appeared to cover her body, a small comfort in an otherwise miserable experience. At least she didn’t have to lay exposed the whole time. 

Ti’yana squeezed in between two priestesses, kneeling by her side. “I’ll stay with you.” 

Mazira’s vision blurred from the violence of her shaking. “No,” she said. “That’s okay. I’ll be alright.” 

“Are you sure?” 

The hurt in Ti’yana’s voice made Mazira almost change her mind. No, she wasn’t sure. She would have much preferred for her friend to stay by her side, but the desire was selfish. Ti’yana was sweet and innocent, untouched by the barbarous nature she’d been born to inherit. Her eyes had been spared the obscenities of what happened when heat was applied to skin, her nose unblemished by the acrid scent of burned flesh. 

Mazira would not stain such a precious conscience with what was about to happen to her.  “Wait for me outside?”

Ti’yana hesitated, then slipped away. 

The ceiling above her was vaulted and veiled in shadows, the tangle of light and darkness blinding Mazira to the stone that lay above their heads. Yet though she couldn’t make out anything in particular, she kept her gaze anchored straight ahead, trying not to notice the faces of the women as they closed in around her. 

Mother Lara trailed a hand across Solaurin’s shoulder, before sliding around to the other side of the table. Solaurin turned back to the altar, and more than anyone else’s gaze, Mazira hoped to avoid his, though he stood by her right shoulder. 

Solaurin, however, would not be ignored. He cupped her cheek and tilted her face to look at him, his hand warm and soft as the silk he wove.

“Mother Lara will wield the fire,” Solaurin said, and though he spoke with the same soothing calm as before, Mazira’s heart lurched. 

She’d wanted Solaurin to control the flames. He was the only one she trusted with her pain. 

“I will wield the healing,” he continued, which she supposed made everything marginally better. 

He was still a part of this, still able to protect her. And besides, Mother Lara was the highest priestess in the Order. Who better to control the fire which would cleanse her skin? 

“I’m ready,” Mazira said. The anticipation was growing unbearable. 

The pallor of Solaurin’s skin said plainly that he was not, but he nodded, his hand slipping away from her face. “For your safety and our own, do we have your permission to restrain your limbs?” 

Mazira squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. They’d warned her they would ask this, and she had prepared her answer ahead of time. But now that it was time to say it, the words lodged in her throat. 

Logically, it made sense. She’d been restrained when the scars were first laid, after all, but that was the choice of an evil, wicked elf. Part of the pleasure of his twisted game. Chains to bind her to a corner, straps to hold her to Mindra’s table. Restricting her ability to defend herself.

But this was not House Tear. This decision was hers to endure, and no one made it for her. Opening her eyes and fixing on Solaurin’s, she raised her hands from the table, palms up, as though offering them to the women at her side. “Do it.” 

Strong hands clamped down on her arms and legs, and Mazira groaned, her muscles flexing against them on instinct. Everything about this felt wrong, because it was wrong, but so was what had been done to her. In just a few moments, it would all be over.

Satara stood at her head, lifting a thick leather strap and hovering it above Mazira’s lips. Mazira opened her mouth to let her slide it between her teeth, clamping down on it to protect her tongue from being bit. It tasted of earth and death, and Mazira actively avoided remembering that it, too, was made of skin.

“So it begins,” said Solaurin, his eyes full of immeasurable sadness. All around him, the women began a low, throaty harmony. 

Tears leaked from the corner of Mazira’s eyes, the dread of what was to come overwhelming her senses. She tried to let the music sink into her, even tried to catch the tune and hum along, but her shaking made it impossible to hold a note steady.

Then came the melody. 

Mazira knew the songs for sacred fire, and she knew the words for healing pain. The music that came from Solaurin and Mother Lara was something else entirely, a lead line she’d never heard before. Solaurin sang a rich tenor lament, his voice weaving in and out of Mother Lara’s mezzo soprano jaunt. He was cool solemnity to her vibrant dance, two strands of songs that should not have blended so well, as though winter and summer danced in a single embrace. 

Mazira meant to shut her eyes again, to block out the visual of what was to come, but the sacred fire materialized so quickly in Mother Lara’s hand that she couldn’t look away. Her eyes widened, fixed on the flickering ghostlight, her heart pounding to the rhythm of Eilistraee’s song. 

She was transfixed. Horrified and mesmerized. The music swirled like a gust through trees, sweeping up nostalgic leaves from a carpet of forested decay. Something inside of her shattered, yet was whole, broken, yet renewed. Mazira was at once a scared little girl cowering in her master’s corner, and a priestess proud and strong, the train of her robe catching starlight as she strode through a night-stained twilight. 

Mother Lara waited until Solaurin’s hands glowed with golden light, then pressed her fire to Mazira’s chest. 

All sense of wonder and melancholy fled. Fear gave way to agony, and had Mazira’s mouth not been full of tanned animal hide, she would have released an unbridled scream.

It was everything the acid had been, if the full dose had been delivered all at once. Mazira’s throat tore raw as she writhed and shrieked around her gag, her teeth ripping into the leather as her body tried to move, tried to rip her away from the wretched altar of her doom. 

But the priestesses held her fast, humming their harmony lines, and no sooner had the pain reached its zenith, then the white fire vanished, and Solaurin’s hands replaced Mother Lara’s, crossed over the sizzling wound. 

Her tears were no longer leaking, but gushing, as the scent scalded her nose. She lay there, breathing hard, her gaze flicking between Solaurin and Mother Lara, hoping to read in their expressions something that would tell her if all this hurt was actually worth it.

Yet their eyes held nothing but ciphers, as the conflicting melodies continued to twine from their lips. Someone—Elynia, maybe?—instructed her to roll onto her stomach, and though adrenaline made her muscles so tense it was nearly impossible to comply, Mazira somehow managed it. 

The sheet was pulled from her back, folding down just above her hips. Strong hands secured her limbs once more, but restraints were now the least of her concern. She recognized the beginning of Mother Lara’s song, the reprise of the words that had called her fire, and braced herself for the worst. 

Yet when the worst finally came, there was no bracing for it. The searing began between her shoulders, and Mazira’s spine arched, her wordless cries begging for it to end though teeth that wouldn't unclench. And surely it would end, as the pain on her chest had, and Solaurin would relieve her of the excruciating sensation. 

Surely it would end. 

Surely it would end. 

Surely it would—

—

She stood in a cavern unbeknown, surrounded by nothing extraordinary, yet feeling completely at home. Though she had not been born to darkness, her choice had made the shadows her own, as much as the night that seeped between starlight.

A light appeared at the tunnel ahead, a silver glow padding closer and closer. She paused, curious, but unafraid. The light was familiar, nostalgic in a way that comforted.

The wolf materialized moments later, sleek and graceful, yet alien to her underground home. But she knew at once from whence it came, before it even lowered on its haunches and spoke in her mind. 

‘Great lady,’ said the lythari, ‘your father bids you come.’ 

She blinked, and the scene around her shifted. No more did she stand in underground caverns, but on massacred soil, her bare feet sinking into blood-spawned mud. She’d donned a sheer gown of moonlight, the hem trailing through briars without snagging as she approached the elven man who stood amidst a wreckage of burning wagons.

‘Your mother has been at work,’ said he, by way of grim greetings. His sad eyes surveyed the ruined bodies strewn about the camp. 

She knelt and lifted a broken lute, her heart as tangled and curled as the steel strings strung around the pegs. 

So much needless destruction, so much miserable pain. 

The man beckoned to her, and she followed him to the body of a golden-haired elven woman, her face permanently etched in the horror she beheld as she fell. He knelt and indicated too bright yellow eyes peeking from beneath the woman’s bosom, wide and stricken and still full of life. 

‘Yet hope remains,” said Corellon Larethian, father of elvenkind. ‘Two are alive from this wretched night. Their mothers have begged my intervention. This boy I will keep, though his path will be hard. He has a heart born of rubble, and will rebuff all who try to seal it.’

She nodded, watching the child with pity. His days would be hard indeed, and she couldn’t help but wonder if his life might not have been better off if he’d followed his family into the fields of Arvandor.

‘And the other?’

 Corellon looked grave. ‘The girl has been taken beyond my reach, into the hall of your mother’s domain.’ 

Now she understood why he had summoned her. ‘I will find her and keep her,’ said she. She looked again to the fallen, despair overcoming her like the waves of the deep. This was her mother’s doing, the fruit of her chaos sewn in the hearts of her elves. Lives snuffed for meaningless woe, blood sacrificed to an endless hunger. 

Corellon left her, and she gathered the flames in her hands, bidding them to reveal the way to the one who had lit them. The fire hissed and spit, their golden tongues licking and twisting into the image of a teardrop spider. 

She found the girl exactly where the flames had revealed her to be, in the halls of Menzoberranzan’s House Tear. A pretty little thing, with woodbark curls and peachy skin that would fade away from the sun. She cowered in a corner, wretched and alone, chains snaking around her ankles. 

She knelt before the child, the girl’s lavender eyes seeing right through her, staring into horrors unimaginable. She took the girl’s face in her hands, though the girl sensed it not. ‘Courage, dear heart,’ said she, kissing the child’s forehead. When she came away, a moth had appeared on the brow of the child, shimmering like moonlight. It fluttered its wings, and music fell from its feathery dust, songs of comfort and grief. 

The girl’s shuddering subsided slightly, though her eyes were still distant and glazed. 

Time passed and the scene changed, though in House Tear they still remained. The girl was older now, singing a duet with the moth on her shoulder, though she knew it not as she moved around the idols of Lolth. She felt nothing of the creature who tickled her cheek, except the light it awakened in her soul. 

The girl came around a spider statue and froze, scurrying away to avoid the notice of the small dark elf she’d accidentally stumbled upon, but it was too late. The boy had seen her, and the moth sensed an opportunity.

In the boy’s moment of surprise, as he beheld the girl in natural light, the arachnid legs around his soul loosened their grip. They latched on again, as he chased the girl away with his words, her healing balm clutched in his hand, yet when he turned away from the experience, he, too, had a moonlit moth on his shoulder. 

And now there were two, though the spiders were many in the halls of House Tear. They were but feeble drops of moonlight in a vast cavern of pitch. The shadows ensnared, the grief cried out, often smothering the light of the song. But the moths’ remained faithful, manifestations of her very being, stalwart minstrels against the dark. 

Yet if the girl was to survive, she needed more than words to a song. 

The first time the child touched the Weave, she spun a song of courage and hope. She knew not what she did, or who she was about to meet, or that the boy she would heal was, at that exact moment, plotting to take her life. He’d been beaten for exposing the light in his heart, and fear tempted him to the extreme.

But the girl’s magic swept her away, giving her strength to do the impossible, to heal with her song and hands—not the balm—the wounds that had caused his hate. 

His shadows were no match for her tender embrace. 

A battle won, but a war still yet to be fought. 

She must be careful with her magic, lest it lead the child to an early grave. To that end, she withheld the Weave until it was most in need.

The years spun on. She watched the children grow, watched them love, watched them weep when the shadows took victory. She held the girl in the ritual room dedicated to her mother, where the boy had left the girl broken as he fled in horror at what he had done, unwilling to believe that his love was his own, that his hands had hurt the one who’d grown and tended it. 

This trial was the hardest they had yet to endure, and she wept alongside the girl, but it had been necessary. If the boy was going to forsake the shadows, he needed his illusions shattered. 

She was there when the girl was locked in a broom closet, her refuge turned into a cage. She was there when her tormentor left yet another scar on her chest, her song alone keeping the girl sane. 

She was there in the dark days of isolation, and she was there with the boy as guilt ate at his soul, struggling to reconcile his heart with his head as he devoted himself to her mother’s teachings, yet failing to believe a word that was said. 

She was there, she was there, she was always there. 

Her mother caught wind of her involvement. She sent her spiders to counteract her moths. The battles raged on, until the demon queen thought she won. A sword pierced the middle of the child, who had long since ceased to be a child. The girl staggered back and fell, her life streaming in red rivulets to the stone. 

She wrapped her arms around the boy, as he clutched the girl to his chest, and told him what to do.

She stayed with them as the boy cried out to the darkness for the life of the girl, having escaped the city with help of her servant, the teacher who did more than teach. The boy wept over her wounds, while she held them together in answer to his prayers, until a shadow fell upon her light. 

‘You have no right to her.’ 

Rage filled her as she beheld her mother, the once-beautiful now fallen. The demon clung to the ceiling of the cave, her arachnid body bobbing with glee. 

‘Neither have you rights to her,’ she said. ‘She is not drow, she has not given herself to your ways.’

The Spider Queen dropped, standing before her as a woman, though her shadow revealed her true form. ‘Her soul is the gift of my faithful,’ said Lolth. ‘Dedicated to me.’

That was true. She had seen it. The drow who’d done this invoked Lolth’s name, hoping to glean her favor. He might have had it, too, if he’d lived longer than thirty seconds after he’d delivered the wound.

She knew what she had to do, though her heart reviled the thought. ‘Give her to me.’ 

The demon’s eyes narrowed with contempt, before throwing her head back and cackling. ‘Really, Eilistraee? You would invoke the ancient laws for this?’ She gestured to the ruin of a girl. ‘She has not cried out to you.’

‘She will.’

‘You can’t know that.’ Though Lolth didn’t quite sound so convinced. Centuries of fallenness had dulled her memory to what it was like to be truly divine. ‘You would pay the price for her?’

‘Yes.’

They stood there, with the children between them, a battle of silent will playing out. Eternity could have passed in that single, frozen moment. 

Then Lolth spoke. 

‘I accept.’

A sword appeared in the demon’s hand, and though she could have stopped it, she allowed herself to be pierced through, exactly where the girl had been. 

She cried out in agony as she fell to her knees, Lolth relishing in the sound. The Spider drank in her misery like sweet wine, growing stronger from the chaos and betrayal. 

What sort of mother laughed at the pain of her daughter?

When Lolth had had her fill she vanished, and she crawled to lay beside the girl. As the wound had torn open on her stomach, the wound on the girl’s stomach sealed shut.

But her powers were weakened by the great exchange. She stroked the girl’s face. ‘What I have I give you freely.’ Pressing a bloody thumbprint to her forehead, she connected the girl’s soul directly to the Weave. 

‘Come to me, my faithful one,’ she said, as her strength in this avatar faded. 

From the darkness, a grey tabby cat appeared, summoned through the astral realms. 

‘Be near her, and guide her, and bring her home.’ 

The cat, Silverpaw, padded over to the girl and curled up on her chest. Her whiskers twitched toward the boy still mourning her, the moth on his shoulder struggling to sing hope into his lamenting soul.

‘Yes,’ said she. ‘He is a good boy, despite his best efforts. Bring him, for I love him, as well.’

—

Mazira gasped awake, but something was wrong. She stood in the chapel, dark with the lack of  faerie fire. Only Solaurin remained, sitting on the floor with his back to the altar, curled around something in his arms. 

Her. 

He held her, swaddled in the black linen as though she were an infant, rocking back and forth, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth moving in rapid, soundless words. 

Dread sent violent shivers through her. How could she be seeing what she was seeing? Her body was in Solaurin’s arms, and she… was she dead?

Someone tapped on her shoulder, and Mazira spun. 

Her jaw dropped. 

If Ti’yana was the image of perfect drow beauty, then this woman was its master source. The resemblance was striking, right down to the silver eyes and perfect features. Yet this woman was somehow more. More vibrant, more alive, more real. Her hair trailed to the floor, her body barely concealed beneath a sheer dress of moonlight. 

Mazira didn’t need to wonder who this avatar of beauty and power was. She dropped to her knees and pressed her face to the stone. 

“You…” Mazira said, her voice thick with an avalanche of emotion. “You saved me.” 

The memories of her vision played out, every moment Eilistraee wiped away her tears, every song the goddess sang in her heart. Every moment she thought she was alone and abandoned had truly been filled with silver light. 

Mazira had always wondered how she’d stayed sane in Menzoberranzan, if this facade of a personality she wore could be considered sane. Now she knew.

“I didn’t know you. I didn’t love you. Yet you took my wounds from me.” Mazira’s hands went to the scar she’d ask to save. She trembled with awe and wonder and a deep sense of her transience. Even if she lived all the centuries her elven blood might afford her, she would never be more than a drop in the ocean.

And yet her life had been noticed.

“Why?” Mazira choked out. She couldn’t raise her face. “I’m not worthy. I’m not worth all this trouble.” 

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder, and Mazira’s chin was lifted. The goddess deigned, once again, to wipe her mortal tears from her eyes. She said no words, but as Mazira was lifted to her feet, she was smothered by an overwhelming sense of love. Deeper than darkest caverns, higher than visible sky. 

It was a moment of perfect clarity, perfect understanding. No, she wasn’t worthy. None of them were. From Mother Lara to Ti’yana, not a single being was worthy of the notice of their goddess. 

Yet worthiness had nothing to do with love. That was a choice the goddess had made, to love wicked drow before they loved her. To save traitors from their own rebellion. To ransom captives from their captors. It was a marvel, a great mystery, a truth that clashed against everything Mazira had been conditioned to believe, that her worth came from what she could do, and that love was the wages of her labor. 

The goddess smiled as understanding sank in. She pulled her hand away from Mazira, and with it came the silver moth that had been with her through the dark days of her slavery. 

Mazira felt suddenly dulled, as though she’d been warming herself by a fire and it was doused unexpectedly. 

The goddess held up the moth as if to show her, the fluffy insect having grown in size since Mazira had seen it in her vision. Its antennae twitched, and the goddess gestured for Mazira to take it. 

Mazira cupped her hands and the moth fluttered into her palms, before sinking into her flesh. Her vibrancy returned, rushing up her fingers and spreading into the rest of her, like the feeling she got when she summoned the Weave. 

She stared at her palms in wonder, when Eilistraee took her hands. She smiled again at Mazira, tears glistening in her silver eyes, and then, within the span of a heartbeat, the goddess was no longer alone. 

A woman stood on her left, a man on her right. She was an elf, with sandy-brown hair that hung in waves, her eyes as brilliant as amethyst. The man’s grin was framed by a full-face beard, betraying the human blood in his otherwise elven heritage, his dark hair the color of Mazira’s own chestnut locks. 

Mazira stared, completely awestruck. Everything within her went numb, as the goddess stepped back. 

How could she have ever forgotten their faces? They were crystal clear now, beaming with love and pride, and Mazira traced every line of their smiles, every curve of their brows. 

“Mama…?” she whispered, and the woman opened her arms. 

Mazira rushed into them, too shocked for tears. Her mother folded her into a tight embrace, and a second later, her father joined them. 

Mazira would never be able to say how long they held each other. Long enough for the surprise to finally wear off, and for tears to burst from the reservoir of her soul. Mazira clung to them, a child again, whispering the same refrain over and over. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

They said nothing to her, and somehow, Mazira knew they would not. Whatever magic had spun them into her presence had rules that could not be broken, yet it was enough. The same sense of love and acceptance crashed over her, like what she had felt from Eilistraee, but smaller. The full capacity of what a finite creature could possess. 

When at long last, the embrace was broken, Mazira stepped back. Her father gripped her face and brushed her forehead with a whiskery kiss. Her mother kept an arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Mazira wiped her own tears this time, looking down at her body still cradled in Solaurin’s arms, her benefactor unaware of the drama unfolding before him. “Does this mean… does this mean I really am dead?” 

For the first time since she woke in this strange reality, sadness tugged at her. She’d begged for death once, but those wishes were long gone. Intoxicating as her reunion with her parents had been, her heart yearned for her body, for the elf who muttered prayers over her, for her friend who waited in the hall. For Vaylan, whom she’d just gotten back, and of course, for Rismyn, who’d always be home. 

Her father smiled and shook his head, and though she was relieved to hear it, Mazira’s grief turned to them instead. Somehow she sensed this moment was coming to an end. 

“I wish I could keep you,” Mazira said. Her heart felt like it was a cloth being wrung out. “I miss you. I need you.” 

Her mother gave her a sad smile, shaking her head. She lifted Mazira’s chin with her index finger and smoothed back her hair, the way she always had when Mazira ran to her in tears as a little girl. She took Mazira’s hand and led her back to the altar, as her father knelt beside Solaurin, clasping his shoulder in a firm grasp the priest didn’t seem to feel. The significance of the gesture was not lost on Mazira; the passing of a mantle, from one father to another. 

He rose and embraced her one last time, and then they were both gone, and Mazira’s perspective shifted. 

She was waking up again, this time wrapped in smooth black linen, cradled in Solaurin’s arms. 

“Give her back,” he was saying, over and over, his breath warm and real against her hair. 

Mazira breathed deeply, her eyes misting, the memory of the vision, the goddess, and her parents already feeling like a distant dream, though one she knew was vividly seared into her mind. Her eyes fluttered open, and she lifted a hand to rest on his chest, waking him from his fevered prayers. 

“Mazira!” The joy in Solaurin’s voice was palpable, his ruby eyes sparkling like the gems Rismyn cut. “Thank Eilistraee.” His embrace crushed her against him, and for a moment, Mazira wasn’t sure he’d ever let her go, as he muttered his prayers of thanksgiving. When at last he did, he fixed her with a piercing stare. “Never again, child. Never. Again.” 

Though sorrow still ached in Mazira’s chest, she couldn’t help but laugh, feeling lighter than she had in her entire life. “Never again,” she agreed. “Solaurin, I’m okay. Please don’t worry anymore.” 

“It is my job to worry,” he said, the refrain comforting in its commonality. He brushed back her hair, marveling at her as if seeing her for the first time. “One I take great delight in. Are you sure you are well? Are you still in any pain? You wouldn’t wake up, we were so worried.”

“I’m…” Mazira began, before hesitating. She hadn’t actually taken stock of her wellbeing. “Yes. I feel in perfect health. I think… Eilistraee had business with me.”

Solaurin gave her a curious look, and Mazira nestled her temple against his chest. It should have been awkward, her curled up in his lap like a child when she wasn’t, but it didn’t feel so. It felt the same as it had when her father embraced her, and she knew in her heart he had chosen well for his replacement. 

“I promise to tell you about it,” she said, as his hand continued to stroke her hair. “But first… Did it…” She was almost afraid to ask. “Did it… work?” 

Solaurin stilled, and fear brought her lightheartedness crashing back to the Underdark. “See for yourself,” he said, nodding to the mirror that had been moved from the prayer room to the chapel. “I will leave you to your inspection.” 

Solaurin started to move, but Mazira gripped his robe. “Wait… please…” 

He paused, looking down at her. How could Mazira have ever thought that drow couldn’t feel love? It was written so clearly in his eyes. 

“Just… thank you,” she said. “I know it was hard… but thank you for doing this.” 

She meant so much more than just the removing her scars. He had taken her in. Endured her dream-terrors. Put up with her ineptitude, her terrible handwriting in his precious ledger books. He had given her a home when he wasn’t obligated to. 

But she didn’t trust her voice to endure the strength of her gratitude. So she left it at that, and hoped it would be enough. 

Solaurin helped her to stand, averting his eyes in case the black linen failed in its duty, but the precaution was unnecessary. Mazira remained wrapped in shadows as she shuffled to the mirror.

Solaurin walked with her, then turned to face her, hands on her shoulders. “Mazira,” he said. “Before I go, I just want to say, regardless of what you see in the mirror, it is your soul that has been measured and weighed this day. As a priest and Songblade of the first echelon, I am pleased to inform you your Ordeal has been cleared by the Eleven, and your candidacy unanimously approved.” 

“Unanimously?” Mazira gasped, her eyes going wide. She’d only hoped for bare minimum acceptance, if even that. 

Solaurin snapped his fingers, and sconces on the wall lit with white, sacred fire. “You’ll understand why soon. Now, my child.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, as she had so often seen him do to Ti’yana. Tipping her chin, he beamed at her. “May the Dark Maiden light your path.” 

He left her at the mirror, and Mazira watched him go, her emotions swirling. When she finally forced her gaze from the chapel doors, she flinched at the sight of her own reflection, pale and afraid. 

What if it didn’t work? What if she just had blast marks instead of designs? 

Unable to face it yet, Mazira looked around the chapel again, just for some way to stall. Whoever had brought the mirror had brought her clothing as well, the turquoise dress Ti’yana had given her on her first cycle in the Sanctuary. Mazira had chosen it specifically for this event, recalling how mortified she had been to let Ti’yana see her scars. She’d wanted to wear it one last time, knowing its purpose in concealing her marks was about to come to an end. 

There was only one way to find out if her faith had been in vain. Holding her breath, Mazira let the black fabric fall away. 

It wasn’t just her chest and back. Her whole body had been made new. Every scar, with the exception of the vertical slash on her stomach, as she had requested, had been erased from her body. 

But there was more. As Mazira turned from gaping at her back, a glimmer on her stomach caught her attention. She squinted at the strange light, shifting a little to try and make out what it was in her reflection, before finally looking down to examine it with her own eyes. 

There, jutting out from either side of the two-inch abdomen scar, was a pattern of silver moth wings. Above the scar and the wings, curling around her navel, was the crescent moon of Eilistraee. The design shone like metal, but was difficult to see against the paleness of her sun-starved skin. 

No wonder her vote had been unanimous. Eilistraee had given her a new brand, a seal of a new life, making her claim on Mazira’s soul undeniable. 

She was wanted, after all.

Mazira traced the image with her fingers, then fell to her knees and wept.

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.