Chapter Text
The harpy lay dead on its back in the mud.
Nameless stood over it, his sword dripping with blood. He was still panting from the battle, his arm aching from slashing and hacking into flesh. He wanted to keep thrusting his sword into the dead creature, to use it like the burrowing tool it was and excavate the organ that had bewitched him with music, but he slowly became aware of the murmur of voices behind him and forced himself to turn away.
“That was the last of them.” Karlach let the head of her great-axe thud in the sand. “Nice job saving the kid.”
“More than nice job,” said Wyll, flicking the blood from his rapier. “Had you not interrupted the harpy’s song, I dare say she would have lured our small friend here right into her talons.”
The boy. He was hiding behind a rock nearby, his fluffy hair and horns peeking over the top.
“It’s safe to come out now,” said Wyll. “They’re all gone.”
The boy, a small tiefling with red skin and purple eyes, slowly stood up—every inch of his skinny frame trembling.
“It’s all right,” said Wyll. “What’s your name?”
“M-Mirkon.”
“Mirkon,” said Wyll. “Well-met. I have a feeling you’ll think twice next time before wandering off into the wilds by yourself.”
“I just wanted the treasure in their nest,” said Mirkon, walking over to them. “Mol said the harpies had gold.”
“Mol says a lot of things, I wager,” said Wyll. “Nevertheless, just stick close to the grove from now on. Nameless saved you today, but he won’t always be around.”
Mirkon lifted his purple eyes to Nameless. They were remarkable eyes—wide, wet, and full of sweetness.
Slip your thumbs past their sockets, whispered the Voice. How much lovelier they would look in your palm, like cowrie shells glistening with seawater.
Nameless’s throat tightened. His body ached to end the child right now. He had fantasized about it before the harpies attacked. It wouldn't even be difficult with such a small, skinny boy. Push him in the water, plant one boot on the back of his head, and hold him down while his little tail flicked around like a switch.
But his companions were looking at him. He needed these people to like him and keep him around, at least until the tadpole in his head was removed. He raised a hand and—with monstrous restraint—patted the boy on the head.
“Ugh, are we done?” Astarion came down the hill with his bow in hand. The vampire spawn had spent most of the battle high up on a ridge, peppering the harpies with arrows. “Because unless those harpies were actually hoarding treasure, I’ve had my fill of this mosquito-infested pond.”
“I’d have thought you’d like hanging around with a bunch of blood suckers,” said Karlach.
“Darling, you’re so clever,” said Astarion. “Clearly, those forked-tongue devils down in Avernus rubbed off on you, when they weren’t using that head of yours as a battering ram...”
“I think we’re all ready to head back to the grove,” said Wyll, sheathing his blade. “And this young man needs an escort.”
“Finally,” said Astarion, and he, Karlach, and the boy began to make their way back up the hill.
Wyll stayed behind. “I meant what I said before. We haven’t known each other long, but you have the makings of a real hero.”
Hero. The word was vaguely nauseating. Nameless knew in his marrow that there was nothing remotely heroic about him. He had simply acted in the moment. If anything, he was much more akin to the harpy with her sharp talons and hungry song. The way she had lured the boy close to tear the flesh from his bones had been painfully familiar.
“You are...too kind,” said Nameless.
“Not at all. Most people would have turned and run at the first sign of danger, but you put yourself in harm’s way to save an innocent. That speaks well of you." Wyll gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Now, let’s rejoin our companions.”
He turned and began to follow the others back up the hill. Nameless started after him, then hesitated.
“Something wrong?” asked Wyll.
He glanced back at the body. A well of strange longing opened up inside him—that same rancid familiarity.
“Give me a moment,” said Nameless.
“As you wish.” Wyll’s smile dimmed a little. “We’ll meet you back at the grove. Try not to linger for too long. As we just learned, there is no shortage of monsters about.”
Nameless waited until he disappeared behind a rise, then turned back to the harpy.
She lay on her back with her wings and legs spread, the mud beneath her scarlet with blood. Her mouth was open, her eyes rolled back, and her talons curled gently as if in sleep. A long gash bled freely on her chest—the wound that had finally killed her.
Something about her tugged at him—this creature that murdered with music.
Nameless straddled the body and sank slowly to his knees in the mud. He ran his hands over her breasts, smearing a red trail as he slid them up her neck and wrapped his fingers around her throat. She had sung to him with all the air in her lungs, snaring him with her death song.
Why was that so familiar?
His mind reached for the answer, only for its fingers to close on empty air. The memory should be there, and yet all that was left were the ashes where it had been burned away.
He pressed his thumbs hard against her voice box. He wanted to take more from her, to put whatever she was back inside him. Anything to fill the wretched emptiness that tormented him every second of every day.
Nameless ripped the bone mask from her face. Underneath, she was much like an ordinary woman, save for her sharp teeth and yellow-white feathers that grew on her body instead of hair. He rubbed his nose against her cheek, inhaling her, aching for her, willing her death to bring whatever was buried instead him back to life.
Devour her. Fuck her. Wriggle your fingers into her cunt until you worm inside and curl beneath her heart like an embryo.
No. He lurched backwards to his feet. No, he couldn't. His companions were waiting for him, and if they caught even a glimpse of a fraction of his depravity, they would abandon him. He forced himself to step away from the corpse, a yawning emptiness opening inside him as he did so.
I will find myself, he thought, turning to climb the hill. I will find myself without succumbing to my madness.
Music floated through the air.
Nameless lifted his head. It was the day after the fight with the harpies. Gale and Shadowheart were bartering with one of the druids, while Astarion lay curled like a cat in a patch of sunlight on the grass. No one paid any attention to the soft singing on the breeze.
He followed the music up a grassy hill. At the top, a tiefling with purple hair sat under a tree with a lute in her lap, strumming it.
“Oh.” The girl startled. “I didn’t see you there.”
Nearly everyone startled when they saw him. Nameless had suspected at first that it was because he was a drow, but he had begun to wonder lately if there was something else about him that put people ill at ease.
“I heard what you did for Mirkon,” said the girl, smoothing down her dress. “Saving him from the harpies was very brave. He should know better than to let Mol put him up to something so dangerous.”
Nameless wasn’t certain what to say to that. Wyll was usually the one in their group who did the talking. His attention drifted to the lute in her arms.
“I was just practicing,” she said. “Trying to finish a song. Do you play?”
No, he almost said, but something inside him paused. He lifted his hands and studied the thick calluses on his fingertips. He had wondered about them, as they did not resemble sword calluses, but had no idea what else they might be.
Did he play?
“I….” Speech was still difficult. His mind was as much a smoking ruin as the nautiloid on the beach, and his headaches had only worsened since the crash. The words were there, like splinters lodged in his throat, but choking them up and spitting them out was a fight every time. “I hurt my head. I don’t remember.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Do you….want to try?”
She held the lute out to him. The instrument drew him near the same way the harpy had, and he found himself sitting on the grass beside her and taking it into his arms.
The weight of the lute against his chest was familiar. He pressed his fingertips against the frets beneath the strings, and that was familiar, too.
Catgut. The body is spruce, the neck maple. This was made to fit a woman’s hand…How do I know that?
“Go on,” said the girl. “Give it a try.”
He plucked a string, and the answering note vibrated into his chest. He plucked another string, and another. G, c, f, a, d, g. He strummed a few chords, and then his fingers began to move on their own.
“You can play!” said the girl.
His chest was rising and falling rapidly now. His body trembled, overflowing with memory, chasing a melody whose name was lost to him.
It was not enough. His hands sprinted ahead, and yet his damaged brain could not keep up. His fingers stumbled, played sour notes, stiffened when they should have flowed effortlessly.
I used to be better.
Frustration blazed inside him. His body remembered its own genius—the skill that had been honed over decades and thousands of hours of practice—but his mind, thick with fog and migraine, mangled beyond repair, barely able to form words let alone music, could not reach it.
“You’re pretty decent,” said the girl. “I’ll bet you put on quite a few shows in your hometown.”
She was being kind. He was decent, but he had once been peerless. Before, he could have compelled every single tiefling and druid in the grove to dance until their hips sucked loose from their sockets and their knees rattled loose from their hinges. He had played songs that peeled flesh from bones and lured the unlucky into his hateful, feculent embrace—
He covered his face with a hand.
“Are you all right?” asked the girl.
“Yes. I…get overwhelmed sometimes.”
She sat with him in silence, the birds tweeting their song in the tree above them. His hair had been roughly shorn by someone before the nautiloid crash, and the sun burned hot on the scar on his scalp.
“I’m Alfira, by the way,” she said. “I should have introduced myself earlier.”
“I am called Nameless."
“Nameless.” Her smile was more like a grimace this time. His name had a habit of provoking pity in people. “I might be overstepping myself, but would you mind listening to the song I’ve been writing?”
She pulled a second lute into her lap and began singing in a high, tremulous voice. The song was trite and clacked like a wagon with square wheels, but Nameless took up the lute again and helped nudge her towards something approaching harmony. She was weepy and grateful by the end and even told him he could keep the lute.
He considered the instrument in his hands, unsure.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s too great a gift,” he said.
“Not at all,” said Alfira. “Lihala would want her lute to be played. And besides, music has always helped me through my troubles. Maybe it can help you, too.”
Maybe. Playing had cracked open his grief again, but it had also proven that he'd been a real person once—a man who loved music.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “And I’m sorry you’re going through a hard time. You seem kind. Maybe we could play again sometime.”
“I would like that,” said Nameless, and pushed down the urge to wrap her lute’s strings around her neck until she turned a prettier shade of purple.
That night, he dreamed of the harpy.
She soared through the darkness on pale wings, a body clutched in her talons. The body had horns and a tail, but the face was mutilated. Blood dripped from its fingertips down into the void.
The harpy turned to him, and her face was a mirror. He gazed at himself in its reflection, but the man who gazed back was a stranger.
Where am I?
He was down in a cold cellar, unfurling pale ribbons of guts on a table. He dragged a blade over them, cutting away the outer layers of fat and mucosa membrane, The pale remains were then soaked in potash and lye, split into strings, and twisted over and over until they were tight. Days of drying, moistening, drying again, twisting again, then rubbing them down with almond oil to smooth them.
He threaded the strings into a frame he had carved himself from yellow bone. His fingers plucked, conjuring music that was like weeping.
Where am I?
He was playing that same lyre in a temple—the symbol of Gond engraved on every wall. The guards who had rushed to apprehend him were all dancing, their legs flailing and their joints cracking and their bowels emptying as they screamed. They danced until their bodies pulled apart at the seams, and then their legs continued to dance, clopping bloody boot prints on the floor.
Where am I?
He was in a dockside warehouse, plucking the lyre while a dozen Zhentarim flipped their own knives and stabbed themselves in the chest over and over. Beside him, a human man with a shock of black hair smoked a cigar, his own ears filled with beeswax.
Where am I?
He was at an Upper City masquerade, stalking through a crowd of nobles wearing a mask of bone and a cloak of white swan feathers that trailed behind him like wings. He soon found who he was searching for—the man with black hair and cruel eyes who wore a devil’s mask and was entertaining a crowd of laughing, red-faced patriars near the fireplace.
The man excused himself from his admirers and gave him his arm, leading him out onto a balcony above a garden with a hedge maze. A full moon like a bleached skull grinned down at them as they leaned on the railing and whispered together, crickets trilling in the cold grass below.
The man pulled a silver broach from his pocket. Without asking for permission, he pinned it on the breast of the white, feathered cloak, rubbing it with his thumb to give it shine:
A harpy in flight, her talons extended and her mouth open in furious song.
Where am I?
He was plummeting down, down, down through red flesh and twitching purple veins into the bowels of the stinking earth, feathers ripping from his flesh.
Down
Down
Until he slammed on a table. Metal cuffs snapped around his wrists and ankles, his guts spilling out from a surgical seam in his midriff. A woman plucked his innards as if they were strings, and he opened his mouth as she played him, filling the air with his agony.
Nameless woke with a scream.
The muscles of his chest flared with anxiety. It was deep night, and the rest of the camp was still asleep. He crawled out of his bedroll and sat beside the fire, trembling.
Destroyed. The dream had already faded like breath on a mirror, but that was the final message written on the glass. I have been destroyed.
A sob lodged in his throat. He clawed at the fleeting images still echoing down the empty corridors of his mind—his guts on a table, a moon like a skull—but then it was gone. Like everything else in his past, it crumbled to ashes the moment he touched it.
He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers over the thick seam of scar tissue beneath his bristly hair. There had to be a way to get his memories back. There had to be a way to get himself back.
There is, whispered the Voice.
Sweat broke out on his nape. His companions slept peacefully in their tents nearby.
The dream had rubbed its dirty finger along his gums, and now his belly, hollow from days of eating nothing but dried sausage and mealy apples, keened for a heavier meal.
The trembling spread to his hands. Ever since he had woken on the nautiloid, he had been resisting his urges. It was like telling his body not to sneeze, and the burning, itching agony of it was like acid splashed in his blood. Relief was so close, and all he had to do was give in. His mind may have been a smoking ruin, but among the ashes was a foundational cornerstone untouched by fire: it was a pleasure to kill.
Maybe he could have it all back if he just stopped resisting his nature. The source of the amnesia might not even be a result of damage but his own deep denial of self. They were all asleep, like fat biddies in a henhouse, and he was the fox—teeth yellow and sharp.
No, no no no no.
He ground the heels of his hands into his face. If they died, all of their knowledge and skill would die with them, leaving him a tadpoled drow with even less of a prayer of survival than he already had.
Grabbing the neck of the lute, he staggered through the reeds and sat down in the brown sand on the bank of the river. Moonlight licked the surface of the water silver, but underneath it was black, churning with unseen depths.
Control yourself. Swallow it down. Smother it.
His fingers moved clumsily over the strings of the lute. The red ache sharpened, then dulled to a swollen throb. So long as he maintained control, he was safe. So long as he kept his hand tight on the leash of the wolf inside him, he might just survive.
The burble of the river was a peaceful lull. The moon sank slowly until it touched the feathery top of a tamarack pine. Nameless played without knowing what he played. Scraps of songs. Melodies without meaning.
Control.
A bat flickered overhead. Branches creaked in the wind. The moon sank beneath the pines.
Control.
By the time the sky began to lighten like a bruise from black to green to yellow, his fingers were stiff from cold. Nameless let himself slump over the lute. The night had passed bloodlessly.
It was both a relief and a disappointment.