Your Dark Gospel (Complete)

Chapter Twenty

Elira

Elira and the others found themselves pressed against the unyielding surface of the stone doors that were carved into the mountain, using what little energy they had left to force their way out. It was a long, arduous process that she wasn't sure they could have accomplished were it not for Karlach's brute strength—and the intense desperation to flee the dead city that sent a second wind of adrenaline coursing through their veins.

To say they were exhausted was an understatement.

An icy blast of wind and snow sent them staggering backward when the doors finally surrendered to their siege, exposing them to the frozen hellscape on the other side. Entering it felt like being thrown into a bowl of flour and then tossed around until Elira wouldn't have known up from down were it not for her feet planted firmly on the ground, be it under several feet of fresh powder.

The hand she held out to shield her eyes from the icy assault disappeared in a swirl of white when she extended her arm as far as it would go. And the cold... it was worse than anything they had experienced thus far. It was bone deep and somehow repellent to the magic she cast around them, an attempt to contain the warmth that radiated off of Karlach. Despite the rather dire circumstances, she considered it a good sign—yes, they might freeze to death if they didn't find shelter fast, but at least it meant they were on the right track. Mephistopheles' Citadel had to be nearby for such security measures to be in place. She was certain of it. They just needed the storm to clear enough to actually see the Citadel to find it.

The mountain from which they'd come had all but disappeared the moment they stepped outside, erased by the endless world of white. She wished they could wait out the weather within its confines, but the risk of remaining under the mountain was too great. Between the beast and the hag who hid behind it, they agreed it best to take their chances in the ice-capped wasteland. The idea of dying to the cold was far more agreeable than risking the hag's wrath should she return. Astarion had slipped liquid silver into her wineglass, but hags were tricky creatures—hard to keep down, or so Elira thought. She wasn't really sure. All the more reason to leave.

What a vampire was doing with a vial full of liquid silver was beyond her. It seemed he was... full of surprises, to say the least. Something small and delicate fluttered inside her stomach at the thought of him, an entirely different sensation than the talons and wings she was used to.

No one but Elira had been awake to hear what transpired between Astarion and the hag, to witness the way he used words to save them from a fate worse than death.

The kiss he had planted on her festering mouth.

The memory alone made her want to gag.

She glanced at Astarion, who was trudging through the storm pressed up against her shoulder. The snow had coated his already pale eyelashes, making them appear denser, like the wings of an aasimar, and his red irises cut through those pale wings like specks of blood. But the lines on his face were deeper than usual. He was focused on the body in front of him, lining up his steps with Shadowheart's so as not to fall behind. They kept as close to each other as possible; losing yourself in the unforgiving and brutal storm was certainly a death wish.

The group had agreed to stay near the mountain, but they needed to put a decent amount of distance between themselves and the hag's corpse. However, while Elira didn't know how, it quickly became apparent they would have to make camp soon. Her legs wobbled beneath her like pudding, and each step felt like it would be the last before they entirely gave out. The cold had caused her nose to drip until her skin turned raw and burned cold.