Here it is: the end! Many thanks to those who have read, reviewed, favourited and followed.
Couldn't help but add a few more of the Forgotten Realms details; it's a little abridged in the games sometimes, and the Faerûn setting is so great...
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this final installment, and let me know what you think ;)

Sand had arrived back in Crossroad Keep to the sound of hundreds of voices cheering outside. Kana and Nevalle were rushing to congratulate him and those of his companions who had arrived before him; Nasher even deigned to shake each of their hands. The hall was teeming with those less grievously wounded in the battle, curious faces peering towards the group of newly arrived adventurers who had been summoned forth by Aldanon's spell and were responsible for the ultimate collapse of the army which had beset them.

"The moment the King of Shadows' power was destroyed his army fell to the earth, broken and lifeless!" Kana cried jubilantly, but Sand could only offer a half-smile; his heart was still pounding, his limbs still weak from the shock of what had occurred. He had fully expected to die but moments before…and instead Isaviel had saved him, and in so doing surely doomed herself.

"I see your numbers are fewer than they were when you left," Nasher noted with such well-faked solemnity that Sand almost thought he truly meant his words.

"The lass…she did na' follow us?" Khelgar's expression of joyous relief dropped immediately, "And the Tieflin'…"

"I fear it is so," Sand nodded, trying to fight back the shake in his voice, and the urge to turn and fling a spell in Nasher's face. The lord of Neverwinter might look grave and sympathetic as the happiness of the adventurers sagged before him, but the wizard knew he was secretly relieved, and probably gloating.

"Qara and Ammon Jerro are lost to us as well, it would seem," Casavir noted softly, and Sand could not find it in him to agree so readily, looking about himself and seeing that of those who had joined with Isaviel, only himself, Khelgar, the paladin and Zhjaeve remained.

"Know that although Jerro and Qara are not with us, it is unlikely that they have perished or indeed that they lingered for the collapse of the temple," Zhjaeve commented.

"They were certainly plotting something," Sand murmured, pulling free of the congratulating pats of the gathering soldiers, barely aware of the cheers rising up in the hall as word spread that the King of Shadows had been defeated.

"We share this great loss," Casavir offered, putting a hand on the wizard's shoulder before he could turn to go; when Sand looked around at him sullenly, the paladin's blue eyes were intense and genuine, tears glistening but unshed, "Just as Shandra, Elanee, Grobnar and Neeshka shall be remembered, so shall we honour her…"

"No," Sand denied sharply, pushing the paladin's hand from his shoulder, "I will not assume that she has fallen until I see her body for myself," he turned away to hide his tears, already walking away, "And she led us to this victory – she should be remembered best of all of us, if she must be remembered."

He made a hasty retreat after that, seeking the closest exit out of the bustling hall just as Nasher called for another victory cheer, not wishing to see his gloating lord or his grieving friends. Sand felt rage and grief and…loss. He could not shake the thought from his mind as he moved into the eastern wing of the keep, pushing past hurrying servants and soldiers until he found a set of stairs and climbed until the clatter of hurrying footsteps was just a distant echo. Once he was alone, he could not hold back the tears that stained his cheeks, though he refused to truly weep, still gripping the playing piece Isaviel had given to him tightly in his hand, as if somehow that might will her to safety.

At last he reached the top of the tower stairs, his legs aching horribly after the long, relentless climb, and he pushed through the stiff door ahead of him, stepping out onto the windblown balcony beyond. Heedless of the bitter cold, wincing against the unexpectedly bright daylight and brilliant blue sky arrayed above him, Sand moved to lean against the frozen railing, staring at the carnage below.

The bailey and the field beyond were littered with the broken bodies of the King of Shadows' army; it looked as if they had simply dropped to the snowy earth as soon as his power had dwindled. The Guardian had not been dead when Sand had last seen him, but his astral cord had been broken; apparently that had been enough to force his necromantic influence to fail. He could only hope Isaviel had slain him – somehow he could not imagine anything else. It almost made him smile, but for the thought of the shuddering temple's undoubted collapse, and the Moon Elf trapped within it.

"Without the victory you achieved, we would surely have died here," Daeghun's cool voice sounded unexpectedly by his side, and he turned around with a start to see the Elf surveying the scene below, where the army of Neverwinter cheered amidst the fallen forms of the King of Shadows' forces.

"It was not without cost," Sand responded reflexively, and his grief washed over him unexpectedly. Groaning, he leaned his elbows on the railing before him ad put his head in his hands. To his surprise, he felt Daeghun's hand on his arm and peered past his palm, watching the ranger's solemn expression warily.

"It was not," Daeghun agreed softly, "But she did what she had to, and it was more than could have been asked to do. She chose her course willingly."

"Sentiment at last?" Sand wished he had the heart to smile. Daeghun frowned thoughtfully, pale eyes staring straight south.

"No. Realism," the Elf narrowed his eyes, as if hoping somehow to look all the way to the Mere, "And I doubt very much that she is dead, Sand. You are right to trust her self-preservation, at least."

There were not many sights, even among the endlessly varied population of the Fugue Plain, that could still the prayers of the waiting souls upon its dull grey ground and lead them to stare with such anxious curiosity. It was their reaction which Isaviel noticed first, regaining consciousness to find that she knelt upon a stone bridge at the very front of the innumerable crowd of people, dressed in her monk training robes, unarmed and barefooted, with the still unfamiliar weight of wings on her back. Fearing the faces she might see in the crowd, not ready to meet those enemies she had seen fall and unwilling to accept that any she had cared about might be among the watchers, she turned around. What she saw ahead of her pushed away the disorientation she felt and she leapt to her feet, moving to scramble back until she felt a wall of magical energy blocking her path.

Before Isaviel stood the enormous City of Judgement; just metres away at the other end of that bridge its gates were open, a hundred times larger than Crossroad Keep's and still dwarfed by the gatetower in which they were set. Silhouetted against the broad, eerily empty stone streets was the hunched, black-winged form of Akachi the Betrayer, his head bowed and his back to her. He was groaning dully, as if barely conscious through waves of great pain, but suddenly he gasped, looking about himself frantically moments before a dark mist began to coalesce by his side.

A chill of fear ran through Isaviel as she watched the darkness pull together, shaping itself into an impossibly large man, at least ten feet in height, dressed in heavy black robes. In place of a face, an alabaster-white skull showed beneath his deep hood, and the hands which he reached down to pull Akachi to his feet were utterly without skin or sinew. His eyes, hollow black pits, did not once move to Isaviel, fixed upon Akachi as another, taller form stepped through the gates, out of the city and up onto the bridge to join them.

"Akachi the Betrayer," the second figure stated flatly, his deep voice booming across the stone and filling Isaviel's ears with their noise. Had a bell been rung by her head, she could not have heard it in that moment as this grey-clad man came to face Akachi, his face hidden behind a plain, emotionless mask, "Long have I watched you from my crystal spire, as you stole from souls the hope of awaiting judgement on this Fugue Plain. My predecessors watched you as well; your power was dormant under Cyric, though his love of chaos surely would have put you in his favour. Myrkul before him ordained millennia ago that you would suffer eternally for your betrayal of his authority, but Myrkul is dead, as – at long last – are you."

"Who…are you? How can my former master be dead? My crusade failed! The Wall of the Faithless still stands!" Akachi gestured towards the grey-green wall and its eternally wailing captives. Isaviel had not expected him to sound so sane, or so broken.

"I am Kelemvor, the new overlord of this place, and the one who holds you is Jergal, long ago the predecessor to your own lord, Myrkul. Now he is my chief aid. Much has passed since the curse consumed your mind, using your lingering rage and need for vengeance to power the cruelty it made you commit. Though you do not remember it, your spirit roamed Faerûn for centuries before it was broken up and scattered throughout your relatives. Only now, with Eveshi's daughter, has your soul been reformed, and the creature you had become…slain."

"You cannot condemn me for deeds I do not recall!" Akachi snarled, attempting in vain to pull free from the skeletal grasp of his captor. The grey robed god before him – Kelemvor, god of the dead, ruler of the City of Judgement – did not so much as incline his head.

"In that you are wrong. Your half-truths cannot stand against the mind of a god, Akachi the Betrayer. Though you were maddened by the hunger of the Spirit Eater, it was your conscious decision to kill and devour which allowed you to commit your crimes. By all the laws of the Planescape, you are mine to judge as I see fit."

"And what of Eveshi, my son…and his daughter?" Akachi begged as the skeletal figure – Jergal – led him over the bridge, towards the City of Judgement. Kelemvor did not respond, and Isaviel could not bring herself to speak up. She did not want to see the face of the one she had struggled against for so long.

The Moon Elf watched the god of the dead warily for several long moments of ringing silence, but he only addressed her once the gates of his city had closed behind Akachi and Jergal.

"You chose not to show yourself to him," Kelemvor noted. Pausing, he tilted his masked face as if curious, though his tone remained unemotional, his words less ground-shaking in power than they had been before, "It is your choice."

"Do you intend to drag me away as you did my grandfather? If you can see through Akachi's lies, then you must know that I chose to devour more than one soul myself," Isaviel ventured.

"It is true," Kelemvor agreed, his expression unknowable, his words measured. He did not make a move towards her, and Isaviel took that as a good sign, "But many of those souls you devoured were those of the undead, who have themselves broken every law of life and death. The other which you took was given freely, to forego my judgement. Therefore the crime moved from you to the one who allowed himself to be destroyed by you, the one you called 'Bishop'."

"Then…am I dead?" Isaviel demanded, trying not to choke against the knowledge that Bishop was truly gone. She would not grieve for one who had sought to kill her. She would not. Subconsciously, her hand moved to the scar on her chest, only to feel that in this form at least the skin she felt beneath her tunic was smooth and unblemished. But moments before she had stabbed herself in that very place!

"No, you are not yet dead," Kelemvor told her calmly, and the wave of relief she felt almost sent her to her knees. She had to cover her mouth to hide her laugh of joy.

"Why spare me?"

"As you drove your sword through Akachi and the Guardian, you used the lingering curse to devour the latter's soul. It healed you of your mortal wounds, but Akachi, still lingering in you in a small part, pulled your soul here with his as he died. You are but a sojourner, given a taste of death, but you are not dead. There will be a day in the future when you will come to this plain to meet your own judgement, though if you stay true to your own god it is unlikely that we shall meet again."

The god's words were already fading before he finished speaking, the grey world around her twisting and blurring. There was a moment of blackness, the half-heard calls of someone asking her name, the grinding of stone on stone and the clatter of broken glass. When Isaviel opened her eyes, it was to the distant, endless croaking of frogs and the hazy light of a morning in the Mere. As her eyes slowly adjusted, the low clouds hanging over the swamp were just thin enough to give her a glimpse of the shining wheel of the sun above her. The ground beneath her was soft with thick moss, its slight dampness soaking steadily through her cloak and tunic. Her body was sore from many bruises and cuts and her chest ached most of all, but when she dared to feel for the wounds she had suffered – by her own hand and by Jerro's – there was nothing left of her injuries.

Forcing herself to sit up, the Moon Elf noted with momentary confusion that she had lain upon the ground well away from the spectacularly flattened remains of the temple. Shards of black glass glittered in her cloak, and her two longswords had been lain beside her. Had someone dragged her free of the ruins?

"Isaviel!" a familiar high voice greeted her as one might hail a friend not seen in years, the words pouring out in a frenetically paced stream, "I'm so glad you're awake. And I've never been more glad of your weird…curse, either. When you swallowed up the King of Shadows like that, the blast knocked away all the stone that was falling down on you and shattered the glass above us as well. Thank Tymora I was running to help you when I saw what Jerro did, or I'd be buried under all that rubble…"

Isaviel could not help her grin of relief – to be alive and to see that her friend had survived as well. The hug the Tiefling gave her almost knocked her back to the damp earth, and she was laughing when Neeshka finally pulled back to eye her concernedly.

"You are feeling better, aren't you?" she demanded, unslinging Bishop's bow from her shoulder, pink eyes glittering in unfamiliarly bright in sunshine, "I really am. I never thought I'd get out of Garius's compulsion, but I suppose it shows him for trying to mess with us, right?"

"It does indeed, and it will show Jerro as well when I find him and kill him," Isaviel nodded determinedly.

"Great," Neeshka agreed, standing with Isaviel, handing her the bow, "You know I'm coming with you, right? And here, I am so glad you are feeling better, because there is no way I'm going to be able to hunt us down any food for the journey. I just missed the last five hares…"

Many tendays had passed since the fall of the King of Shadows, and those who had once been united under Isaviel's cause – those who remained at least – had scattered to their separate lives just days after returning, victorious but grieving to Crossroad Keep. Zhjaeve had bid her farewells and returned to her home plane, Khelgar had led his army back to the Ironfist Clanhold and Casavir, as well as Sand, had returned with the rest to Neverwinter.

Aldanon had offered his many books for Sand's free perusal once back in the city, but the wizard had been too numb at heart to do anything but return to his shop and lose himself in restocking his potions and spell components. Casavir had hardly been any comfort, immediately offering his services to Nasher and Nevalle and taking on the mantle of one of the Neverwinter Nine, intent on letting his duty hide his grief. Sand wondered if the paladin would have done that if he had known Nasher had intended to imprison Isaviel on charges of corruption, brawling and murder. Strictly speaking, none of these charges were false, but it hardly seemed fair after all she had done for the Sword Coast.

Daeghun had accompanied him to the city, refusing to enter even to see his half-brother at The Sunken Flagon, but had offered that Sand take Tarmas's place in West Harbour once the town was rebuilt. Once the wizard might have balked at the very thought, but after four months in Neverwinter he was beginning to wonder. The city which had once sheltered him had lost its charm.

At least Duncan had been happy to see Sand, welcoming him with a bearlike hug, and they had shared stories and sorrows, shed tears together and eventually begun to accept their lot. Victory felt so hollow without the true victor's presence, and when no more word was heard after so long it became necessary to believe that Isaviel had indeed been killed. Still, Sand had hardly been surprised when Duncan came to his house one night, grinning like an idiot.

"She's alive, Sand," the barkeeper had promised, and the wizard had looked up quizzically from his books.

"And you know this…how?" he demanded sceptically. The last thing he would have needed was Isaviel's uncle getting some foolish fantasy into his head. He tried to quell the rush of hope that let his heart beat once more. She never loved you, fool. Why do you care?

"Neeshka came t' the Flagon tonight. Her and the lass live alright, wizard, but Isavial can't very well go wanderin' round these street with the threat o' Nasher's justice looming over her head. The Tiefling said ye'd have a book in yer possession…some ancient journal o' Ammon Jerro's, and Isaviel wants it. The pair o' them want ye t' meet them some handsome miles away at the Harvest Inn in Westbridge of all places to give 'em the book. Gods know why…"

Hearing these words, Sand had leapt to his feet, almost knocking his candles over, steadying the table at the last second. She was alive! Neeshka alone could never have known about the book Isaviel had been given by Mephasm, detailing Ammon Jerro's most important discoveries in the time shortly before and after his and Esmerelle's encounter with Eveshi.

Without even offering a word of explanation, Sand had rushed up his stairs, rummaging around in the locked chest of the most precious tomes in his possession. It pleased him that Isaviel had known he would have thought to take the book – only she, Mae'rillar, himself and Mephasm had known it was in her room, and there was no way the Moon Elf had dared return to the keep. At last his hands closed around its battered leather binding and he had pulled it free, turning to share Duncan's broad grin with one of his own.

Some seven days later by horse, Sand arrived at the small, understated town of Westbridge road-weary and mud-spattered. The settlement was smaller even than Port Llast, its main settlement little more than a collection of small shops arrayed opposite each other down the Long Road a day's ride south of Triboar through the late spring rain. The Harvest Inn was easily the largest building in the town, a simple wooden building with three storeys, its lights shimmering through the evening rain, and as Sand stepped through the open doorway it was to the smell of freshly cooked food and the tinkle of some tired looking bard playing a harp by the crackling fire. Several equally bedraggled travellers had chosen to stop for the night given the dreadful weather, and for his part Sand was more than glad that this was as far as his journey would take him.

Nervously, Sand searched the room with his stare, looking at each of the quietly talking travellers gathered around the tables, hoping to see Isaviel or Neeshka waiting for him, smiling. He was disappointed when this was not the case, but was grateful all the same to settle down to food and drink at the bar.

It was an hour before midnight when Sand heard the innkeeper welcoming a pair of travellers into the establishment just before closing the doors. Most of the serving staff had gone to bed, never mind the patrons, but Sand had stayed up, slowly drinking the same class of wine, with just the harpist and a few dozing drunkards for company. He was almost asleep himself when he felt a hand press lightly against his arm and jumped awake, turning sharply in time to see a pair of large golden eyes staring back at him.

"Isaviel!" he cried, embracing her without thinking. He had not seen her looking so well since first he had met her almost a year before, and it was with some surprise as he drew back to look at her that he noticed she no longer bore the scars which had marred her face. She was smiling at him crookedly as she slid onto the seat next to him, with Neeshka waving in greeting from the seat beside hers.

"I truly feared you had died," the wizard admitted, "Though Daeghun never lost hope. How have you been? Both of you. I see you still carry both of your swords." He could not help but nod to the two weapons she had strapped at her hips, their shining blades concealed behind plain black scabbards. Bishop's strange bow was slung across her back, unmistakable with its shimmering string and glowing red jewels.

"Truly? Daeghun is unpredictable, for certain," Isaviel raised a delicate eyebrow and leaned around to share a dismissive laugh with Neeshka as she pushed back her hood, revealing her long midnight blue hair, held back with a simple black ribbon.

As she told him of Ammon Jerro's betrayal, and of her intention to hunt him and Qara down, Sand took in the many changes she had undergone since last he had seen her. Gone was the weariness and the frequent pained winces; gone was that hunted look she had worn whenever Bishop was at odds with her. She carried herself with strength, and a mischievous smile Tarmas had warned him not to be beguiled by all those months ago.

Though Isaviel was not free of scars, the worst ones that had marred her face and her neck were gone. She looked almost her old self, healthy and gracefully formidable, but as she told him of Jerro's betrayal, her fight with the King of Shadows and Akachi, and of her meeting with Kelemvor on the Fugue Plain, he saw the distant thoughtfulness in her eyes. Not even Isaviel, wickedly cunning, self-serving, light-hearted and as beautiful as one who bore the blood of Deva had all the rights to be, could escape all she suffered without losing something.

As the Moon Elf's tale turned to her reunion with Neeshka and their decision to go to Waterdeep to win their fortunes, Sand observed what he had not yet dared do; those details which she carried with her that could tell him the truth of all that had passed since she recovery. She still wore her mother's cloak, embroidered with Myth Drannoran patterning, but the rest of her attire, much like Neeshka's, was entirely new. Sand recognised the hum of enchantment easily, and it took only a moment of incredulous detection to realise that both travellers were covered in magical augmentations. The black leather tunic, smooth and shapely with fine silver trimmings, was particularly familiar.

"You wear the clothes of a Shadow Thief, Isaviel," Sand whispered incredulously, leaning closer, unable to hide his frown when she laughed at his disapproving tone. It was as if nothing had ever happened, as if she had never known he loved her and had never let him into her bed.

"We do, Sand," she admitted after a moment, placing her hand on his arm again and leaning even closer, to whisper in his ear, "But it is just a means to an end. As you can see, our patrons have armed us well for our exploits in Waterdeep. It's fun; I like it. But I want vengeance more, and I want answers even more than that. The only way I can get them is by tracking down Jerro and Qara; for that I'll need the book Mephasm gave to me."

When she drew back from him her eyes were serious, and Neeshka was nodding her agreement. The Moon Elf held out her hand, and Sand pulled the book free from his pack, sighing as he handed it over. A wicked smile flickered across her face as she took it and slipped it into her own backpack immediately. When she turned back to him she leaned closer suddenly and kissed him on the cheek, lingering close enough that he could have turned and pressed his lips to hers. Instead he faltered, and she smiled sadly back at him as if she understood.

"Thank you, Sand," she brushed her hand against his cheek before standing and pulling up her hood, "Please…the others can't know that I'm alive…I can't have Casavir telling Nasher, because you know what will happen then. I can trust you and Duncan can't I? Your help has always been invaluable to me, and I'll write to you about all this one day. But now we cannot stay and I must say goodbye to you…perhaps for good this time."

With one more smile shared with Sand, Isaviel turned and moved away. Neeshka nodded to the wizard once before following, and he could only watch them as they walked out of his life, caught somewhere between pride and anxiety. Most of all, he thought of Ammon Jerro and wondered if the warlock had any idea of what was coming for him.