Alone Together - medievalbiscuit09 - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

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The pacing was beginning to distract Gortash. He glances up from his book.

“Lovely as your armor is, I don’t need to hear it clanking about constantly,” he deadpans, shooting an irritated look at the Bhaalspawn.

She stops, thankfully, and stares back. “The sound is not nearly as grating as your silence, lordling.” He wasn’t a lord yet, but he always took that address as a promise he would be.

Gortash pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, sighing. “What would you have me do? Read to you as though you were a child?”

She tilts her head, expression inscrutable as always (strangely, that was the part of her that bothered him most). “That is a start.” She finally sits down, hefting herself onto her chair with a great clangor and sweeping up another scattered document from the table. She reads from it for only a few moments before she speaks again: “you’re ordinarily very talkative. It is rather unsettling when you stop your musing entirely.”

Gortash glances back up at her. The Bhaalspawn is looking at him expectantly. “Very well,” he finally acquiesces, and begins to read aloud.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

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Their first meeting surprised Gortash. From the tales he heard, he’d half expected the Chosen of Bhaal to stride in plastered with gore, eyes glowing red and foaming at the mouth. Inviting her to meet face-to-face was a risk, even by his standards. When she first walked in, he’d assumed she was a passerby who’d miraculously wandered into the wrong place. Her appearance was tidy, her expression calm, and her clothes remarkably unbloodied. Upon further inspection he noticed the dark circles that seemed to bore into her face, a twitch in the corner of her strained lips, and an unmistakable, passing glint in her otherwise dead-still eyes that was anything but sane. Ignoring that, however, she was almost pretty.

Gortash was not a man who frequently found himself surprised, but from then on, she would never stop surprising him.

Chapter 3

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Gortash had begun to notice something strange about the Bhaalspawn. Well, not strange, per say, but surely atypical for a creature conceived by the Lord of Murder himself. Every time he brought out sweets, or left some on the table, her eyes would always linger on them. Every now and then, when she thinks he isn’t paying attention, he glimpses her hand snaking towards the bowl. Eventually Gortash found himself putting out sweets for every one of their shared study sessions, but he never took a single piece. Watching a Bhaalspawn indulge in such treats was far more satisfying than the candy itself.

Chapter 4

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“Lordling?”

“Yes?”

She pauses.

“Something the matter?” Gortash asks again.

“Are you repulsed by me? By my nature, I mean,” she says. If she feels some emotion in that moment, her voice gives nothing away, perfectly even and calm.

Gortash takes a moment to think. He knew a lot of adjectives that described her, but repulsive wasn’t one of them. Who was he to call her repulsive, afterall? They were both monsters in their own right, even if he didn’t have ‘urges’ like hers. They both hurt people. Maybe that was why he liked her (it was hardly worth denying). She was his equal, or at least the closest thing to, she understood what he was, and yet she never seemed to judge him. He’d never had anyone like that. Maybe she was asking because felt the same way about him. Funny how they seemed to become more and more similar to one another with each passing day. But he couldn’t say that. Nor could he simply say ‘no’ and move on. For whatever reason, he sensed his reply would change something between them.

“No more than I am repulsed by myself,” he finally answers. She was clever, she’d figure it out.

She stares at him for a moment, perhaps to gauge whether he’s being honest, then nods and turns away. That answer seemed to satisfy her, or at least send her into contemplation.

In a minute or so she gave her response. “You and I are very alike, are we not?” She framed it as a question, but she stated it as though it were fact.

Gortash smiles, but it wasn’t polite, or threatening, or even smug. It was just a smile. It almost felt unnatural to him. “We are.”

Chapter 5

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It wasn’t long before the Bhaalspawn came to him with another question.

“Are we friends, Gortash?” Her voice cuts through dead silence. But his own name gives Gortash pause. She’d never called him by his name before.

“Do you wish to be friends?” he asks in return. He picks his chalice up off the table, staring into it as he gingerly swirls the red wine inside.

She pauses. “To be friends with someone, truly, is to acknowledge them as your equal, is it not?”

“Some would say that, yes.” It was certainly how he defined it.

“Then it is safe to say I’ve never had any friends,” she says. There’s an edge to her voice with that final word. A bitterness that Gortash can practically taste as if it were his own.

He looks back on his own life. To being sold as a child. To eventually doing the same that was done to him to others. If anyone had tried to be his friend, tried to sway him from becoming what he was now, he hadn’t let them. That part was his entirely own doing, and he was under no illusions that it wasn’t. He knows what he is. “Neither have I,” he replies simply, setting down his wine again.

The Bhaalspawn lets out a single laugh, hollow and brittle and completely devoid of humor. “I suppose even the Chosen of Gods lack for something.”

Gortash nearly wants to laugh too. The Chosen of the Dead Three didn’t have friends. Only supplicants and their God. That had never bothered him before, but she always made him feel bitter. Reminded him of what he lacked. He almost wanted to resent her for it, but he knew he couldn’t.

“Shall we call ourselves friends, then?”

“I would like that." The corners of her mouth quirk up at that, not quite a smile, but close enough. More like a snarl, if he was being honest with himself. Something Gortash had never seen from her. Not that he hadn't seen her smile before, of course. He'd seen her lips contort into something razor-sharp mimicking a smile when she was bathed in blood and her eyes glazed over. When she wasn't herself… whatever that meant when he thought it. He’d grown to prefer her usual demeanor instead, but he didn't dislike this.

But he doesn’t tell her any of that. Instead, he smiles back at her.

Chapter 6

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This time it's Gortash who breaks the silence: "I'm only just realizing I don't know your name."

She looks up at him from her book. “My name?” she asks, bemused.

“You introduced yourself as the Chosen of Bhaal. You didn’t give me a name along with it.”

The Bhaalspawn pauses. “But that is who I am, isn’t it? I am nothing if not my father’s scion.”

“It is a title, not a name. There have been many Chosen of Bhaal, but there is only one of you,” Gortash insists.

“You are correct,” she admits, “I was crafted from Bhaal’s own gore, rather than the product of a union, like most Bhaalspawn. I am designed to rule.”

Gortash frowns. That wasn’t what he meant. “You are more than your sire,” he lets slip, immediately regretting his outburst. It was rare of him to speak so carelessly. Who was he to sit here, a representative of Bane, and tell the Chosen of Bhaal, a Bhaalspawn they were ‘more’ than their God? The only reason they were even sitting here, together, was their service. He didn’t even know what he meant by it, not exactly.

The Bhaalspawn doesn’t respond immediately, but rather sits there, bemused. There was no anger to be found, no contemplation of murder or mutilation. Just confusion, written plainly on her face. He’d noticed her becoming more expressive lately, as they spent more time together. Her eyes grow brighter. Or maybe it wasn’t she that changed, maybe he’d grown adept at interpreting her little mannerisms, or maybe he was deluding himself all together and imagining something that didn't exist. He’d been suffering from quite a few delusions recently.

“What is it you see in me, exactly?” she finally asks, her voice a bit softer than before.

“Cunning,” Gortash says immediately. He’d always admired that quality in her.

“Is my father not cunning?” Despite the nature of the question, she seemed genuinely curious, not offended.

Nonetheless, Gortash considers his next words carefully. "The greatest cunning requires some amount of subtlety. Tact. Cunning as your father and his children are, subtlety is not your temple’s way. That is why they must hide in the shadows. You, however, have mastered subtlety.”

“So, I am not only cunning, but subtle?” she muses. “Is that all?”

“Oh, I've plenty more.”

She waves him on.

“You're controlled, methodical, frighteningly brilliant,” he smirks when he utters the word ‘frighteningly,’ “strategic, excellent at lanceboard, and you’ve even a pleasant sense of humor when the mood suits it.”

She smiles again. Or snarls. For once, he doubts his own judgment on the matter. “That was quite a list. Very complimentary too, I might add.”

He waits, sensing she has something else to add.

“Very few know my name. None use it, not anymore. Not since I joined the temple… It was my destiny, afterall, to be Bhaal’s Chosen, and whatever I was before was simply a means to that end. Not that I was dissatisfied with my station, of course, quite the opposite. I was under no illusion that I was, or could be anything else, or ‘more,’ as you put it…” she trailed off.

“But?” he presses.

“Perhaps it is fitting that you would know it, at least,” she finishes. She snatches a quill from its ink pot, a sheet of paper, and after a few precise slashes with the former, she slides her work to Gortash. He reads it and feels himself grin.

“It suits you.”

Chapter 7

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Gortash was beginning to get impatient. Or unsettled. He wasn’t sure anymore. The only things he's vaguely aware of are his own foot tapping against wooden floors and the unopened door. The Bhaalspawn had never been late to a single appointment, even ones as mundane as study-sessions, of theirs til this very moment. They both despised being kept waiting. Gortash stands up from his seat and walks to the door, deciding to pace the hallways instead, only to swing the door open and find his friend right there, body stiff and chest heaving. She was facing away from him, and Gortash instinctually followed her gaze down to a fresh, gored body. It was only then that he was hit with the coppery scent of blood, and the sight of his blood-soaked ally.

She says nothing, the only acknowledgement of his presence a full-body twitch wracking her body.

“Ah,” is all Gortash utters at first. He recognizes the face twisted in horror as his bodyguard’s. “How unfortunate.”

“My apologies,” she replies flatly. “I blacked out, and…” She gestures down at the deceased.

“Your Urges took over,” Gortash finishes.

The Bhaalspawn nods.

Gortash shrugs. “He was getting complacent. You saved me the effort of firing him, I suppose. Though, I hope you’ll refrain from victimizing my servants in future.”

She doesn’t respond, continuing to gaze down. Gortash can’t tell if she’s still in a trance or appreciating her own work.

He decides to take a risk and rest his hand on her shoulder. He knew instinctively that touching her in that moment was probably no better than trying to pet a rabid bear. There was certainly a good chance his hand would be bitten off.

She starts up badly when she registers what he’d done, drawing up stiffly as though she were a limp puppet and he’d just yanked her strings up sharply, staring at him.

Gortash clears his throat. “Are you quite alright, my friend?”

There’s a long pause.

“Yes, I am.” She watches as he retracts his hand. “Better him than you, I suppose. Killing you now would be a waste.”

Gortash smiles at that. “I’m terribly flattered you consider me worthy of being spared. Or is it our beloved Bhaal who has decreed it?” he jests.

The Bhaalspawn blinks. “Bhaal has never been particularly concerned with the means in which his carnage is wrought. Only that it is.”

“...So, in other words, I’m your means?”

“That is one way of looking at it.”

Gortash laughs and takes a small, faux bow. “I’m honored, dear scion of Bhaal.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but Gortash spies the slightest quirk in the corner of her lips. She clicks her tongue. “Never have I witnessed anyone bow as smugly as you do.”

“I’m afraid I’m out of practice when it comes to proper groveling, my friend.” And if he played his cards right, he’d never do so again. He would never go back there, bloodied face ground into the dirt by a pathetic servant to a devil, screaming as his broken nose is mashed against solid earth.

His ally eyes him with interest. “A shame. I would’ve liked to see it. I imagine the sight would be fascinating.”

If anyone else in Faerun had said that it would have been the last time they wagged their tongue at anyone, but somehow Gortash didn’t mind it from her.

“I’d much prefer the sight of you groveling instead,” he replies, smiling. They slide into a thoughtful silence and Gortash casts another glance at his near-forgotten former bodyguard. He’ll need to get rid of it soon, before it festers, but for now, he’ll leave it be.

Chapter 8

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The Bhaalspawn is scribbling furiously at a scroll the next time Gortash sees her, eyebrows scrunched and eyes moving back and forth rapidly. She’s muttering something under her breath as she does so, and he recognizes it as a prayer.

“Caught in the throes of worship, I see?” he says. He dares not sneak up on his favorite assassin.

She sets down her quill. “My preferred method of worship typically involves more blood.”

“I’m aware. This must be a special occasion.”

She nods, then pauses for a moment, seemingly on the verge of elaborating. “I’m repenting,” she finally says.

Gortash raises a brow. “I can’t imagine what you possibly could have done to warrant repentance. Not creating enough carnage for him?”

She shakes her head. “Not quite. Though I do sense his displeasure. My urges are not as… wedded to my flesh as they have been,” she confesses, seemingly hesitant. Her hand grips the quill tightly, her knuckles paling. “I can say no more on the matter, as per our agreement…” It must be her blackouts, Gortash concludes. She’d been coming to their meeting in a daze increasingly often, hands covered with remnants of hastily washed blood. Perhaps it truly was the doing of her displeased Father. What could have displeased him, however, Gortash didn’t know.

“I understand,” he replies, then adds hastily: “I can assure you; he could find no better assassin to be his Chosen.”

She merely hums in acknowledgement, the indifference betraying any effect Gortash thought his reassurance would have and goes back to her writing. Knowing better than to disturb her any further, he leaves promptly. On his way out, he barely catches her muttering ‘Chosen of Bane’ under her breath.

Chapter 9

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"Lost in thought, are we, my friend?”

The Bhaalspawn glances up at Gortash, chin resting on her fist. “Yes,” she says simply, tilting her head. She knew from their earliest acquaintance that short answers vexed him to no end, watching in silent delight as his eyes narrowed and his brow creased.

“How descriptive,” he deadpans, lifting a document from his desk as if to busy himself. He always tries to shift his attention elsewhere when he’s irritated—he takes a single glance at it before throwing it aside—but he never actually bothers to check whatever it is before he picks it up.

The Bhaalspawn’s eyes follow the paper as it flutters to the ground. “Of all the things you chose to look over, you chose a receipt?”

Gortash very pointedly doesn’t reply, opting to grab an inkpot and quill instead.

"From a tavern, no less?"

Silence. The corners of her mouth curl up. His pettiness always amused her. Even after having perfected that noble bearing and easy smile, he couldn’t shake old habits. Another pretty little crack running through that elegant facade of his, just for her to peer through.

Chapter 10

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The Bhaalspawn struggles to focus on her book. Instead, she watches absently as Gortash rubs an ink-stained hand down the tantalizing column of his neck, sliding just over the pulse, staring down at whatever has finally caught his attention. Her mind drifts again, this time to her hands wrapping around his delicate throat, just high enough to feel the satisfying scrape of unshaven scruff on his jaw against her skin, fingers digging deeper and deeper into the sweet flesh below, until she can feel his quickening heartbeat pounding in her skull, until Enver’s bewildered dark eyes, watery and strained meet hers and she… She pauses. The lordling is staring at her now with narrowed eyes, irritation melting away into curiosity.

“That’s quite the predatory look in your eyes,” he muses.

The Bhaalspawn blinks. “My apologies. My mind has been wandering… often, lately.”

Gortash grins. “That is quite unnecessary. It’s not as though you’ve acted on any of your fantasies with me…” He pauses, briefly, scrutinizing her. “How about… you make up for it by sharing these thoughts of yours.”

She frowns. “I was under the impression that you didn’t revel in such things.”

“Not always, perhaps, but I am ever the open-minded man,” he replies. “Indulge me.”

She stares at him, waiting for him to falter, but he continues to smile. She finally sighs, and relents: “if you insist… I imagined my hands twining around your neck…” she trails off, bringing her limp hands forward to impulsively mime the action.

Gortash watches with interest, nodding for her to continue.

She curls her fingers, staring at the space between her hands, nearly expecting a neck to appear. “I’d squeeze gently, at first, to savor that first jump of your pulse, the rush of warm blood through your fragile veins, your breath hitching as you realized what I was doing…” She glances up at him briefly, noticing his slightly widened eyes, and the smallest quirk of his lip. His pupils are dilated, and his breath has just barely quickened. He’s enjoying this, she realizes and shivers with a strange, gnawing feeling.

“Go on,” he says, his voice almost unsettlingly calm.

The Bhaalspawn continues on, listing every morbid detail to match his equally morbid curiosity, watching as he slowly traces his own finger over his jaw, then his pulse. She can’t tell if he’s doing it intentionally or not. When she finally finishes, she stiffens. She hasn’t stiffened like since she was a child receiving a scolding, long before she'd ever entered the the temple. And before the Chosen of Bane, of all people. Since when has she cared about his opinion of her…?

Gortash leans forward in his seat, an easy smile spreading across his face. “I always forget how poetic your murderous musings are… I’m almost tempted to let you rip my throat out just to experience your vision.” He barks a laugh.

“Unfortunately, that throat of yours needs to stay intact.” The Bhaalspawn clears her throat, rising from her own chair. “We should speak no further of the matter—”

“Why not?” Gortash interjects. “I’d like to continue discussing it.”

“I only have so much self control,” she says dryly.

“You've more than enough. Besides, didn’t you say it would be a ‘waste’ to kill me?”

“That will hardly matter when I’ve lost control of my faculties entirely."

Gortash rises from his seat slowly, clasping his hands behind his back. He takes a step forward, carefully shifting all his weight on one foot, then gliding forward. It was slow, almost predatory, as if to not scare her, or perhaps to save his own skin. If she had to guess, he’d considered both possibilities.

“I’m fairly certain you can touch my neck without goring me at the very least, can’t you?” He tilts his head, baring his throat in a wordless offer.

She frowns. “Is that an invitation?”

“Only if you plan on accepting it," he replies, amused.

"Why?"

He cants his head. "Why not?"

There's a pause. Gortash takes another measured step. She could reach out and touch him now, if she wanted to.

The Bhaalspawn stares him in directly in the face, eyes narrowing. "What is this, Gortash? What are you trying to do?"

"I don't know," he admits more softly. "Carrying out an experiment, perhaps."

"What? To see if I will rip out your throat?" She shakes her head, "you already have your conclusion."

"No."

"No?"

"No," he finishes.

"Would you care to elaborate?"

He pauses for a moment, then grins. "No, not particularly. I think I'll take a leaf out of your book today. So, what do you say?" He unclasps his hands and brings one forward, offering it to her.

The Bhaalspawn hesitates for a moment, glancing back and forth between him and his extended hand.

"Indulge me?" The question is gentle, almost pleading, juxtaposed with his usual demeanor. How could she ever hope to resist that?

She finally sighs and reaches forward. "Very well."

His smile widens, and he carefully draws her hands to his neck in turn.

She swallows as soon as her fingers connect with his skin. The first thing she feels is his throat working beneath her touch. In the corner of her eye she sees his mouth twitch. She gingerly slides the palms of her hands over his stubbled jaw, savoring the friction, then trails back down. Her blood, her very flesh urges her to dig her claws into the meat below, to watch his blood flow in rivulets down his exposed chest, but she restrains herself. The temptation is almost as intoxicating at the sensation of Gortash's warm, living skin beneath her fingers. The Bhaalspawn is barely cognizant of what she is doing until she's retracted from him entirely, hands twitching around nothing at her sides.

Enver is staring at her with an expression she's never seen before from him.

"You're quiet. It's unsettling," she finally mutters.

"I know," he replies, a bit breathlessly.

Silence. The Bhaalspawn searches his eyes for a moment, but finds no answers. She turns around and leaves quietly.

Chapter 11

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Gortash is a man of few regrets. With a history as fraught as his, it makes no sense to dwell on the past. He holds grudges, sure, the punishment for slighting him swift and merciless, but his intention was always to move ever forward, no matter what. Anyone or anything that stood in his way would inevitably be crushed in his campaign. He's making the world anew, afterall. Who would care that he dropped a few dozen eggs in the process if he still crafted an impeccable omelet in the end? For him, it was simple: such was the way of the world, regardless of whether he sought to deny it or not.

But she was never an egg to be broken.

Or rather, not something he could break, discard, or take for himself. Gortash isn’t sure when the reasoning behind such a statement switched from her ties to Bhaal, to his own illogical reluctance to do so.

He never had a friend. He never thought he wanted one. Now, he didn’t want to give his only one up.

She would probably laugh (or at least pull that snarl of hers) if he told her. What did it matter in their circ*mstances? She is forever beholden to Bhaal, and him to Bane. These sentiments of his are nothing but ephemera. As irrelevant as dust. She would’ve told him as much. And yet he still can’t rid himself of it.

Gortash sighs, casting a glance towards the corner of his office his companion frequently occupied. Papers, along with a few books she’d pulled from his shelves, were scattered all around it, in the strange pattern that was distinctively her doing, some of which were encrusted in blood and other mysterious fluids (he’d stopped asking a long time ago). The arm rests of the chair she favored were scratched and mutilated to an obsessive degree, long jagged lines running along the length of the wood and exposed splinters. A habit that he’d noticed worsening over time.

Her presence lingers everywhere. In scuffs on the floor where she liked to pace til it drove him insane, the stained floorboards in the hall, even the stupid receipt she’d ridiculed him for using to ignore her was still sitting on the floor. It was both a comfort and a constant source of agony. He hasn’t seen her for days, a consequence of their increasingly diverging schedules, though he imagined it was for the best.

He had, and still has no idea what to say to her after their last meeting. It seems he’d temporarily lost all his senses, all but begging her to strangle him. He was putting the dagger to his own throat, literally and figuratively, not to mention complicating their alliance further than he’d thought possible. All he knew in that moment, all he could think about was her touch. To the extent he would’ve let her brutalize him if she promised to do so with her bare hands. It was pathetic. Beyond pathetic. Even more pathetic was the fact that he’d beg her to do it again if he could.

He’d been touched plenty of times, sure, by all sorts. From servants to the House of Hope's beatings, to shaking the calloused hands of dock workers, to coquettish brushes against his arm from flirty nobility. Some were more pleasant than others, but all had been an exchange, in one way or another. His friend's touch, however, was different. If Gortash didn’t know any better, he’d assume from that single interaction that he’d never been touched before in his life. Her fingers were cold, rough from numerous scars, and practically weapons, from the ways in which they’d been applied over the years, and yet he could feel them trembling as they ghosted over his skin, the press of her fingertips intoxicating over his pulse...

He loses his train of thought as he suddenly pauses and instinctually reaches up to feel his own cheek. Warm. He’s flushing. He darts up from his seat abruptly, his chair screeching and a few papers flying as he does so and grips the table with pale knuckles. What, in the name of Bane, is wrong with him? He scrubs one hand over his face furiously, then settles for running it through his tousled hair when it has no effect. He’s exasperated at his wit’s end, completely and utterly.

And yet, he is completely aware that he didn’t regret it one bit, even if it meant prostrating himself before Bhaal’s Chosen. What he may regret however, was her reaction.

The sight is practically burned into his eyes. Her body stiff, stiffer than he’d ever seen it, and an expression like bewilderment written plainly on her ordinarily blank face. And then there was the briefest flash of fear in her eyes. Of him or of Bhaal, he’d no clue, only that it was a first to see it from her. Stupidly, he can’t remember what she’d said to him, or his reply, only that she’d left without another word. Part of him is pleased he'd had such a strong effect on her, another part screamed that she’d lost any respect she may have had for him before.

Gortash lets out another sigh, slowly lowering himself back onto his chair. This was something only their next meeting could possibly clear up.

In the end, if he did truly regret anything, it would be driving his only friend away.

Chapter 12

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The Bhaalspawn is on time for their next meeting, perfectly on the dot. Gortash rises from his chair a little too eagerly to greet them, before clearing his throat and looking away.

“Gortash,” she greets him calmly.

Gortash swallows, urging himself to stay composed. He nods in return, then gestures towards the seat beside him. “Come, I’ve a weapons’ schematic I suspect you’d like to review.”

Wordlessly, she walks over to him, and as she does so Gortash catches a glance of a familiar parchment stuffed in one of her pockets. Her prayer of forgiveness. He glances away quickly, but her eyes are already following his. She stops and tips her chin towards the parchment, a tacit understanding forming between them.

“You recognize it,” she states coolly.

“I do.”

“It is a prayer.”

“I know.”

She eyes him for a long moment.

“I believe it was our agreement to not interfere in matters concerning our respective gods,” Gortash says.

She scrutinizes him once more, brows furrowing slightly. Her expression gives vexingly few clues as to what is running through her head in that moment.

“It was,” is all she says in acknowledgement, then takes a few more steps towards him and bends over the aforementioned schematic. Gortash moves in closer as well, almost unconsciously, as he leans over the table as well.

She scans over the document with her usual efficiency, occasionally pointing out a flaw or asking for clarification on the subject. Gortash answers each inquiry with ease, until he spots something odd. Her fingers are gliding gently over the etched lines, just like... She steals a furtive glance in his direction.

She's testing him.

Gortash smiles, truly smiles. He moves in slightly closer, until there’s mere centimeters separating them. He catches just the slightest shiver from her, but she doesn’t attempt to move away.

She mutters something under her breath, just beyond the cusp of hearing; something likely not meant for him. A prayer.

The truth finally washes over Gortash in that moment, like the gush of warm blood following a well-placed knife: her prayer involved him. She had left that day not because of him, but because of Bhaal. Not because of him… He’s far too relieved to question why he feels it so strongly. In reality, that epiphany only spawned more questions, but those could be posed later. He leans just a hair closer, enough to brush his arm against hers as he makes to point at some part of the schematic.

Chapter 13

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“You look tired.”

Gortash’s gaze settles on his friend. Her eyes are still trained on her book.

“The hour is late,” he admits, “but that’s of little consequence when there’s work to be done.”

She looks up at him and cants her head. “You haven’t slept in days, have you? You’ve been staring at that page for 3 minutes straight.”

Gortash pauses, then sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It seems I haven’t.”

“You’ll get nothing done at this rate.”

He hums in agreement, the sound throaty and broken, but doesn’t move.

“Go. I’ll take care of this,” she says nonchalantly, reaching out and sliding his work away. Her knuckle ever so slightly grazes his thumb as she does so.

Gortash stares at the document for a moment, as if to protest, but he’s too defeated. “If you insist… Just a few hours. Then wake me up.” He lingers on the last syllable for a moment, an unspoken thank you wavering in the air. Then he stands and walks limply to his bedroom.

As soon as he enters the room, Gortash is reminded of why he virtually never uses it. The air within it is stale, dust coats every surface that can possibly catch it, and books and papers are piled everywhere. Decor is scarce and the few furnishings that do exist can only be described as pragmatic. His bed is equally unwelcoming, the sheet horribly askew and creased beyond all reason. He stares at it for a moment, unmoving and blinking slowly.

He glances down at his gauntlet. There is the vague instinct floating in his mind to remove them, but his fingers only hover over the snaps.

A familiar thought, like an old friend crosses his mind: he’s never immune to danger, not even in his bedroom. A weapon, even if it were simply a pair of sharp metallic nails, would always come in handy. His hands fall limply to his slides. Years on the streets did that to a person, he supposed. He opts, instead, to simply discard his shoes and jacket, haphazardly tossing them onto a nearby chair, then throws himself into his bed. He attempts to wrestle with the sheets for a moment to make himself more comfortable, but quickly relents and drifts off into oblivion.

The Bhaalspawn, meanwhile, works through the various documents scattered on their shared table in silence. She continues on for an hour or so, until she catches a strange choked noise from down the hall. A potential threat? She’s quick to remember that none of Gortash’s bodyguards were present. The Bhaalspawn rises from her chair. Then she hears the faintest sound akin to fabric ripping, and within seconds she’s flinging Gortash’s door open, only to realize that Gortash was alone. Her ever-confident ally was half-curled up into a fetal position in bed, still asleep. Upon closer inspection, he’s writhing and muttering something she can’t make out. His forehead is drenched in sweat and his face is scrunched in consternation. A nightmare, she concludes.

She can’t help but marvel for a moment at the sight. Her dear friend was so vulnerable. She could easily trace her dagger, featherlight, over his chest and drag up pearls of his crimson, more beautiful on his tanned skin than the finest filigrees. She could plunge her fist into his chest and trace every naked rib, savor the burn of his searing-hot viscera as it clings to her skin, and feel his heart quiver and jump under her merciless grip. She takes a sharp breath, then decides to wake him.

When the Bhaalspawn reaches out to rouse him from his sleep, he starts badly. He jolts up suddenly, pressing his back against the wall connected to his bed, and stares at her with wide, animated eyes. She doesn’t move.

“Ah. It’s just you,” Gortash breathes, his voice hoarse. His whole body seems to relax when he sees her. An absurd thing, but something she couldn’t bring herself to dislike. Fear was becoming banal to her. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly, but his clenched hands go limp. The smell of blood wafts over to her. She catches the glint of fresh blood on his palms.

“You’re wounded.”

Gortash’s eyes fall apathetically to his hands. “It seems I am,” he replies flatly.

“You’re still wearing your gauntlets,” she observes. There’s a silent question attached to it.

“I am. I suppose I clenched my fists too tightly.”

She casts him an unimpressed look. “That much is evident. Why are you wearing them in bed?”

He’s tired, too tired to care about preserving any kind of mystery, so he tells the truth: “Well, you never know when someone’s going to come and try to drag you down to the Hells…” he rasps sardonically, leaning his head against the wall behind him.

His words linger in the silent room for a long moment.

“I understand,” is all she says.

He frowns. “I won’t have pity,” he snaps, but there’s no venom behind it, only exhaustion. “Not yours, not anyone’s.”

“I’m not offering it.”

His expression softens, and he exhales. “I’ve had far worse,” he adds, tipping his chin towards his hand. "This is hardly worth wasting your breath over."

"I've nothing better to do, have I?"

He laughs. "Oh, I don't know about that. You've got that look in your eyes again. I'm sure you've something better in mind right now, don't you? Why don't you act on it?"

"You know exactly why."

"Do I? Perhaps another wound will take my mind off of this."

"I can do far worse than simply wound you, lordling," she chides him.

"Oh, you're no fun after sundown. Even your lectures are usually better than this."

She rolls her eyes. "And you're typically smarter than this. Or at the very least far more clever in how you go about your pettiness."

"Ah, you wound me, my friend." He leans forward. "And not in the ways that I would prefer," he jests.

She elects to not respond to that.

Gortash waits a moment, before he tilts his head and slowly extends his hand.

She stares at it, then back up at him questioningly.

"Give me your hand. Or tear mine off, whatever you prefer. Just touch me," he rasps.

She narrows her eyes, then slowly reaches forward before unclasping his gauntlet. The metal clinks and she lets it fall onto the bed with a muted thump. Then she places her hand in his.

"I suspect you haven't a death wish, but I can't promise anything," she warns.

"I don't want you to," is his reply as he draws her closer, "but if you have to kill me, do it tenderly. That's all I ask."

She doesn't reply, only stares at him with that same almost unreadable expression. The kind you'd expect to see on a God surveying the world beneath it. Gortash thinks he's beginning to peer through it, though.

"You're quite indulgent," he whispers, almost a chide if it weren't so soft.

She glances away from him, her mouth forming a thin line and her cheeks tensing.

"I'm not immune to such temptations… Though perhaps I should be."

"Well, compared to the atrocities we've both committed, this is a rather inconsequential thing to succumb to, isn't it?" He knows it isn't, and he knows exactly why, but he doesn't want to speak the thought into existence.

The corners of her mouth curl up, and she meets his gaze again. "You make everything sound so logical, even when it isn't…"

He draws her hand towards him again, this time close enough to brush against his cheek. He's too tired to care if it's a deathwish.

"Don't leave. Not again," he orders with all the firmness he can muster. Her eyes soften, and in response she gingerly drags her knuckles over his cheek. Gortash's grip loosens, and he sees the droplets of his blood staining her hand. His friend's nose twitches, but she says nothing.

She pushes a few locks of mussed hair from his face and he closes his eyes.

"Go back to sleep. I'll stand guard," she says.

Gortash almost asks why, but then remembers what he'd said and simply says, "I would like that."

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

When morning arrives, the first thing Gortash feels is the sun shining on his face. He slowly comes to, the world around him still hazy. He sits up slowly, the blanket he didn't know was covering him sliding down as he did so. The Banite glances around the room, his mind clearer than it had been in months, and sees a similar figure in the corner. To his surprise, his friend hasn't left yet. She's kneeling, muttering what he assumes to be a prayer under her breath, then suddenly stills.

She rises slowly and turns to face him. "Sleep well?"

"Spectacularly," Gortash replies, smiling. His sleep was perfectly dreamless. He felt content. Secure, even.

"Good," she nods. She stares at him a moment, seemingly preoccupied.

Gortash stares back, then speaks again: "I must admit, I'm surprised you're still here."

"I'm not in the habit of breaking promises."

"I know. I always appreciated that about you."

A comfort silence stretches in the room.

As he adjusts to the light filled room, he finally sees his companion proper. She's standing by the window, one that wasn't open when he'd gone to bed, bathed in warm light. Her clothes are wrinkled, and her eyes are ever so slightly glazed over.

"Did you not rest?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "I could not."

He frowns, then catches sight of the deep nail marks on her arms blooming into deep purple bruises. His companion noticed him doing so, surveying the injuries herself apathetically.

"I've yet to placate my urges," she states, "I would not have them take over in my sleep." The implication is clear: she did all this just so he could sleep comfortably.

Gortash practically stops breathing as soon as he hears that. He isn't certain if he's flattered by the effort, or wanting to chastise her for her lack of sense, or both. Regardless, she'd nothing to gain by keeping to her word. He wasn't certain anyone had ever done that for him, when he held no pretense or facade or anything of value, without some ulterior motive. No, he was most definitely flattered by the gesture. Even more than simply flattered.

"Thank you," he says softly.

She simply nods in return, smiling weakly. "Now that you're awake, I must be leaving. I've obligations to which I must attend."

"Ah. Of course." He slides his legs over the edge of his bed, about to get up, until she raises a hand to stop him.

"I can see myself out," she says. "Rest." She leaves shortly after, looking back at him one more time before she shuts the door.

Gortash stares into space for a moment, lost in thought, then he glances down at his hands. They're neatly bandaged, the wounds hardly stinging whatsoever. He looks over to the table in the room's corner and sees his gauntlets resting on a table, all but forgotten until that very moment. Gortash buries his face in his hands, unable to restrain a smile. He was beyond pathetic, but for once he couldn't bring himself to mind it.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

The tiefling’s eyes were beginning to glaze over, his body stilling. The Bhaalspawn plunges her dagger into his heart again, and again, and again, until the corpse has gone cold and his torso disfigured into a gaping red cavity. She slowly rises, and stands over her offering. She feels nothing as she stares at it. No sated shiver, no euphoria, no fulfillment; her flesh still cries for more bloodshed.

“Father is displeased…” she murmurs into the empty alleyway. She’d given him pure murder, exactly as he wished, and yet he demanded more and more. She had set her daggers to the streets just for him, plotted with a Banite just for him, and it wasn’t enough.

“He means nothing,” she whispers, “when the time comes, I’ll sacrifice his life on your altar, I swear. I will raze this world in your name, and when I am the last living soul standing over the smoking ruins, I will dedicate my own death to you.”

Nothing changes. She sighs. Her Father was never one for patience, so she would simply have to be patient for him. She wasn’t blind to what was unfolding in her own temple. That child was being primed to take her place. No doubt assuming that she had no clue. Orin was no more subtle than that pathetic Sarevok, smirking in her direction whenever possible, littering the temple with more and more of her convoluted shrines, leaving the scraps detailing her 'plot' over her chambers. Did she think she wouldn't notice? She could practically smell forment in the air. Bhaal had been abnormally silent as well. Perhaps he was grooming Orin to challenge her. It was certainly like him to pit his children against each other. There hadn't been anyone to challenge her properly in quite a while.

Regardless, she wouldn't be caught off guard. Waste of energy as it was, nuisances have to be dealt with. Gortash, even in his limited knowledge, wasn't wrong about her temple lacking subtlety.

She pauses. Her thoughts wander to their last meeting. To winding bandages carefully over his wounds, to watching over his sleeping form. She rarely cared for anything in such a manner, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave either. She never could help herself around him. And his expression when he thanked her the next morning… Her urges tell her that it’ll make his death all the sweeter a tragedy, killed by a person he’d trusted in such a manner. That Bhaal would appreciate her masterpiece.

But she was also not wholly lacking in self-awareness. Coupled with every instinct that screamed for her to spill his blood was one of equal, if not greater strength to keep him alive and safe. No temporary ecstasy could ever truly replace the comfort of being understood, of being accepted and seen beyond just the bloody ideal they’re held up to. She was someone else, perhaps the most herself she'd ever been when they were alone together. She'd long begun to look forward to their meetings.

She wanted to hear his laugh when he was amused by something she'd said, watch him pout like a child when he couldn't get what he wanted, then see his eyes light up as he devised a way to take it, see him hang onto her every word when she made suggestions; she wanted to run her fingertips over his living skin... Even so, she wouldn’t betray Bhaal. She belonged to him, afterall, not to herself. Nothing would change that. Still, she would keep her friend alive til the very end, then kill him as tenderly as she could, just as he wanted. Then she would plunge her happy dagger deep into her own throat, before his body grew cold. She couldn’t be with him, but she could at least take solace in their corpses rotting together for an eternity. That alone would be hers.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Their next meeting is unassuming, at first. Aside from the Bhaalspawn gritting her teeth a little more than normal, they deal with their reports and various documents in short order. By the time they’re finished and meant to be parting, Gortash stops his companion.

“I’ve a more personal matter I’d like to discuss,” he states.

She pauses. “You have my attention.”

He tilts his head. “I must ask first that you allow me to finish my proposal, before you answer.” His tone is controlled, measured, as if he were speaking to an acquaintance. She frowns.

“Very well,” she agrees, crossing her arms.

He nods in response. “I am, as we both know, beholden to Bane,” he begins. “I always assumed without his intervention, I would still be stuck in the House of Hope or on the streets, and for that reason I worshiped him. But now, I’ve the means to take power for myself.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, not totally surprised by the sentiment. He was never fond of being under anyone's thumb, mortal or immortal.

“Allow me to be blunt: I would have you as my ally regardless of whether or not you were Bhaal’s Chosen. And it is by no means my place to say this, but you don’t need your Father or your temple. No more than I need Bane.”

At that, she freezes and her eyes widen perceptibly.

“We could rule together, you know,” he murmurs, taking one step closer to her. “It won’t be long until Ketheric betrays us of his own volition. Afterall, we’re both aware that a brittle alliance can only ever break, and he’s never been a patient one. We would only have to wait so long, take his Netherstone, and rise over Toril like a roaring sun, just you and I. No Bane, no Bhaal. We would be utterly unstoppable. Gods with a thousand kingdoms at our command.” She pictures it for a moment: a world that is not a smoldering ruin where she cradles her only friend in her arms as he dies, but one where they stand atop a great empire together, beholden to no one but themselves, with legions of faithful at their beck and call.

She stares at him in astonishment, before letting out an incredulous laugh. “I’m shocked your Lord has done nothing to deter this ambition of yours thus far.”

Gortash all but shrugs in response, his expression unchanging. “Bane cares little about means. Only that power is achieved in the end. Whether I falter or not will be irrelevant so long as my success is guaranteed. By the time he takes notice, or cares to act, we’ll be gods in our own right: we shall be completely untouchable.”

She pauses. “Why ask me? Couldn’t you simply abandon Bane of your own accord? Better yet, you could betray me and take everything for yourself.”

Gortash takes another step, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t understand do you? I would only abandon Bane if you wished for it.”

She blinks.

“I’ve no reason to do so now. My arrangement with Bane has been nothing but beneficial to me thus far. I would shed these bindings only if it would fortify our alliance.” Another step. Gortash had gotten close enough for either of them to be able to reach out and touch the other, if they wished.

“I needn’t tell you how Bhaal would react to my betrayal,” she says flatly.

“That’s not your qualm, it is Bhaal’s. Tell me what it is you want,” Gortash replies simply, leaning forward.

She takes a breath. “What I want?”

“Yes.” He confirms it as if it were the simplest matter in the world.

That gives her pause, and she stares down at the floor for a long moment. It was rare that anyone genuinely asked her that, beyond what weapon she would make best use of or what skull to keep in her chambers. “Thinking and acting independently of my very own flesh? My nature?” She trails off for a moment, considering her next words carefully: “Even if I wanted to separate myself from Bhaal, where would I begin?”

“To be entirely honest, I haven’t the foggiest clue, my friend. But I always admired your mastery over your urges. I’ve every faith in your ability to triumph over your Urges; through sheer force of will, if necessary.”

“I…” She’s at a loss. “Gortash—” she starts but is stopped by her ally with the raise of a hand.

“Enver,” he interjects.

She stares at him again, then shakes her head. “Enver—” He smiles at the sound of his own name, apparently content with himself. “You…" For once, she'd had no idea what to say to him. Not a chide, not a jest, nor a jab, nothing. He was telling her he was willing to forsake his god so they could rule together, alone, and she couldn't help but believe his every word.

"Is that a yes?" he asks quietly, his eyes sliding over to meet hers. She simultaneously realizes he had barely looked at her for the duration of their exchange, and the reason why he hadn’t. In stark contrast to his easy tone, there was a softer, more uncertain quality to his eyes. Did he expect her to refuse him? He rarely took uncalculated risks such as this. And yet he did so, just to fortify an already existing alliance? She wants to ask why, but she suspects it will only raise more questions.

“Let me consider it,” she finally replies. It’s not a no.

He nods carefully, seemingly pleased, or relieved. “Please do,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. He shows her out with a lingering look and a brush of his hand against her arm, and the Bhaalspawn notices in that final moment that he isn’t wearing his gauntlets.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Gortash fancied himself a man in full control of himself. But that was all it was: a fancy. He could barely keep a straight face around his favorite assassin anymore. Every time she so much as rapped a knuckle against the table, he was reminded of how she’d dragged them ever-so gently over his cheek; a single look could nearly bring him to heel. This was no way for a tyrant to behave, and yet even the rushes of humiliation tasted sweet on his tongue. She had cared for him. Cared. He couldn’t get enough of that concept. The word formed strangely on his lips, foreign, but it was pleasant. Parts of himself, yearnings he’d long assumed dead were stirring a violent whirlwind of emotion.

He may have been a lot of things, but he wasn’t a fool. He was in love with the Bhaalspawn. In love. That felt even stranger to think, let alone say. Gortash wonders if he’d ever felt it before. All he could remember from those he should have loved and been loved by in return is bitterness, anguish, and betrayal. Exchanges. That had been the extent of such things. Nothing was given to him without an expectation of returns. He’d accepted that lot in life with open arms long ago. And yet, she’d cared for him, indulged him, comforted him without a second thought or so much as another mention, or even a suggestive glance. A Bhaalspawn, supposedly fit only for murder, if tales were to be believed.

But all he felt with her was pure warmth.

Her mere presence gave him enough of it at first, her small habits and few sounds making even the emptiest rooms pleasant. Then she’d touched his skin properly for the first time, and he became utterly intoxicated by it. It was like an addiction, despite the fact he’d never so much as touched any substances. When he couldn’t take it anymore he’d made her say his name. Not the name that had become his ostensible title, but simply Enver, and afterwards he’d questioned how he’d survived so long without hearing it from her lips.

He wanted nothing more than to feel her again, to take her into his arms and never let go, Bane and Bhaal and Elder Brain be damned. She could rip and tear at his flesh with her teeth, and he wouldn’t let her go. He was hers entirely.

But she was not his. She couldn’t be, not unless she rid herself of Bhaal and those urges that clawed at and cloyed her day and night. He was not such a fool as to not see that she cared for him in some capacity, but to give up her God, everything she’d ever known for him went beyond simply caring. She hadn’t rejected the idea outright, though. That gave him hope, agonizing and euphoric all at once.

It was all so dizzying, even the world around him felt as though it were hazy, fraying around the edges. By the time he’d met again with his Bhaalspawn, his vision had narrowed to pinhole, the world around him thick and slow like dripping honey. Her eyes, her lovely, lovely hard eyes had simultaneously widened and softened the moment she laid eyes upon him. He’d no idea what expression he was wearing at that moment, only that it had made her approach him with haste, just feet away before his reality faded to black entirely.

When he wakes again, he is staring at the ceiling of his bed’s canopy. Everything is hot and stifling and humid and suffocating, and for a moment Gortash thinks he’s been transported back to the Hells, until he hears a familiar voice call out to him.

“Enver!” the voice pulls him back to reality. He turns towards it, pleasantly surprised to see his favorite assassin there. She is standing over him, her face more expressive than he’d perhaps ever seen it, twisted with worry. He stares wordlessly at her, grinning widely as she fusses over him, her words drowned out by a ringing in his ears. She reaches a hand towards him, for what purpose Gortash doesn’t particularly care, as he takes the opportunity to seize her wrist. He draws her hand to his cheek, her skin pleasantly cool against it. Bemused, she stares down at him, but she doesn’t retract her hand. Instead, she skates her thumb lightly over his cheek, the concern in her eyes deepening. Gortash would sympathize with her if weren’t so satisfied with his current predicament.

Gortash had always utterly despised being sick. It typically rendered him completely unable to work, or only able to do so in a very limited capacity, but worst of all made him weak. Vulnerable. He’d nearly died on the streets because of it a lifetime ago, robbed by the other children when they realized he was incapacitated and left without money for food for weeks. It was miserable, and it was something he had always endured alone, even well before his parents had sold him.

But this isn’t so bad, he thinks to himself, watching as his companion stretches her other hand to rest over his forehead. He leans into the touch eagerly, his eyes fluttering shut under the sensation. He can feel the slightest tremor in her hands when he does so, savoring the effect he has on her. Maybe there was hope for him persuading her yet. But for now, he’d take whatever audacity he could muster in his muddled state, turning his head just far enough to brush his rough, dried lips against the hand resting on his cheek, staring up at her with coquettish, fevered eyes.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

It was nighttime when Gortash regained some semblance of lucidity. There’s a wet rag over his forehead, pleasingly cool. When he turns his head, he sees his companion pacing back and forth erratically in the center of the room.

“You’ll wear down my floors at this rate,” he croaks, cracking a smile.

Her head snaps in his direction, and she rushes over to him. “The first half-lucid thing to come out of your mouth in hours, and it’s about your floors,” she tries to jest, but the concern in her tone is evident. Gortash finds it beyond satisfying.

“What can I say? I’m forever a pragmatist,” he laughs.

She rolls her eyes, the corners of her mouth curling up, then leans over to brush her hand over his cheek. “Still hot,” she mutters.

“Is that a compliment I hear?”

She casts him an unimpressed look.

"You're not denying it," he grins.

"I've seen worse."

"Oh, you wound me. I know you've seen all manner of horrors."

“You’re a horror yourself, in a manner of speaking, just not of the entirely unpleasant variety.”

"How very cryptic. And vaguely offensive.”

“Would you prefer empty flattery?”

He feels his mouth twitch. “I wouldn’t dissuade you from trying it."

She entertains the prospect, then hums. She tilts her head, her hand trailing ever so slightly lower. “How about this: you have a very pretty neck.”

Gortash purses his lips. “I would be very disappointed if you considered that empty flattery. I recall you being rather fond of my neck.”

“I suppose…” She trails off, considering her next attempt. "You've an endearing petulance about you at times."

"Ouch. Now that was backhanded," he chuckles, "though I can hardly take issue being considered endearing."

She raises a brow, amused. "It was my impression that you wanted me to lie."

"No no, not a lie or a truth; a special shade in between. There's a bit of truth in every piece of flattery. Afterall, that was the very first thing that came to mind, wasn't it?"

She lets out a laugh. “That sounds eerily close to an attempt at psychoanalysis.” Playful accusation tugs at her voice.

He pauses. “No, not quite.” Maybe he wanted to know what she thought of him.

“Not quite? How very cryptic,” she parrots in a deadpan.

He smiles. “Let an ailing man spout his delirious riddles.”

“You sound perfectly lucid to me, but I’ll indulge you this time...” She starts to rise, slowly retracting her hand from her cheek, but for once Gortash is faster than his favorite assassin, grabbing her by the wrist and stopping her.

She tilts her head and gives him a questioning look.

"Stay," he urges her.

"It wasn't my intention to return to the temple just yet."

He frowns. "You know exactly what I mean." Don't go back there.

She frowns back at him pointedly. "You recall I referred to you as petulant, yes?"

"In the same breath that you called it endearing," he retorts. He pulls her slightly closer, but with no real strength, gauging her reaction.

She relents fairly quickly, seating herself just on the edge of his bed. "That smug look of yours is making me regret this."

"And that irritated look of yours makes this all the sweeter," Gortash grins back. He's still holding her wrist. His friend tries to slide her hand out of his grip, but he takes the opportunity to lace his fingers with hers. She lets it happen, watching his ministrations with fascination.

"You're very forward lately."

"Feverish delirium does strange things to the mind."

"Aside from compelling you to recite riddles?"

"Yes." He laughs softly, then carefully slides his gaze over to meet hers. "It might even compel me to kiss you. Would you still indulge me then?"

She blinks. There's still a slight ringing in his ears, but he could hear the hitch in her breath with resounding clarity. He watches her throat bob as she swallows and leans down slowly.

Gortash props himself up on his elbow and meets her halfway, their lips just barely brushing together. The world around him is swimming and vibrating, practically unreal. He doesn't know if it's because of her, his fever, or both, and he doesn't care. Her free hand is snaking up to his cheek, then sliding through his hair, and Gortash swears he'd felt nothing better in all his years.

"Still hot," she murmurs against his lips. "Maybe I should replace the rag."

"If you move so much as an inch right now, this alliance is over, Bane and Bhaal alike be damned," he mutters back, eyebrows furrowing.

She chuckles quietly. "That means exceedingly little from the man who proposed we abandon them completely."

He voice rises slightly, his impatience growing: "I'd forsake any god, better yet, challenge all of them at once if it got you to simply—"

Her hand is suddenly at the back of his head, and she pulls him into a crushing kiss. Her lips are cold, but softer than Gortash could've ever envisioned, and press into his with a strength and intensity that would almost be cruel if he weren't just as desperate. His lungs fill with the scent of almost nauseatingly saccharine rot. Her smell. He vaguely remembers reading that the smell of death never truly washes off of a Bhaalspawn. It has a strong, almost stinging acrid note, but Gortash was so intoxicated by her that he couldn't bring himself to care. Her tongue was just as savage as her lips, plunging into his mouth as soon as he'd permitted it and plundering whatever she could. He was no less enthusiastic than her, of course; they were practically a pair of starved animals, the room filling with the obscene, wet sounds they made together.

When they finally drew apart, a long string of glistening saliva stretched between them.

"Your petulance really is endearing. I could just eat you," she whispers, licking her lips. "Enver."

He doesn't doubt she would. "If you did, it would put an end to all my witticisms," he replies breathlessly, his chest heaving.

She laughs. "Don't tempt me any further," his companion teases. She releases his hand carefully, and reaches instead to twine both arms around his neck. She leans down slowly, and presses a chaste kiss firmly to his cheek, lingering for several almost agonizing seconds.

She retracts from him slowly, her pressing hands gently urging him to lay flat on his back until he complies. Then she sweeps a hand through his hair again, sending shivers down his spine.

"It's rather prudent I soak your rag again soon," she finally says.

He smiles. "Go ahead. I can't promise you won't return to a pantheon of gravely angry gods, though."

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

It isn’t long before the Banite and Bhaalspawn meet again. The latter barges into Gortash’s study before the next day is out, blood spatter drying on her face and chest heaving.

“It was our agreement that I would report back here when my work was done, yes?” she asks breathlessly. “I’ve de-stabilized the mercenary organization we discussed.”

Her Banite rises from his chair quickly. “Stunningly efficient as always,” he smirks, rounding his desk in a less than graceful rush.

The Bhaalspawn is already throwing a stack of papers encrusted with a variety of mysterious bodily fluids on his desk, and in a matter of seconds, almost without realizing it, they're touching again.

Gortash winds his arms around his companion’s waist as though it were second nature to him, and she reaches for his hair.

“You’re not the only one seeing me today,” he murmurs. “It isn’t wise to muss up my hair at the moment.”

She pointedly sweeps her hands all throughout it in response. “This suits you far better than anything tidy,” she says as she diverts a few locks to his face, the dark hair almost trailing down to his eyes. It’s sticking in every direction now, utterly chaotic and entirely unfitting for a lord.

He should get angry, or at the very least irritated, but he simply laughs. “Should I just keep it like this?” he asks playfully.

She hums her approval.

He thinks for a moment. “I’ll consider it,” he smiles, leaning his head onto her shoulder.

Neither of them say anything, just grinning and holding each other. There’s probably blood on Gortash’s clothes now, or something equally filthy, but he pays it no mind. He’d replace his outfit a thousand times for this.

He takes a deep sigh, then breathes in her scent. Sweet rot again, but this time with an additional metallic tinge. My love, he wanted to say. He’d wanted to say it the moment he saw her the other night, pacing in his room, beside herself with worry for him. But it felt too soon. He’d been so high on the feeling of knowing she wanted him back, and he almost didn’t want to burst the bubble. To interupt the beautiful swelling chorus with an undignified wail for affection. Or rather, he didn’t want to present his heart on a platter and watch her choose Bhaal anyway... not now.

She may have kissed him on the cheek, but that didn’t necessarily set him apart from a passing fancy. He feels his heart wrench. He didn’t want to be just a pastime to her. To everyone else, fine, but to her? Gortash almost wished she’d just get it over with and tell him she didn’t love him, that nothing meant more to her than Bhaal, and put him out of his misery.

His only remaining hope was the fact that she hadn’t rejected his proposal outright yet.

All of it made him feel so pathetic, like a child again, begging for scraps again before he’d realized that no one would help him, but he couldn’t shut it off either. He unconsciously squeezes her a bit tighter, casting a furtive glance up at his friend. She’s smiling softly down at him, stroking a gentle hand through his hair. Gortash closes his eyes. No, he thinks, she wouldn’t do that. Not like this. Or he hoped, at least.

“Enver,” she murmurs. He revels in the sound. “Your fever very obviously hasn’t subsided. Why are you working?"

“There’s no rest for the wicked, my friend. You and I know that better than most,” he responds.

She seems unimpressed by his excuse, but says nothing.

Gortash turns his head slightly, so that his cheek is pressed up against whatever skin she has exposed from her neck. “You’re warm,” he comments, “could I have infected you?”

His companions laughs and shakes her head, as if he’d said something endearingly ridiculous. “No. I’m made of far stronger stuff than your typical Banite.”

Gortash’s eyes flutter open and he frowns.

“No offense,” she adds lamely. “I rarely get fully sick, Father’s blessings make sure of it. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he sighs. “And I take full offense to that statement.”

“Ah. I don’t suppose I can ameliorate in some way?” she asks.

“Extend this meeting of ours by another half-hour and we’ll call it even,” he replies.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

Gortash is bouncing his leg as he waits for his companion to arrive. She was late. The only time she ever could’ve been considered late was when she’d killed his bodyguard, and that was still a matter of semantics. They were meant to have met over an hour ago.

He stands and opts to check the hallway, but it’s as empty as ever. Gortash walks back into his study, confused. He’s left to speculate as to where she could possibly be for another 10 minutes or so, until he hears a knock at his door.

He’s quick to answer it, finding his favorite assassin standing before him, just as usual.

A sigh escapes him. “You’re late,” he says calmly, relief flooding his body.

She doesn’t respond, merely tilting her head and staring at him curiously. Her eyes are entirely devoid of light, and slightly frenzied.

He frowns. “Whatever is the matter?” he asks, reaching for her hand, but she pulls away before he can touch her.

Her face suddenly breaks into a wide grin, toothy and jarring.

Gortash takes a step back, suspecting her urges, or Bhaal, or something else, anything else, as the figure begins to laugh raucously, the sound scraping and shrill.

“So, this is how my bloodkin has been amusing herself? Playing house with a lordling?” the creature muses. It’s his companion’s voice speaking but the words most certainly weren’t hers.

“Who are you? What have you done with her?” he demands.

The creature laughs again. “With my dear sister? I gutted her, of course!”

Gortash’s blood runs cold. The shock must have shown on his face, because the creature pulls a pleased expression. Then she slowly reaches her hands up, and snaps her own neck with a sickening crack. In an instant, a woman he’d never seen before is standing in front of him. Her skin is pale, with thin, gray vapors swirling over it. Her eyes are even paler, terrifyingly devoid of both pupils and sanity, it seemed. A long blond braid swings just past her waist like a pendulum. A changeling.

“It was quite a task, tracing you here. Sister hid you well, but I searched her chambers extra thoroughly.”

Gortash grits his teeth, panic rising in his stomach. “I will not ask again. Who are you?” He urges his voice not to shake.

The changeling tilts her head again, watching him as if he was a fascination. “The Chosen of Bhaal, of course,” she states evenly.

He narrows his eyes. “You must think me a fool, if you expect me to believe that.”

She grins. “No? But you already know it, do you not? Your pact has already been transferred to me. You ought to have felt it.”

Gortash feels the slightest brush from a familiar entity. Bane's confirmation.

He freezes.

The changeling's grin widens. "Poor sister. She barely even put up a fight when I struck her," she giggles, "she just laid there, panting like a sick dog. Her blood was so hot, hot, hot! It nearly burned my flesh when I cut her open!"

Sick? He thinks back to their last meeting. Warm skin. His mouth twitches.

"How glorious it was. Bhaal named me his Chosen right there, still standing in her steaming innards!" She lets out a long, stuttering sigh, as if she were reminiscing. "You may refer to me Orin, lordling. I shall be speaking on behalf of my temple from now on."

Gortash glares at her. "Orin," he seethes, "I will not take a mad dog for an ally."

"Oh? But your Lord demands it, does he not? Or would you sooner be disposed of? I would gladly do that for you all the sooner. Cut, cut, cut up your navel and tear out your intestines and watch you convulse wordlessly on the ground! Ah, how your blood would shine in the daylight!" she gushes, taking in a sharp breath. "Oh, oh, but I mustn't. Bhaal would be so displeased…"

Gortash doesn't respond, staring at the ground in front of him blankly.

Orin watches him for a moment, then breaks into hysterical laughter. "Oh, silly lordling, did you think my sister loved you? Did you not know? Her heart has always belonged to Father, right up until the moment I stopped its rancid beating! Or perhaps you simply loved her from afar, like a simpering puppy! Such sweet tragedy! I never knew she was such an excellent actress. Or perhaps you're simply easy to fool."

"Go," Gortash says, his voice flinty.

Orin's face falls slightly. "Go? But there is work to be done."

"Your assignment is to kill. Are you telling me you require my direction to kill?" he snaps.

The changeling gives him a confused look, then finally shrugs and disintegrates into thin air. The hallway is empty again.

He stands there for a moment, just staring into it. It doesn't feel real. It couldn't be real. But everything pointed to it being reality. He slowly turns, and walks back into his study. He shuts the door, almost unconsciously, behind him, and the click of it nearly sends him into hysterics. It was as if the shock had dissipated in a single instant and smothered him with grief.

Gortash crumples to the floor and weeps. He hadn't so much as shed a tear when his parents sold him, and now he could barely gasp for air between sobs. The room suddenly feels terrifyingly cold and lifeless.

He thinks the Gods must be pointing and laughing at him, a tyrant crumbling to the ground without so much as a gust of wind to tip him over.

He could still feel the ghost of her touch on his skin, in his hair, over his cheek. It feels like mockery. He runs a hand through his own hair, trying to recreate the sensation, but it feels wrong. It makes him cry even harder.

He'd never hold her again, never hear her voice, never watch her pace or eat candy, never get teased by her again.

She was dead. He loved her, and she was dead.

He’d never told her that, and now he never will. If there had been even the slimmest chance she loved him back, he'd never know.

Dead. Dead. Dead. The thought is making him sick. Her body had most likely been reduced to mush by the changeling, so there was no chance he'd ever see her again, even in death. That twists the knife in his gut.

He says her name, the one she'd written down so many nights ago for him, one he'd never uttered, to the empty room, as if it would summon her. Nothing. He calls her again and again, but to no avail.

"I love you," he whispers, so quietly that his declaration almost dies before it escapes him.

The room remains cold and still.

He rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist. His face is warm and wet from his tears and possibly a touch of leftover fever. Gortash's mind drifts back to what Orin had said. Her blood was hot. Her skin had been warm the last time they'd met. She was sick.

He realizes he was the one to infect her.

He had killed her just by kissing her.

Bhaal and Orin had merely been the ones to do her in. He'd made her weak, just as she had him, except she'd died from it.

His tears slowly dry and he sniffs. He rises slowly from the ground. How could he have forgotten? This was the way of the world, afterall. He didn't get to sit there and cry.

He could have nothing if he didn't take it. He could keep nothing without controlling it entirely. He could love nothing without it being ripped away from him.

Gortash would carry out his plan, and he'd carry it out well. He'd bite his tongue when Orin rambled on about her dark fantasies and Ketheric about his daughter, and he'd continue to worship Bane, of course. The world has fashioned him into the tyrant it needed, and that was exactly what he'd be.

Gortash was never one to dwell on the past, after all.