one more thing. if a character ascends to godhood/divinity/some form of power that makes them practically omnipotent and no longer human. and they had a partner before that who didn’t rise with them. you are legally required to make that situation as terrifying as it would rightly be. it’s bad enough to get the attention of a god. it is ruinous to be loved by one. that is not the person you knew anymore. that is something that never has to let you leave, or have secrets, or disobey it. it will fix every problem you so much as glance at, and it will shower you in grace and gifts until you drown, and it will make you a holy artifact in its own story. you have to understand, it doesn’t remember how horrible death is, so it strikes you to cinders like a snide comment and brings you back with an apology it needs you to accept. that is how it’s going to love you forever, because it might not be inclined to let you die.
Long story short, I went back into my drafts to look at stuff I never finished, found the sequel to “Violence Forgiving Steel” and went “yeah this fucks supremely, I should actually complete this.”
The one thing I can’t get over is that there’s a lending library in the Temple of Bhaal. Sure, it’s there as a gag but I have so many questions: who started it? Is this someone’s personal pet project or is it like a communal effort? Is there a fine for overdue scrolls and is it paid in body parts? Are the scrolls all Bhaal related or is there like BG3 James Patterson in there? Who is keeping a record of the collection?
Occasionally I’ll do some achievement hunting in video games and I noticed that one of the achievements for baldurs gate 3 is to multi class into every class without using the skeleton to respec your character.
So I’m giving this a shot and tbh this playstyle somehow makes you feel both incredibly powerful and incredibly weak at the same time.
I also wonder in my head what the backstory of this person I’ve made is that keeps adding different professions.
Maybe they used to have a Barbie number of jobs but when the tadpole got put in they forgot how to do all of them and over time they’re slowly remembering all the other stuff.
Or maybe they’re taking twelve correspondence courses at once.
Im getting my ass kicked so hard but I’m also able to do so much stuff. I can wear anything, throw anything, like three to four different gods own my soul I think.
Astarion: Not to be rude but those Gith will gut you like a fish.
Me: Astarion, my friend, my traumatized lockpicker, my incredibly annoying fuckbuddy, I know. You don’t remember this but we’ve died six times already. But I am bad at many things instead of being good at one thing, so you’re just gonna have to keep dying here with me because we forgot to pick up Lae’zel earlier.
Can't sleep, and it's 01:30 on 1st or June so might as well post this now. Planned back in my bg3 phase and managed to actually finish it as well. No way!!!
Ship: Past Durge/Gortash, Current Durge/Astarion but not the focus
Fandom: BG3
Warnings: A wide assortment including but not limited to implied/referenced/past suicide, suicidal ideation, toxic relationships, manipulation, dubious consent, just all the stuff to expect from Durgetash
Rating: M
Word Count: 22k
AO3
Summary:
“You grant the semblance of life and intelligence to a corpse of your choice within range, allowing it to answer up to 5 questions you pose. Answers are usually brief, cryptic, or repetitive. “You are as likely to open wounds as you are to close them. The night after the assassination of Evner Gortash, the Dark Urge takes to Wyrm's rock with five questions. This story is about what they ask. This story is about what Gortash's corpse answered. And this story is about the five memories behind those answers that the corpse of Enver Gortash cannot speak to.
Notes: IT'S FINALLY DONE I DID IT EXCUSE ME WHILE I RUN AROUND SCREAMING. Anyway the whole thing is under the cut if you don't wanna go over to AO3
CHAPTER 1: WHEN DID WE MEET
NOW
Rune considered themselves rather adept at planning, which was how they knew their current plan was a bad one.
They groaned as they pulled themselves up the embankment outside of Wyrm’s Rock, wishing they had brought a fly spell scroll. A misty step had gotten them over to the fortress easy enough, but it hadn’t saved them from the task of climbing vines and loose stones to scale the hill and later the building itself. They’d brewed a few potions of spider climb for the journey, but that didn’t mean it still wasn’t an effort to scale so much distance for the second time in one day.
At least the spider climb potion would keep them from falling and smashing their head open on the rocks. It couldn’t hurt more than their head hurt already but it would be an unfortunate way to go. Their companions wouldn’t even know about their fate until the morning, given the note Rune left on the inside of their door. Rune had hesitated writing it, worried the group would spot it before they got back and doom Rune to a lecture on “recklessness.” But then they’d considered how their friends would react if they went missing without a word in the middle of the night and decided the lecture was worth the risk.
This was also worth the risk, they thought as they pulled themselves up another outcrop. The body that remained at the top of Wyrm’s Rock had information they needed, and Rune had the means of asking about it. If they’d thought of this earlier, they would have come to the fight prepared with a scroll, but they hadn’t, and thus they had to double their tracks. There wasn’t a guarantee it would work, but for the chance alone-
A crunch. Rune turned on their heel towards the sound, drew on what little of their magical energy they had left and fired off two rays of frost in the direction of the noise. They felt a trickle of blood run down their nose from the effort; they really shouldn’t be sculpting spells when they’d used most of their power for the day. But a little blood loss was worth it if it meant keeping alive.
There was a beat of silence. Rune cast dancing lights on a bush in front of them, cursing their lack of dark vision and peered into the shadows for a corpse or an injured enemy. They saw nothing, merely the imprint in the mud of a pair of boots heading sideways and-
“Giving me the cold shoulder, darling,” a voice drawled from behind Rune. They turned on their heel, electricity sparking from their fingertips, but a chill pale hand caught their hand before they could continue to cast. It was for the best that they didn’t finish the spell, Rune recognized that voice, but they scowled at Astarion’s face anyway.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
Astarion grinned at them, far too smug for a man who just got caught sneaking in the shadows. “My sincere apologies. I didn’t mean to reveal my presence until we were closer to the fortress.” He reached forward with his free hand and swiped away the blood under Rune’s nose before appraising it on his index finger. He licked it clean before tilting his head to look at them. “Bleeding without me, hmm?” His voice was wry, but Rune could see the tension in his face, a slight crinkle to his eyes that gave away his frustration.
It appeared they weren’t going to avoid that lecture on recklessness then. Shame.
Rune pulled their hand from Astarion’s grasp and walked past him, back towards Wyrm’s rock. Astarion followed behind them, and Rune resisted the urge to kick a rock in frustration. Knowing their luck, they’d break their foot. Usually they’d be thrilled to see him, they rarely weren’t, but this was the one time they wanted him as far away as possible. They focused on his previous comment, crossing their arms as they stared at the fortress. “Why wait on your reveal until then?”
“Because then we’d be too close to our destination for you to talk me into turning around.” Astarion strode faster so he surpassed Rune, turning so he could look at Rune’s face. Even though Rune refused to look at him directly, they could make out the irritation in his expression by the too sharp angle of his smile. “Seriously, love, sneaking out in the middle of the night to break and enter all by your lonesome? I thought you liked me.”
“You’re a bastard,” Rune said, but there was no heat to it. If they’d caught Astarion doing the same thing, they would have followed him too. Sure, they would have gotten busted far sooner without an invisibility spell, but they would have done it. Their irritability now had very little to do with Astarion himself, and more to do with being caught in the first place.
“And you’re a liar who said you wanted to sleep alone tonight because of a headache. Rather underhanded, I have to say.”
Rune cringed. They had said that. In their defense, that was their plan until they remembered the amulet in the storage chest and the questions only one man had an answer to. “I wasn’t lying about the headache.” Their head throbbed as they spoke, as if to remind them of its presence.
Astarion didn’t look appeased by the confession. He stepped closer to Rune, eyes narrowing. “Oh, so you decided to break and enter an enemy fortress full of people who want to kill you with a migraine then? My sincere apologies: you’re not underhanded, merely stupid.” The last word came out as a hiss. “Now tell me, what’s so important that you decided to embark on this current adventure alone?”
Rune wanted to object to his tone, they could take care of themselves just fine, but Astarion had good reason to be furious. Ever since Halsin got captured by Orin, everyone agreed that being alone was best avoided as much as possible, especially outside of camp. Rune had been overtly stringent about the rule and they knew it; the combination of the Urge, their headaches, the revelations about their heritage and the task before them made them more irritable than they preferred. Rune was being a hypocrite and they both knew it.
It was just-
What if you were entirely in control before? What if what Gortash said was true? What if you were as depraved as he was? From what little memory you have, it seems likely. What if your promise to Astarion in the Graveyard was dooming him to another cruel companion? Maybe you were the one who egged on Gortash’s worst qualities; you have such a talent for influence. If you bring him with you to speak to the corpse, he might try to soften the blow of what you truly are. You might believe him enough that you won’t see it coming when you scoop out his eyes with your fingernails-
“I have to talk to someone,” Rune said, trying to ignore the buzz of thoughts in the back of their head. It wouldn’t work, they knew that, but they had to try.
Astarion shot him a flat look. “Alone?”
“That was the plan.”
“And who is this person who is so worthy of your attention that they require your presence alone?”
Well, might as well come out with it, Rune thought. “They don’t require it.” Rune reached down and pulled the amulet from their belt, holding it up in front of Astarion’s face. It swung back and forth, glowing softly in the moonlight. “But I thought it might be more successful if only one of his murderers attempted to talk to him, rather than the whole lot.”
Astarion hadn’t been present at Gortash’s assassination, but Rune knew Gortash knew who the man was. He’d seen Astarion stand next to Rune when they entered the main hall. If Gortash had bothered to remember him, it wouldn’t be as an ally.
Rune doubted he remembered Rune as an ally either, but at least there’d been a period where Rune’s face had inspired feelings other than loathing in Enver Gortash. It was far from a guarantee for the spell to work, but it was better than nothing.
“You plan to speak to Gortash,” Astarion said, voice flat.
“His corpse, actually.”
The attempt at levity didn’t work. Astarion watched them for a long moment and Rune resisted the urge to twitch under his gaze. When he spoke next, Rune could hear the hurt in his voice.
“Nothing he can say is going to make me run. Do you really think so little of me?”
Oh Gods. “Of course not,” Rune said, voice far too loud for someone trying to be stealthy. Their planned secrecy didn’t seem to matter much, compared to that pained look on Astarion’s face. “No, it’s not that I’m worried about.” That was true; if Gortash said something that would make Astarion want to leave, it was probably something Astarion deserved to know. “It’s just…”
Every time Rune had learned something terrible about themselves, Astarion had been standing in the corner, acting as if the revelations weren’t worthy of horror. He was the one who had never shied away from Rune’s more bloody traits, he was the one who thought Rune worth saving, despite the ruin of their past. It was a balm, one Rune hoped they provided in turn when it came to Astarion’s own nightmares. But after the last few days of witnessing the Gondian’s plight, the cult’s trail of bodies and Karlach’s sobs of agony over her inevitable death, Rune desired no such comfort. They wanted nothing more than to let the harsh truths hidden on Gortash’s tongue rip them open and leave them to bleed.
Astarion probably wouldn’t appreciate that impulse, Rune thought. So they shrugged instead of telling the truth and accepted having a companion for the dreadful conversation. “Alright, you can come with me.”
They made it back up to where Gortash was slain in good time, the spider climb potions making the task easier than it was previously. Gortash’s body was right where he’d originally fallen, and after ensuring the doors to the room were locked so they couldn’t be interrupted, both Rune and Astarion looked down at the corpse.
“I’m almost surprised he’s right where we left him.” Astarion said, looking down at the corpse of what was once Enver Gortash. As far as dead bodies went, he was mostly intact. He was covered in blood, cuts, burns and soot, but all his limbs were still attached, which given Karlach’s skill with a greataxe was somewhat surprising. A crossbow bolt had taken him out in the end, Karlach firing directly into his heart, and the arrow still stuck from the dictator’s chest.
The Urge was delighted at the sight, and Rune ignored the desire to dip their hands in the still drying blood and paint the room with it. There was also an urge to dismember the man, but since Rune didn’t carry around knives on purpose, it was somewhat easier to resist.
“I doubt anyone comes up here but Gortash’s men. And we probably killed them all,” Rune said, circling the body. They pulled out their journal, flipping to a page they’d marked with a ribbon. On it were a list of questions, with five of them circled. It had taken them a while to narrow down their questions to just five, but it was worth the effort to avoid asking something pointless.
“This place will smell vile if it stays here,” Astarion said, his nose wrinkling.”Not that I’m complaining: the entire fortress is in need of a deep clean after these fools resided in it.”
“Hm.” Rune reached for the amulet and held it over the body. “Time to get on with it.” Before they could speak the incantation, Astarion reached over Gortash’s body to grip their shoulder with a gentle touch. It was a wonder, Rune thought, how a man touched by so many cruel hands, could still be so kind without intending to.
“He might not answer,” Astarion said. “You did murder him.”
Rune had. Normally, they’d say the same thing. But this was different. Most corpses refused to answer their killers because they were hostile to them in life. Even with their souls long gone, the bodies knew better than to give their enemies anything more than they’d already taken.
Rune had a feeling Gortash’s body would answer for one reason alone: giving Rune answers would hurt them far worse than its silence could.
“He’ll answer,” Rune whispered. “He’ll answer if it’s me.”
With that, Rune spoke the incantation, watched as the body below them began to float and asked their first question.
“When did we first meet?”
_______
THEN
It was rather difficult to track down the Chosen of Bhaal.
Gortash supposed that made sense. Unlike Banites who could disguise their admiration for control and order under the names of different gods, acts benefiting the God of Murder were harder to launder under a more palatable name. That didn’t mean he appreciated the effort it took to track down the leader of Bhaal’s cult. It had taken weeks of peering at dead murder victims,speaking to various assassins and walking the city streets to find enough information to track down something related to the cult. It was only a few days ago he’d finally found his way to the Murder Tribunal to ask for an audience with the cult’s leader.
At least he’d gotten to meet the infamous Sarevok out of the ordeal. Gortash held no affection for the man, but it was good to know names that had weight in this city, even if they were supposed to be dead ones.
Sarevok had obliged his request, because a few days later he received a note written in blood with an address and a time. It was in the slums of the lower city, and so Gortash took care to dress so he could blend in properly before he headed out with some of his security in tow and a teleportation scroll, should the meeting go poorly.
He was dealing with Bhaalspawn, after all. Best to cover his bases.
The address led to a small abandoned house, with two figures answering the door. He was rather surprised when they allowed both his guards in with no objections, but he put aside his curiosity as they led him to a rug. Pulling aside the rug revealed a trapdoor and after gesturing to his security to follow him, Gortash stepped down the ladder to enter the cellar.
The smell of rot and decay greeted him. The cellar was a small space, maybe three rooms, with one of the walls breaking open to expose a route to the sewers if the smell was any indication. The other room featured a shrine with a corpse impaled on a stake in the center. It had to be the source of the revolting smell surely. The last contained another Banite, along with a desk where a figure was seated, writing in a simple leather journal.
Gortash wasn’t quite sure what he expected the Chosen Bhaalspawn to look like. All he had to go off of was rumors and his brief conversation with Sarevok. The rumors were deeply unhelpful, some describing the assassin as a sturdy looking white Dragonborn with flecks of red accenting their scales. Others told him of a tiefling woman with horns that spiraled out of her head and a great axe on her hip. Gortash doubted either was the truth. Sarevok hadn’t given him much either, other than the use of “they” so Gortash could only wonder if Bhaal’s latest chosen looked similar to his last one.
As Gortash set his eyes on the figure at the desk, it became abundantly clear that this Bhaalspawn had very little in common with their undead sibling besides being human.
The human sitting at the desk in front of hmm was as thin as a rail, almost gaunt looking. If Sarevok was a great hammer of a man, their kin was a rapier. They had pale skin, but unlike Sarevok it seemed almost washed out, like the sun had never touched it. Their hair was gray, tied back in a tight high ponytail with a sharp silver hairpin keeping it in place. Gortash wouldn’t be surprised if that hairpin had been used in some of the murders he’d stumbled upon while seeking them out, They didn’t look up at him as he entered, instead scrawling notes with a quill. A robe rested on the chair behind them- a caster then- and they wore standard breeches and a long buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up.the only finery about them was a circlet, crafted from fine silver, with a ruby gemstone hanging from the center.
They clearly had put little concern into dressing up for his visit. That wasn’t surprising; respect was something one earned by force, favor or fear. Gortash excelled at all three.
“Herald, a visitor. Enver Gortash of Baulder’s Gate, the Chosen of Bane,” the Banite who led him inside said, taking a step back. That Bhaalspawn said nothing, merely glancing up at him looking somewhat bored. Gortash took note of the dark circles under their brown eyes which looked to be the result of little sleep and copious makeup.
“Lord Gortash,” they said. “Sarevok told me to expect you.” They didn’t give their name in turn, despite Gortash waiting on them to provide it. Taking the hint, Gortash instead moved right to business.
“Did he say what I wished to speak to you about?”
“If he did, I wasn’t listening. I don’t tolerate that wretch more than I have to.” So the Chosen was not on good terms with their sibling. It wasn’t uncommon for Bhaalspawn from what Gortash had read, but he was surprised both of them were still alive if that was the case.
“Then I apologize for forcing you to endure more of his company than usual.” He reached into his pocket to pull out his notes that he prepared for the occasion and placed them on the desk. “I come with a proposal. A partnership of sorts.”
The Bhaalspawn reached for the notes and appraised them, raising one eyebrow. Their voice was dry. “A partnership between the dead three. Because those work out historically well.”
What an absolute shit, Gortash thought. He kind of liked it.
They went over his proposal together. Gortash was encouraged to see them ask questions about his planned heist, clearly more interested that they pretended to be. When discussions were over, the Bhaalspawn agreed to reach out to him regarding further planning which Gortash agreed to, given he was the one with an actual address
“What should I call you?” The Bhaalspawn didn’t turn to look at him, waving their hand dismissively. Like they were the aspiring politician and him the nobody. It was both infuriating and intriguing. Their other hand continued to scribble in their journal. Gortash couldn’t see what they were writing, only that it looked to be well organized into tiny boxes and lists.
He didn’t think Bhaalspawn could plan. Fascinating.
“Pick one,” the Bhalspawn said, not bothering to look up at him.
Gortash thought he misheard. “Pardon me?”
The Bhaalspawn glanced up at him, expression tired, almost bored. “You asked for my name. I don’t have one. So pick one.”
“You don’t have a name?”
The Bhaalist tore their gaze from their notes and sneered at him, like Gortash was asking something deeply foolish. They put down their quill and instead picked up one of their daggers. Gortash watched as spun it around in one hand, movement almost lazy. “Does a magister name their gavel? Does a surgeon name their scalpel? I am but my father’s instrument. If you want something to call me by, pick it yourself.”
Gortash considered that for a moment. He thought of Raphael and his damned House, the various trinkets the cambion forced him to polish and clean. One in particular came to mind: a small silver statue of a shrike, a songbird found up North on the material plane. Raphael had spoken about it once when he found Gortash polishing its wings.
“Interesting, aren’t they?” The Cambion had said, reaching forward to tap a claw on the bird’s beak. “Lively songbirds, but full of surprises. Do you know what mortals call them?” He didn’t wait for Gortash to answer. “Butcher birds. You see, they impale their prey on thorns. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Gortash looked at the Bhaalspawn in front of him, and the impaled body in the other room. Alluring but savage. Shrike seemed fitting enough.
“Shrike then. For now at least.” The Bhaalspawn, Shrike, nodded. They then folded their hands on the desk and took a look at Gortash and his two bodyguards.
“I will say, I would appreciate a tribute for my time,” they said, glancing between the two men behind Gortash. They tapped their fingers on the table, the sound rapid like a pulse. When they spoke again, they only looked to Gortash. “Something suitable for my father.”
Ah. Gortash had considered this a possibility. He could hear his bodyguards shuffle behind him, clearly uneasy at the change in topic, but still oblivious to what exactly was being discussed. “Do you have a preference?”
For the first time since Gortash entered the cellar, Shrike smiled.
“Pick one.”
Hm. Reaching inside his pocket, Gortash pulled out the teleportation scroll. He could feel the Guards behind him tense, likely readying themselves for the spell to pull them with. He’d told them about the scroll, after all. They probably thought he intended to bail with them in tow.
Rather foolish. Gortash had only brought two bodyguards for a reason. After all, it was best to step with one’s best foot forward when making new alliances.
“You can have both,” Gortash said, unraveling the scroll. “My treat.” And with that, he spoke the incantation and vanished, leaving his tributes behind for the slaughter.
He landed back in his room as he intended. After a stretch, he walked over to the window that overlooked the city and glanced down below.
Well, this meeting had turned out far more interesting than Gortash originally anticipated. He thought he might encounter a feral creature in this abandoned building, someone fueled entirely by violent instincts who he’d have to train to sic on the right people. Whoever this Shrike was, they were not that. Violent? Oh, absolutely, of that Gortash had no doubt. But they weren’t mindless about it.
This partnership might be less of an ordeal than he originally anticipated. It could even be fun.
Gortash couldn’t wait to find out.
CHAPTER 2: DID I KNOW ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO KARLACH
NOW
“1482”
“1482,” Rune said, looking down at the corpse still floating in front of them. It wasn’t a pretty sight but it was better than looking at their journal, where the next question awaited them. Unlike their first question, their second was a follow up depending on Gortash’s answer. Rune had hoped they wouldn’t need to actually ask it, that Gortash would tell them they met any date after 1482.
They finally glanced to their journal, hoping they remembered incorrectly. Life, as per usual, was not kind to them. Written on the page was the following:
If Gortash says 1482 or before: did I know about Karlach?
“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Astarion said. Rune couldn’t think of words to explain the sinking sensation in their gut, so they merely turned their journal to Astarion and pointed with their finger at the question so he could see what was written there. He scanned the words and his face fell. “Well, shit.”
Rune turned their journal back towards them and wished they could hide within its pages. That was the risk of doing this in the first place. If they hadn’t come out here, they could tell themselves that Karlach and their time with Gortash had never overlapped, that no version of Rune could look at the tiefling with a bright smile and a love for dirty bar tunes and think it acceptable to cast her into Avernus. But now that they were here, that kind ignorance had crumpled. There was still a chance they had never known of another, a year was plenty of time for two people to barely miss awareness of the other, but Rune knew better than to hope for such a kindness. They’d never gotten mercy before from their past self: why would they start now?
Gods, what if they had known Karlach and what Gortash did to her? How would they go back to camp and face her, were that to be the case? Rune would have to tell her of course, keeping that a secret would be wrong otherwise, but how? How did you tell a close friend you were a part of the worst thing that ever happened to them? Maybe Rune could offer for her to rip out their heart? They rest could afford the 200 gold for Wither’s fee, if they decided it they wanted Rune back in the first place. After all, who could blame them if they decided to strike down the last architect of the Absolute? Slayers of Bhaalspawn were heroes-
“Stop.” Two cold hands grabbed Rune’s cheeks and Rune snapped out of their thought spiral to see Astarion staring at them intently, face tight with worry, Gortash’s corpse still hovering beneath them. When Rune met his gaze, his expression relaxed slightly, but not entirely. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but I know that face well enough to know you shouldn’t be entertaining it.”
Rune took a deep breath through their nose and tried to ground themselves back in the present. It was difficult, their guilt howling in the back of their mind like a wretched beast, but they tried their best.
“I might have known,” they said, voice wavering more than they would like. They thought to their own reflection, the image they saw in mirror sometimes when the Urge was bad. A version of themselves that watched them with dead eyes and a sharp cruel smile. “I might have come up with the idea.”
“That’s absurd.” Rune opened their mouth to interrupt him, but Astarion pressed forward. “Let’s look at the facts, shall we? Our main suspects responsible for Karlach’s ordeal are either a man who outfitted this entire office with enough firepower to kill an ogre, or you, who didn’t know how watches worked until three days ago.”
Rune couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of their voice. “How was I supposed to know you could fit that many gears in such a small space?”
“Karlach suspects she was chosen partially because she was an ideal test subject for the engine, correct?” Rune thought about that and nodded. “Given your lack of expertise on the subject and the fact she doesn’t recognize you, I think it’s fair to say you played a minor part, if one at all.”
He had a point, though Rune was reluctant to accept it, afraid the words sounded convincing because Rune wanted them to be. “I could have forgotten the engineering stuff.”
“Like you forgot how to use a dagger,” Astarion countered and Rune sucked in a sharp breath, the memory of Alfira’s corpse flashing in their brain. Afterwards, they were reluctant to carry around daggers, an apprehension that had intensified after an incident in Shar’s temple involving silence. Despite relying on spellwork as much as possible, Rune knew they could pick up a dagger now and know exactly where to drive it into a body to sever tendons and ligaments.
“Alright,” Rune said. “But I’m going to ask him anyway.”
“I figured as much. Just remember; corpses can lie.” The party had figured that one out when they’d used the spell to ask a goblin about the hidden entrance to the underdark and it had responded with “up your mom skirts”
Rune focused back on the corpse. Might as well get this over with.
“Did I have anything to do with what happened to Karlach?”
---------------
THEN
Gortash found his new business partner was averse to using doors.
It was six months into their partnership when Crow came misty stepping through the window of Gortash’s office. After their successful heist months previous, the Chosen of Bhaal and Bane had continued working together, establishing a working agreement that suited them both. For Crow, Gortash served as a source of gold (serial murder didn’t pay), supplies (the Black Market was best for occurring rare poisons) and steady work (for there were plenty of Lord and Ladies who needed people to disappear). In exchange, Gortash received detailed information about the undercity (Crow knew how to get anywhere around the gate without stepping onto the surface), and the Knights of Shield (who Crow used their followers to spy on in exchange for promised discounts from Gortash) as well as having a capable assassin at his beck and call when some situations couldn’t be resolved otherwise.
It was going rather swimmingly, all things considered. And that wasn’t even factoring in one of the most unexpected bonuses of his most recent business arrangement: Crow was good company.
Even when they entered his room via a window instead of using his door like a normal person.
“Does Bhaal have a rule about doors,” Gortash drawled as Crow misty stepped into his office. Gortash was sitting by his desk, looking over some blueprints he’d worked up about construct guards. It was still in sketching stages, the engine to power the things was still a prototype after all, but it served as something to work on when he didn’t have an immediate task at hand. “Or do you just find them distasteful?”
Crow was dressed like they normally did, wearing simple trousers, a long sleeved shirt, a vest, and a plain casters robe over the ensemble. Gortash had tried to encourage them to expand their tastes, but they were resistant given how often their clothing got ruined in their line of work. Apparently prestidigitation didn’t always work for bloodstains. Gortash was somewhat convinced that their entire wardrobe was looted from people they’d killed, down to their collection of earrings.
“The less people who recognize me the better, Crow said, closing the window behind them. The sound of the city streets became muffled through the glass, though not by much. They leaned back against the wall and began snapping their fingers on their right hand, little sparks of electricity flying off with each snap. A sign of either impatience, bloodlust or both. Regardless, it wasn’t something Gortash wanted to encourage.
“How can I help you, Crow?” Gortash asked, opening the drawer of his desk and placing his blueprints inside. The automatic magical lock he’d installed clicked as he shut the drawer and placed his hands on the desk, fingers twined together.
“Another new name? Really?” Crow said, pointing to themselves with their pinkie finger. Gortash leaned back in his chair, noting the creak it made. He should fix that. He’d been meaning to infuse some defensive spells in his office furniture and the chair would be a good test case.
“Do you not like it?”
Crow raised a single eyebrow at him. “You are the only person I know who changes what they decide to call me on a bi-monthly basis. Everyone else just picks one and is done with it.”
“And where’s the fun in that?” It was fun, changing up what he called them on a whim. He kept using Shrike for two weeks before he realized he was underutilizing the power Crow had given him. The names Drake and Castor had followed but he’d decided to go back to birds today after reading an engaging book on messenger pigeons.
Crow rolled their eyes, turning away from him to fumble through their bag. They pulled out a pair of rings and threw them in Gortash’s direction. He caught them easily enough. So he could see them better, he got out of his chair and held them up to the light of the windows behind his desk. Two golden bands gleamed back at him, each covered in dry blood. “Are you trying to play into your new name by giving me some shiny trinkets?”
Crow looked actually irritated as they walked up to him. “No, you dolt.” With a wave of their hand, they cast prestidigitation, and the blood vanished. Now clean, Gortash could see engravings in dwarvish inside each ring, promising fidelity, courage and love, along with a pair of separate initials on each. “This is proof of a job done.”
Right, he’d almost forgotten with his blueprints. Gortash clicked his tongue. “I’m heartened to see that you’ve brought me the Lady and her Husband’s rings without their fingers still attached. Far less messy.” He put the rings on top of his desk and looked at Crow, who was holding out their hand, palm face up.
“Ahem.”
It was Gortash’s turn to roll his eyes. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a bag with the pre agreed amount of gold pieces and deposited it into the Bhalspawn’s waiting hand. They tucked it into their own pockets and gave him a bow, a wry smile on their face that undercut the respect the gesture was meant to convey.
“The Temple of Bhaal thanks you for your fine contribution.”
Ah, this back and forth. All of their meetings were an ongoing debate in a way about who was truly in charge of this partnership. It was a good practice, one that kept Gortash from forgetting his true loyalties. His Bhalspawn would crow to him about how Gortash enriched their own temple, and in turn, Gortash would remind them who truly held their jess.
“And the Iron Fist of Bane is happy to oblige for those who submit as requested.”
Crow’s returning scowl was a delight, as per usual. They rankled at the mention of Gortash’s God.
“What do you even need all that gold for? Is the thrill of the kill not enough of its own reward?”
“Yes, but the thrill of the kill doesn’t pay for food and supplies. If you want to cut costs, Enver, just keep sending me your bodyguards who want a raise.”
Speaking of his guards, there was the sound of footsteps coming up the hall. By the time someone knocked on his door, Crow was out of sight.
“Come in.”
A bodyguard, a dwarf with a strong gait and a thick beard stepped into the room. He was relatively new to Gortash’s men, but not new to the world of smuggling, which meant he knew better than to ask who Gortash was talking to if he overheard. He handed Gortash a letter with a crimson wax seal and the slightest smell of perfume.
“A message from Lady Jannath, Sir,” the man said. Gortash closed his eyes and breathed in deep, taking in the smell of roses and oak. When he opened his eyes, he saw the guard was still there, and dismissed him. When the doors shut behind the man, the door to the wardrobe where he kept his jackets and scarves opened and Crow crawled out. Their hair was a mess from their time in the space and they grumbled, trying to fix it with their fingers.
“I don’t understand why you hide when you can simply turn invisible,” Gortash said, opening the letter. Inside was an invitation to dine at the Lady’s request that afternoon, though Gortash knew there would be far greater delights than dining were he to show.
“I’ve told you, my magic is unpredictable,” Crow said, finishing whatever they were doing with their hair and moving to shake out their robes. Gortash placed the opened letter on his desk.
“The unpredictable aspects I’ve seen are rather useful.” Gortash had seen Crow’s magic strike their enemies with lightning unprompted and transport them across the battlefield at will. The worst effect he’d seen so far was the spike growth, which while somewhat obnoxious, also hurt their enemies.
“That’s because you haven’t seen the sheep yet,” Crow muttered under their breath. Gortash pushed past then to look inside his wardrobe for a scarf that would suit his current outfit best. Perhaps something with gold trim. Or green: Jannath liked green.
“That guard is new.”
Gortash looked away from his wardrobe, hands still buried in some of his favorite kerchiefs. Over the months he’d known Crow, they rarely commented on any of his personnel except when Gortash wanted them to kill one.
“Since when did you start paying attention to my staff?”
Crow shrugged, walking over to his desk and pushing themselves up on it to sit. They crossed their legs and leaned back, scattering some of his papers to the ground like a fickle cat. “Since you started asking me to trim your payroll.” They picked up the letter from Jannath, looked disgusted, and dropped it. “Anyway, where’s the tiefling? Red, muscular, not bad to look at.”
Ah yes, Karlach. He supposed Crow finding her striking wasn’t too surprising; she had that effect on people. Truly one of a kind. It was a shame he had to trade her to Zariel, truly, but she was the only one qualified for the job. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
“Reassigned, sadly,” Gortash said, pulling out a bright red piece of cloth with his initials embroidered on it. That would work nicely. He tucked it into the front of his jacket so the initials were visible. “Frankly, I’m surprised that you have an interest in athletic pursuits outside of murder.”
Crow gave him a dirty look. “Athletic pursuits? Just call it fucking like a normal person, Enver.”
“This is why I’m the one receiving missives from paramores and you’re the one rutting with strangers in alleys,” Gortash said primly. He turned to Crow and gestured towards his outfit. “How do I look?”
“Like an Upper City twat,” Crow said, lifting themselves off the desk. They headed back towards the window and opened it. “Let me know when you’re doing something other than getting under Lady Jannath’s skirts.”
“Jealous I’m not getting under yours, hm?”
He didn’t intend to mean it. It was best to not mix business and pleasure should one help it. So he was surprised when his teasing remark was not met with a witty rebuttal but a sudden stillness, Crow’s fingers gripping the wood of the window tighter.
“There’s a reason I stick to ‘rutting in alleys,” Crow said, not even bothering to mimic Gortash as they repeated his words. When they looked up at him, Gortash could see a hint of resentment on their face, along with a deep abiding hatred that he doubted was directed at him. “I am to put Bhaal above all else. Anything else that attempts to attract my regard is quickly disposed of.”
Gortash almost commented that he didn’t love Lady Janneth merely her large purse, but held his tongue. Instead, he merely cocked his head.
“By yourself or by your father?”
Crow snorted. When they replied, their tone was dark and wry.
“Both.”
And with that they misty stepped away, leaving Gotash with his papers, an open letter, and the lingering scent of Lady Janneth’s perfume. Gortash picked up the letter and thought about how he seduced the women in the first place, picking up on her need for attention that other suitors were unwilling to give her. That’s how most relationships worked for Gortash; figure out what strings to pull and then tangle them to his favor.
He wondered if the Chosen of Bhaal had some strings he could play with as well.
CHAPTER 3: WAS IT YOUR PLAN OR MINE?
NOW
“No. You only asked."
Rune did not take Gortash’s answer well. Which frankly was to be expected.
“No, but you didn’t ask!?” Rune threw their hands up into the air, exasperated. “What the fuck does that-“ Gortash corpse twitched, mouth opening a fraction. Turning on their heel, Rune reached forward to slam the corpse’s mouth shut. Their face was red with rage.“That was not one of my questions, don’t answer that.”
“Darling,” Astarion said, in a tone of voice Rune recognized whenever they were in a proper snit. He was still standing across from the corpse, straightening out the sleeves of his shirt. “You have considered he’s only answering to vex you, right?”
“Of course he is.” Rune tapped their foot impatiently, thinking over the answer, like if they spent enough time considering it, they’d know every meaning Gortash might have intended. No, but never asked. The most logical read of that answer was that they knew about the infernal engine but had never asked about its testing or procurement. Rune supposed ignorance was better than involvement. But wasn’t willfully ignorance complicity as well? Just because someone didn’t torture someone on the rack, didn’t mean they were innocent when they heard the screams and did nothing. Was Rune willfully ignorant or just ignorant? It couldn’t be the latter, they had to know about the Godians, after all, and Gods-
“We’re leaving.”
Rune’s head snapped up to meet Astarion’s gaze. He had crossed his arms, slouching back on his right foot like he did when he was prepared to have an argument. It was a stance Rune saw more of as they traveled, which they rather liked, even when they were the one being argued with. “What?”
“We’re leaving. Let’s leave this corpse to rot and head out.”
Rune glanced at Gortash’s corpse, which was still radiating green light from its mouth and eyes. They held up the amulet, letting it swing between the pair. “I still have three more questions to ask.”
“No,” Astarion reached forward to pluck the chain the amulet hung from out of Rune’s grasp. The spell held, once it was cast it was cast, and he twirled it until the chain wrapped around the amulet. “You have three more ways to torture yourself while I watch.”
Rune bristled, much like a cat they sometimes turned into on accident. “I’m not torturing myself, I’m gaining information-“
Astarion cut them off, raising a singular eyebrow. “Yes, from the corpse of a man who is answering solely to spite you. That would be like asking Cazador’s corpse about my own history in terms of accuracy.” He pocketed the amulet and shook his head. “Save the self flagellation for the bedroom, sweetheart.”
Rune bit their tongue, wanting to object. Astarion was forced into his relationship with Cazador; as far as Rune knew, their relationship with Gortash was entirely of their own power. Rune could have walked away from Gortash and his crimes at any moment. But they hadn’t. They’d spent 10 years in close company of a tyrant and an enslaver. Sure, Cazador would likely also only answer Astarion’s questions out of spite but Astarion didn’t deserve any more cruelty from that monster of a man. He’d never deserved any of it in the first place. Rune however-
“You have that face again.”
Gods damn it . Rune blamed their headache for the loss of their ability to keep a poker face. And the lack of sleep. And the Urge, which currently was fixated on cutting off one of Gortash’s hands to carry around like a token. This is why they hadn’t wanted Astarion to come with them; not for what he might learn from Gortash, but what he might see in Rune when the corpse answered. They waved their hand towards the window where they’d entered. Some vines still hung though the opening. “You can leave if you don’t want to watch.”
Astarion shook his head, walking away from the corpse but not towards the window. “Nice try, but I’m staying. I just wanted it noted that I know what you’re doing and I don’t approve.” He headed towards one of the walls. One of Gortash’s mechanical devices was sticking out of a hidden panel, slightly warped from the firepower during the fight earlier today. He pulled out his thieves tools, and poked the device once. When nothing happened, he snuck his fingers behind the device, fishing for something. “Now, if you want to continue listening to bullshit, I’m going to raid this room for everything Gortash has.”
“Didn’t you already loot this office?” Rune could see the evidence of their previous raid in the open drawers in Gortash’s desk, and the lack of armor from some of his bodyguards. They’d even scooped all the mail Gortash had in his desk into a spare bag Karlach found downstairs. Most of it would probably be garbage, of this Rune was sure, but they hadn’t been willing to risk overlooking something important, especially if it might help them locate Halsin.
Astarion turned his head away from the wall, tucking his thieves' tools tucked behind his ear. With a flick of his wrist, he yanked his hand out of the wall. It was hard to see in the low light, but Rune could see metallic strands grasped in his fingers. “I didn’t bother to strip the copper wiring last time. If I collect enough, I might be able to afford something to spite him, like I don’t know, shampoo.”
Rune watched him stick his hand back in and looked back to the corpse. Astarion was absolutely still paying attention to the conversation, this they knew. They didn’t bother to open up their journal again before they asked their next question. It was one of largest on their mind after Gortash had revealed their role in everything.
------------
THEN: 1485
It should be noted that when Enver Gortash found himself shaken awake by not only a Bhaalspawn, but the current chosen Bhaalspawn, that his first impulse was to comment on how they’d ruined his pajamas.
His line of work was clearly ruining his sense of self preservation. Why had he thought it a good idea to give a Bhaalspawn the passcode to his arcane lock.
“Could you truly not take a second to use prestidigitation on your hands, Onyx?” He said, blearily gazing up at said Bhaalspawn. They’d bothered to cast magelight at the very least, which allowed him to properly take in their state. Onyx looked like they’d come from a murder, the front of their robes, along with their sleeves and hands drenched in blood. It dripped from their fingers onto the stone. The same blood was now smeared across the shoulder of Gortash’s sleepwear.
Maybe this was why Onyx never wore anything fine unless Gortash got it for them. Prestidigitation had its limits when it came to cleaning up messes. The amount of blood currently covering the sorcerer was likely past the spell’s power to clean.
Onyx didn’t seem to acknowledge his comment, standing by the side of his bed with a manic expression on their face. The blood they got on Gortash’s shirt was beginning to soak through the silk, so he pulled off the nightshirt and threw it at Onyx, who dodged by leaning slightly to the side. If they hadn’t bothered to evade the garment, Gortash would have thought them oblivious to the action entirely. He’d seen that happen before and was not in the mood to coax them back to reality.
“Your plan,” Onyx said, gaze The one with the brain. Where is it?”
A part of Gortash’s brain recalled what they were talking about, but the part that was irate for being woken up overpowered it. “It is four in the morning,” he said, wondering once again about his lack of judgment when it came to security. He’d have to redo the code and add some more traps. Maybe a tripwire or two? It should be illegal to think about tripwires at this hour.
Onyx began to pace. They continued to drip blood and Gortash added a pressure plate to his list of traps to install. Maybe something that activated silence? Or hold person? He’d have to recruit some beggars off the street to test out variants. There was a lot they were willing to endure for enough coin. Onyx, as if sensing his distraction, ceased pacing. Instead, they reached forward and with a sharp yank, tore the sheets off his bed. Gortash did his best to glower at him despite wearing nothing but his silk pajama bottoms.
“Do your plans need sleep too?” Onyx said, throwing the sheets into a corner. Some of the blood and viscera smeared off their hands onto the beautiful fabric. Did they have any idea how hard it would be to get the filth they dragged in off the sheets? Smuggling made Gortash a hefty sum of money, but it didn’t mean he could replace his linens every week. “I can read while you indulge in your delicate needs.”
“What in the Gods’ name has possessed you?” Gortash said, finally sitting up just in time to watch Onyx puke on his fine antique carpet. He scrambled forward to gaze over the bed to see a large swatch of red vomit sinking into the fibers.
“That rug cost four gold pieces!” He said, gaping at them. This visitation was starting to cross the line from mild amusement to being an actual bother. Onyx wiped spittle from their face with the hem of their robes, the only part of their outfit that wasn’t drenched in blood.
“Buy cheaper rugs,” they rasped. Gortash watched as they walked over to one of his walls and began to use the blood on their hands to draw a large circle. They cast another magelight as they labeled the circle with “The Gate” and then drew a squiggly line nearby it, then a square with a skull under it.
“Is that supposed to be the Storm Coast?” By Gods, they were truly terrible when it came to drawing. There was a reason Gortash usually made their maps. Onyx ignored them, drawing an arrow from what Gortash assumed was supposed to be Moonrise towers to the city. ”You need a better angle than a random goblin horde. The lords need a bigger threat than that.”
Gortash thought to his plan he’d presented to Onyx earlier that week, the one the assassin had called “insane.” He’d told them of the mindflayer colony lurking under Moonrise, how they, with Ketheric’s assistance, could use a crown to use its power. He’s shown them his plans to rob Methostopolies, how they could use the tadpoles to craft a Goblin army that would terrorize the gentry into handing him and his future construct army power of the Gate. From there, Gortash’s plan was to expand his territory with the Gate as a central hub. “The idea is to expand over time.”
Onyx nodded, movements almost frantic. Despite the state of his wall, Gortash found himself rather engaged with their manic presentation. “Yes. Yes, but a goblin horde and random murders aren’t enough. They need connective tissue. They need to be something bigger.”
“What’s bigger than an outside invasion and internal chaos.”
Onyx turned back to the wall. After squeezing their robe for more blood, they pressed their hand to the wall, then snubbed away three sections in the palm before running their fingers down where the handprint landed. Then, with a shaky hand, they drew an upside down triangle under the display. Gortash got out of bed and took in the mixture of Bhaal, Myrkul and Bane’s symbol in front of him.
“A new God,” Onyx said, eyes wide. They reached forward and grasped Gortash’s shoulders. “A cult under one banner invading from the outside. Murders in their new Gods name from the inside. And us the mockery of the Gods behind it all.” Their nailed began to dig into Gortash’s skin.
Well that was enough. Using his bulk, he wrestled himself out of their grip and shoved his elbow into their stomach. They folded instantly, and before they could cast a spell or take out a dagger, he shoved them against the wall they’d ruined. With a snap of his fingers, his favored gauntlet flew to encase his right hand and he pressed the claw of his pointer finger against their throat. His left held them in place by their torso.
“Listen here,” he hissed, digging in the talon just enough to draw blood. “I tolerate your eccentricities because I find them amusing but I am not amused at present.” He added more pressure to their chest, enjoying the wheeze they made from the force. A demigod made almost useless in seconds. “Bring yourself to heel or I will.”
Onyx sneered at him. “You think you could kill me?”
“Kill you?” Gortash chose that moment to let them go. They fell in a sprawl to the floor, the blood from their robes leaving a smear from where they’d scraped against the wall. “Why in the Gods’ name would I give you what you want?”
Onyx didn’t look up for a long moment. They were breathing heavily now, trembling all over. When they spoke next, their voice was rough. “Fuck you.”
Gortash wasn’t interested in their tantrum. He stood above them and looked down, crossing his arms. “Last time we spoke, you told me such a plan was foolish. What changed?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. But if we are to be partners in this endeavor, I would like to know your motivations. What changed? Last time we spoke, you told me this was a fool's errand.”
They’d meant it too, that Gortash knew. Onyx called him a fool for thinking he could control an elder brain, even with help, told him he “was not his God, no matter how much he wanted to be.” They stormed out of his office after that and Gortash had resigned himself to adjusting his pitch to get them to agree. He never thought they’d change their mind without his prompting.
“The Devil’s fee,” Onyx said, stumbling to their feet. “A beggar who wanted some coins, only some coins. A few copper. The smallest of tokens, not even my regard. So I did, and I went to bed and I woke-“ They closed their eyes and drew back like they were in pain. It was like Gortash wasn’t even there, like they were talking to themselves. Gortash had heard them talk to themselves sometimes, it wasn’t unheard of, but it rarely had lasted this long. “Fell said he was horrified but I didn’t think-“ They turned towards the wall, clawing their hand down their face. It left a bloody smear down their eyes and jaw. “I didn’t recognize their face after, just their shoes.”
Gortash watched them pace back and forth, then glanced at what was left of his rug. He considered calling for his bodyguards, but it seemed unwise with Onyx in this state. Instead, he walked over to his closet and pulled out a robe to throw over himself so he looked somewhat more respectable. He grabbed one he’d been meaning to throw out as well. Onyx was still rambling when that was done, speaking faster and faster.
“It’s everyone. Everyone. It’s blood, rot and more blood, who I choose and who I don’t, the craving for it never ends. Even my own won’t sate it. It never has.” They gasped for breath, wrapping their arms around themselves. “I’ve tried, but he won’t let me rest-“
Gortash had heard enough. “That much is obvious,” Gortash drawled. He threw Onyx the older robe and they caught it, staring at it dumbly. “I fail to see what this has to do with my plan and your changed opinion on it.”
That seemed to help them recover themselves. Gortash heard them whisper the incantation for prestidigitation under their breath. Their robes were still drenched, but it was dry blood now, and their skin was clean. He watched as they peeled their way out of their ruined clothing until they were in their smallclothes, throwing the robe over that. When they spoke to Enver next, they seemed to be in more control of themselves. “You never take your eyes off your goals, do you Enver?”
“Did you expect anything else of me? Don’t tell me you came here for a shoulder to cry on,” Gortash crooned, pouting at Onyx. “What do you want me to tell you? That it’s not your fault? That you’re not a monster? That you don’t deserve this?” He rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing as getting what you deserve; it’s about how much you can take. And the only thing you’re taking up right now is my time.”
He had no shoulder to cry on within Raphael’s halls. His father was no God, merely a shoemaker who decided him worth coin before he was even born. He’d learned the cruel truth of the world at a young age, just like Onyx had. Except Onyx kept clinging to the hope of a kinder place instead of the real way the world was run.
Onyx’s face shuttered. They looked so old despite their years in the magelight of Gortash’s room, so tired. Gortash walked up to them and clucked his tongue, reaching out to grab their shoulder. They made a single feeble attempt to shove off his grasp, but no more than that. So desperate for comfort, even when said comfort declared itself poisonous. Sometimes Gortash truly felt sorry for them.
“Tell me,” Gortash said, no commanded. He rubbed his thumb with the hand on their shoulder, almost soothing. “What’s changed your mind?”
“I will never be free of him,” Onyx whispered. “My life is his because I can have no other, my love is his because he will let me love no one else. I will not cease until I murder the world in his name or prove myself unworthy in the attempt.”
Ah, that explained it. “You seek an end.”
Brown eyes met his gaze. “Either we lose and it ends, or we succeed and I end it all.”
That wouldn’t do. He shook his head, keeping his voice soft. “What about a third option: we succeed and I keep both the world and you at my feet.”
An emotion crossed Onyx’s face, something other than that hollow empty look. Anger perhaps? Grief? Or, maybe…oh well that was interesting.
“I’m not something you can control, Enver,” They whispered. Going off a hunch, Gortash took another step forward, removing his hand from their shoulder. They let him step closer regardless. He lifted a finger and pressed it into their chest, enjoying how they didn’t flinch away from his touch. So desperate. When he stepped even further into their personal space, he couldn’t help the satisfaction that tinted his voice as he whispered in their ear.
“But wouldn’t you like to be? I think I’m a far better master than your dread Father.”
He leaned back to take in their expression. They looked terrible, their face still covered in blood, tear streaks ruining their makeup. They turned up their nose slightly, but it appeared to be mostly for show. “Why should I prefer one tyrant over another?”
Gortash smirked, taking his free hand to cup their chin. When he caressed his thumb against their skin, they shivered, the blood smearing with it. With his other hand, he grabbed their own and brought it up to his throat, letting their fingers wrap around it. Giving them control to end him, if they so choese. They squeezed just hard enough to bruise, but didn’t keep up the pressure.
Oh, it was so very nice, to command something that wanted to be controlled.
“Because this one you can kill,” Gortash purred, meeting their gaze. Onyx looked at him, then his mouth, then back at him. The hand around his throat moved, instead grabbing the front of his robes. When they pulled him in for a kiss, he could taste the blood on their tongue.
“I’ll kill you,” they said between kisses. Their hands had moved to his sides, grasping the flesh there so hard there would be marks. “I kill everything that I love.”
Gortash grinned, nipping at their lower lip.
“Not if I kill you first.”
After that, he was glad they’d already ruined his sheets.
CHAPTER 4: DID I ENJOY IT?
NOW
“Mine but the Absolute? That was yours.”
It was odd, how information could both relieve devastation and add to it.
The fact Rune had not thought up the entire plan was a relief. They’d suspected as much-that level of complexity revolving the Steel Watch seemed a bit much for any version of Rune-but it was good to have it confirmed. They were likely still complicit in the horrors that Gortash had brought upon the Gondian’s, that much was sure, but at least they hadn’t actively planned to subjugate them.
It said something about Rune’s life, they thought, that being complicit in the Godian’s shackles of servitude rather than the orchestrator of it, was a slight relief. Said relief, Rune thought thankfully, didn’t last long, followed by the feeling of wanting to hurl. How dare they feel even the smallest amount of respite from an equally unforgivable crime? What did that say about them, to gain comfort from something horrific all the same. Were they that self absorbed to care more about their own guilt than the suffering they’d brought down on the people of the Sword Coast? Gods, maybe they would hurl. They deserved as much. Though, thinking about what punishment they were due wasn't their decision to make. That would be up to the Gondians. How dare they assume what punishment was worthy of them?
You are such a fucking monster, they thought, their stomach churning. You look upon the trail of your own destruction and think only of how to lick your own wounds. Like a rabid dog. No matter what you do for the Gondian’s, it will always be in the interests of soothing your own guilt. Miserly. Depraved. Wretched. Unlov-
“Bullshit.”
Rune tore their gaze away from Gortash’s corpse. They found they were shaking somewhat and they hoped they hadn’t gotten lost in their thoughts for too long. Given the intensity of Astarion’s gaze on them, they doubted it. He was watching them closely as the placed some more copper wire onto Gortash’s desk.
“What?” They weren’t sure what exactly he was referring to. Rune watched as Astarion’s walked back to the wall.
“The part about the Absolute. That’s bullshit.” He wiggled his hand in the opening the turret came out of and stuck out his tongue as he fished for more wire. It was cute, Rune thought, before they forced their mind back to the conversation.
“You don’t think the Absolute was my idea?”
Astarion leaned forward a bit, and a delighted smile crossed his countenance as he ripped out another handful of wire. Maybe he would be able to sell it for somewhat of a profit. He strided back over to the desk to add to his bounty, speaking as he did so. “No, that might be true; you told me you suspected as much yourself. But there’s no way any version of you named the Absolute, “The Absolute.”
Rune had suspected as much when it came to the Absolute. Such a plan, to make a farce of the Gods, did strike them as something they might be responsible for. Rune hadn’t remembered much after the Nataloid crash, but their contempt of all things divine was there from the beginning. “Why not?”
“You hate naming things. If you named it, we’d be stuck calling it “Big Brain” or “Doom” or whatever inane thing you saw first. If Scratch didn’t come pre-named, poor thing would be walking around with some horrific title like “fluffy.”
Rune opened their mouth as if to argue, then closed it. Frantically they tried to think of a name that would prove Astarion wrong and came up empty. Flayer? No, too obvious. Dread? No, too close to the Dread Three. Scalpel? Gods, who named a God Scalpel.
Astarion smirked like a cat who got the cream. Rune raised a finger as he began to open his mouth.
“I uh- maybe I was better at it before.” A weak defense and Rune knew it. Astarion leveled his gaze at them and leaned against the wall, his arm once again deep into the wall.
“Well? What would you name this then?” He kicked one leg forward, knocking the ruin of a Steel Watcher with his boot. Rune took a look at it, the faceplate just as lifeless as the rest of the Watch and struggled for a name.
Steel? No, that was already in the name. Statue? No, that wasn’t something you could name a thing. Kyle? Kyle was a name, wasn’t it?
Astarion’s smile grew and Rune grumbled.
“Stop trying to distract me.” He was good at that, leading Rune out of their own head.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Astarion said primly, before pulling out some more wire. “Go on, ask the corpse your hideous questions. For example, what poor soul embroidered his outfit? Because I’d like to ask them where they got that shade of thread.”
Rune looked back at Gortash’s corpse. They had a handful of questions they could ask that might be tactically useful, but they doubted Gortash would actually give them an answer. So instead they asked something that had gnawed at them since they woke up to Alfira’s blood on their hands, the rapture they felt in the moments before it became obvious where the visera came from.
“Did I like it?”
THEN
“Control your beast before I put it down myself,” Ketheric hissed as Gortash walked into the main hall of Moonrise Towers. Given Gortash had left the man and Fox to work without him as a buffer for over a month, it was one of the better introductions he could have hoped for.
Gortash had hoped they’d perhaps get lucky, when he introduced Fox to Ketheric. Despite the reputation the Dead Three’s followers had for loathing each other, Fox and Gortash got on well enough. He’d hoped the same would go for the General and the Assassin.
(Well, not exactly the same. Gortash didn’t like to share. But Ketheric was so hung up on his wife that it probably wasn’t an issue).
Gortash’s hopes were quickly dashed when upon Fox telling Ketheric to pick a name, the General remarked “I thought you named your dogs, Gortash.” To which Fox had grinned, smile almost manic and said “Cute from a man who whored himself out to three Gods. Jealous you can’t keep a master, hm?” And well, Gortash was lucky it hadn’t devolved from violence from there.
In retrospect, he should have known better than to expect Fox to play nice with a man sworn three Gods over. For a leader of a cult, they bristled at any mention of religion besides their own.
“It’s good to see you as well my friend,” Gortash said, bowing low. He hated bending the knee, even when it was for show, but such things needed to be tolerated should he ever obtain enough power to never bow again. “Though your hospitality could use some improvement.”
“You can have my hospitality when you don’t leave me with a maniac for a month.”
Gortash could ask what Fox had done to so stoke the General’s ire but frankly, he has no interest of hearing it. He was sure Ketheric would tell him about it later regardless, begging Gortash to reconsider the Bhaalist as an ally. And Gortash would remind him of their other options when it came to children of Bhaal and the General would shut his mouth because he had enough sense to not want Orin as a potential partner.
Fox could be unpredictable and contrary, but for the most part, they followed orders when it pleased their interests. Orin appeared to detest taking orders on principle, regardless where they fell with her own inclinations. Gortash would take Fox over their kin any day for that alone.
Plus, unlike Orin and Ketheric, Gortash actually liked Fox.
“And where is said maniac?” Gortash asked, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket. His traveling cloak clung to his outfit and he loosened the tie around his neck so he could take it off and fold it in his arms.
“My office” Ketheric said, lip curling.
Now that was a surprise. The General kept his office and his parody of a room for his daughter, under lock and key. Not that a lock would stop Gortash or Fox. “You let them in your office?”
“I allowed them into my office so they stopped presenting me with documents covered in various fluids. It’s a high price to pay but I am occasionally willing to pay it.”
Fox’s workspace in the bowels of the tower, was not the cleanest space. It wasn’t Fox’s fault mostly: a mind flayer colony was not the tidiest working space regardless of how clean one kept their personal space.
Fox was the one who wanted to work down there. Gortash understood why; the amount of blood and gore was soothing for them. But it did mean anything they worked on often carried a touch of the detritus from their work space with it.
“Then I think I shall see how they’ve progressing,” Gortash said, heading towards the stairs. He watched as Ketheric stood out of his mockery of a throne, his movements as slow as the skeletons he commanded.
“I still can’t believe you consort with it,” Ketheric remarked as Gortash headed up the steps. Gortash pretended not to hear him. It was a shame the general was so obsessed with the dead; there was so much to gain from the living.
Gortash made it two steps into Ketheric’s office before he was pushed against the wall and there was a mouth was on his throat. Normally, he’d respond to such an act with efficient violence, but the dark chuckle voiced into his skin made him relax and allow himself to be manhandled. Fox. They bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise. Gortash barely had a moment to process that before Fox’s knee slotted itself in between his legs, the pressure impossible not to grind into. Gortash clung to them. one hand grabbing the back of their robes, the other reaching under the opening in the front to place his hand on their chest. His palm met bare skin, my Gods the cut to their top was obscene, and he couldn’t help but groan. When they stopped creating what was likely a magnificent bruise on his neck, they titled their head up to whisper in his ear.
“The desk.” Their lips were close enough to touch the shell of his ear. Gortash wondered if he might see the purple of their lipstick there later. “Bend over it, won’t you? And lose the trousers.”
Well, this greeting was much better than the reception he got downstairs. Still, he didn’t want to be too receptive to taking orders. He reached forward to tangle his fingers in Fox’s hair, and yanked it back. They looked delectable today, makeup applied with hands skilled enough to render skin from flesh, their long hair pulled back into a half ponytail. The Bhaalspawn was panting as they were forced to meet his gaze, pupils blown wide. Gortash leaned forward so his lips were centimeters from theirs.
“And why should I comply with orders from a Bhaalspawn?”
Fox grinned like their current namesake. They jutted their head forward to bite at his collarbone again. The movement was so rapid some of their hair tore from the motion, various strands ending up in Gortash’s fingers. It had to sting. Fox growled as they licked the bite mark, before sucking a bruise into the pale skin of his neck. Gortash wondered if they broke the skin this time. Not that he cared. He was rather caught up on their leg pressed between his groin and the two hands grasping his ass.
“Because after,” Fox purred, tilting their head to lick his jawline. They were trying to place another mark there, something Gortash could not hide with a well placed shirt collar. “You can give whatever orders you want on Ketheric’s bed.”
And well, Gortash knew a good business deal when he heard one.
Much later, spread out on Ketheric’s bed, the sheets a wreck on the floor, Gortash breathed in, running his fingers through Fox’s hair. It looked good when it was down, and he twirled a silver strand around a finger as he peered down at them. Fox was using his chest as a pillow, tracing circles on his thigh with their right pointer finger.
It was quiet compared to their previous activities. Fox in particular had been quite loud, their moans a touch performative when Gortash had them upon Ketheric’s bed. Gortash wondered if Ketheric had considered coming up to stop them from defiling his chambers, or if he’d stepped out and missed the show entirely. Either way, he’d find out eventually, given the evidence they’d left on his desk and bed per Fox’s request.
His filthy Bhaalspawn.
“What did our dear general do to provoke such petty ire,” he said, letting the strands of Fox’s hair fall through his fingers. Fox hummed, their right finger starting to trace his thigh counterclockwise.
“His continued existence.” Their voice was throaty and a little hoarse from their previous activities.
“I don’t doubt that but I suspect there is more to it, given that you’re not bending me over his desk whenever I visit.” Gortash glanced over at the desk. He’d insisted on removing the actual important paperwork to their plans before they defiled it, but Ketheric’s personal notes and correspondence were now scattered both on the table and floor. Ketheric would likely take issue with Gortash going along with such a task on his personal effects, but Gortash was sure he could pass it off as his way of keeping Fox from murdering them by getting out some excess energy.
It would be more convenient if the two got along but since they didn’t, he didn’t see any issue in ensuring they wouldn’t plot against him by feeding their worst suspicions about one another. If Ketheric asked him, Fox was feral and only controlled by Gortash’s leash. If Fox asked him, Ketheric was a dullard best for the land he controlled and little else.
“He said some things.”
“Ah. Is this about the rabid comment?”
Fox snapped their head up to him, eyes narrowing. “What rabid comment?”
There was no rabid comment though Gortash wouldn’t be shocked if Ketheric voiced such a thing. “Nevermind. Don’t concern yourself with it. What did the General say?”
“Wanted a dress I found. Said some shit about his daughter needing it or other when she comes here.”
“You fought him about a dress?” That was a surprise. Fox wore dresses on occasion, Gortash had them accompany him to a few galas in formal wear, but it was more because it was convenient rather than any enjoyment of formal wear. The same went with suits.
“It’s for Orin.”
Ugh, Orin. Despite how much she and Fox fought, the Sorcerer occasionally doted on her like she was a flighty teenager rather than a grown woman. “Orin can shapeshift into any dress she wants.”
Fox glared at him, tilting their head towards the locked side room. It was for Ketheric’s daughter, this Gortash knew, though he’d never been inside it. Frankly, he had no desire to. “And his brat is going to be living in a locked room for the rest of her miserable experience. A dress will serve as a mockery, not as a gift.”
Gortash thought himself rather shrewd from his years in politics. Fox was harder to read than the gentry of the Gate, but he’d gotten better at understanding them as time passed. Fox told him the Urge desired the Cleric’s blood, the wreckage it could enact should it take the women’s life. They’d promised to hold off on that Urge for the sake of their alliance, but Gortash could see them justifying her death as their own desire now, trying to make their own desires match what the Urge howled at them to crave.
Fox could tell themselves all they wanted that killing Isobel would save her from a lifetime of captivity, but Gortash knew better. If they truly wished to save her of that fate, they could free her themselves when the time came. They just needed an excuse to justify the glee they’d enjoy as they tore out the cleric’s heart.
“You know you can’t kill her if we wish for the General’s continued assistance.”
Fox ceased circling with their right finger, instead pressing down with the tip of their nails over where a major vein lay. For all their brutality, they knew how manipulate a body perfectly. It was only their fondness for Gortash that meant he received pleasure instead of main. “I’m not stupid, Enver.”
He shook his leg slightly to offset their hand. “Obviously. I merely wished to remind you, that’s all.” They hummed, somewhat appeased, and he reached down to up their chin so they were looking up at him. Fox attempted to lick his thumb but he held firm, squeezing slightly. “Now how can I convince you to play nice with our undying general?”
Fox moved so they were lying on top of Gortash now, their arms crossed over his chest, their face above his. He let go of their chin to accommodate the motion. “Remind me why we need him again?”
Gortash gestured to the crumbling tower around them. It smelled like a crypt most days, which was to Fox’s liking. Gortash, however, could do without. “He controls Moonrise.”
“I could control Moonrise”
They could, though Gortash doubted they’d enjoy running two cults given how little they enjoyed the one they were born to. “And then what would we do with the General?”
Fox gave him a flash of white teeth. “Kill him.”
“And how do you suggest we kill the General given his tenacity to staying alive?”
Fox rolled their eyes like the question was a simple matter that people hadn’t spent decades trying to find an answer to. “Separate his head and his limbs from his torso and secure each in secure locations around the sword coast. “
Gortash considered that for a moment. He’d heard of people attempting to burn the General alive before for him to simply reform from ash. If his respective parts were kept away from rejoining, however-
“You have given this far more thought than I like.”
Fox hummed, looking up with a thoughtful look on their face which boded poorly for their continued alliance. “Orin could use a new present. She likes hands.”
Gortash grabbed their chin again. “Fox, you cannot dismember our ally.” He paused, thinking about what they would do should they succeed in this mad plan. ”At least not yet.” Before they opened their mouth to debate them, he rubbed his thumb across their chin, a caress he’d practiced over years of charming the gentry. Fox’s mouth closed along with their eyes and they leaned into the touch, like a plant seeking out a ray of sun.
Ketheric was so very wrong about their Bhaalspawn. They were no beast, as humanoid as the rest of them. They could easily be reasoned with, were one willing to give them what they want. For just a pantomime of affection, and they could be convinced to stay their blades.
Gortash suspected they knew how he sought to control them. As Fox said, they weren’t stupid. But for some reason they allowed it, and for that Gortash was willing to take advantage.
CHAPTER 5: WHAT WAS I TO YOU?
NOW
“The sex? Absolutely.”
The confirmation of what Rune long suspected echoed in the room.
Rune wasn’t exactly sure how someone was supposed to react to this information. Horrified might be a good response, but frankly, given everything their former self had done, bedding Gortash was at least a normal bad decision for someone to make, compared to the cult, the murder, and the likely cannibalism oh Gods, they didn’t want to think too hard about that one. Sleeping with someone vile? Now that was at least a mistake people made on the regular. Maybe that was why, instead of being horrified, they found themselves consumed by an entirely different emotion.
“Gross,” Rune said, nose wrinkling like they smelled something rotten. The mental image of their tongue anywhere near Gortash’s mouth let alone- Gods. “And petty. That’s not what I meant and he knows it.”
“I have to say it was a rather slimy response from an already slimy man.” Astarion said, looking rather disgusted himself. He wasn’t watching them too closely, instead focused on the wall and Rune was glad for it. They watched as he twisted his arm that was still embedded in the wall and pulled out another long string of copper wire. Astarion held it out in Rune’s direction. “You have that thinking look about you. A copper wire for your thoughts?”
Rune actually wasn’t thinking about much. Anything that involved their relationship with Gortash that involved sex wasn’t something they wanted to examine too closely. They doubted they’d find anything there of use, except for some shame and maybe regret.
There was a small thought in the back of their head that did want to examine the matter much more closely. A voice that said something about why Gortash had not looked for them, were they truly lovers. What it said about that relationship, that he hadn’t bothered to even find their corpse, disposed of in a heap under Moonrise. Rune ignored it. It didn’t matter. And if they kept telling themselves that, it would continue not to matter.
No one looked for you. No one even bothered to try to find your corpse. You are just as disposable as every other wretched Bhalspawn. A tool to be used and discarded-
Instead of thinking more about that, Rune snorted, louder than was probably natural. Keep away from those thoughts. “I mean the sex couldn’t have been that good. I don’t remember any of it.”
Did they? There were things they didn’t like in bed, actions that felt off in a way they could place. Was it preference? Or-
“You have one question left,” Astarion said. Rune could have kissed him for the interruption from that train of thought. He peeled away from the wall and pulled out a bag from his pocket. With a sweeping gesture, he shoved all the copper wire off the desk inside before walking back over to Rune. Rune kept their gaze on his face, trying not to pay any mind to the corpse before them.
“I do.” Just one question. There were so many things they could still ask. The most obvious was to clarify their previous question: did they like being…whatever the fuck they were before. The Chosen of Bhaal. A mass murderer. A cult leader. All would suffice yet each potential label held its own connotations. Or they could ask something else entirely, maybe something that might help them fix the mess they made. But if they were to ask something actually useful, they doubted Gortash would actually answer. Maybe they could ask about how they looked before all this and actually, no, bad idea, terrible idea, absolutely not-
“May I make a suggestion?” Astarion’s voice cut off the panic threatening to boil over in Rune’s chest. Rune found themselves terribly thankful he’d followed them here, regardless of their earlier protests. As horrific as it was to hear this laid plain, it was more tolerable with trusted company.
“I thought you didn’t approve.” Rune glanced down at the corpse, then back at at Astarion. He was looking at them across from Gortash’s corpse, eying his nails like he was worried for the state of them even after his entire hand was buried in the wall.
“Oh, I don’t.” He put his hand down and met their gaze. “But if you’re determined to see this exercise in self-flagellation all the way through, I would ask you to consider my feedback.”
Rune wanted to object to the term “self flagellation” but it fit, and after four questions, they weren’t sure if they could pretend otherwise. “Which is?”
Astarion glanced down at Gortash’s corpse, then walked around it. Rune took a step back as he inserted himself in the space between the sorcerer and the dead Duke. His body blocked Rune from seeing Gortash’s face, but the green glow from the spell shined behind him. When he reached up to grab their chin, Rune let him.
“Don’t ask him how you felt about anything. Like your question before.” Rune raised an eyebrow as a silent plea for elaboration and he continued. “He had no way of knowing what was going on in your head. He can make guesses, and I’m sure he did, but that doesn’t mean he was right.”
Astarion had a point, Rune hated to admit it. But Rune barely knew what was going on in their own head most days. How much did they actually crave violence and how much was the Urge? Did they really want to be better, or was that just a lie they told themselves to sleep at night? What thoughts were their own, and which were the Urge whispering in their ear? That was part of the whole problem.
“Look.” Despite the echo of unanswered questions in their head, Rune pulled their focus to the man in front of them. “How would you feel if I asked Cazador’s corpse the same question you just asked?”
Rune flinched at the idea. They’d managed to ignore the hypothetical when Astarion brought it up earlier, but now their brain was less kind. Their direct experience with Cazador was thankfully limited, but in the brief period the man dared to exist in Rune’s space gave them plenty of ideas what he might say to the same question. All of the potential answers made Rune want to cut the man’s vocal cords, if to spare Astarion the wounds those words could inflict.
“It’s not the same-“ they began but Astarion cut them off before they could finish.
“It’s not, but the intent behind asking the question is.” Rune closed their mouth, unable to find a counter argument to the accusation. The only reason they could think of Astarion asking such a thing to Cazador was if he wanted to marinate in his own self loathing. And while Rune wanted to again argue that this information was tactical, they could find no tactical reason that they’d need to know if they used to like their role in the world.
Astarion picked up on their hesitation and reached forward, sweeping back their hair with his hand. His placed a kiss to their forehead before he left his hand there. The cold palm on their skull was a balm for their headache and they couldn’t help but lean into it a little.
“You already have a headache,” he said, the cutting edge that often accompanied his voice blunted by affection and care. “Don’t make me watch you hurt yourself further.”
Rune closed their eyes, enjoying the cold hand on their brow. For a moment, they imagined they were somewhere else, anywhere else, that they had never heard the name Enver Gortash. That their friends were close by, that the Urge was quieter than usual, and there was nothing but the peaceful companionship of the people they now called home.
“What was I to you?” Rune whispered, opening their eyes. Astarion startled slightly, looking rather perplexed.
“Do you truly want me to shower you in compliments here?” He asked, before the green light behind him flared brighter. Still holding his hand with their own, Rune gently pushed him aside to look down at the corpse of Enver Gortash.
Astarion was right: every answer Gortash gave would be from his perspective, his own thoughts. So why bother asking him for objectivity in the first place? Might as well get straight to the point and ask something Gortash would know the truth of, even if he refused to tell it.
What did a monster think of a monster?
---------
THEN
It was after the hour of Midnight, when he tracked Hex down to a building in Rivington
Tracking them was easy, when he needed to do so: he had a “locate object” spell on their shared sending stones that made him capable of seeking them out, when he truly needed to. This was one of those times: Hex had not responded to any of his missives for at least an hour, and given the urgency of the task Gortash had for them, he couldn’t wait for them to reply to him. So he cast a locate object spell and after some walking in the dark, come across a small path leaving to a building somewhere in Rivington.
What business Hex had here was not something he knew about. That wasn’t unusual, Hex had plenty of murder and cult politics to deal with. They could be here for a multitude of reasons, ranging from satisfying their own blood lust to doing some freelance assisination work. Gortash knew he shouldn’t be bothered by his ignorance of what they were up to, but still. He so hated to be lacking information. It was such a useful thing to have to avoid unexpected complications.
Hex wouldn’t be pleased he tracked them down, either. They tended to chafe at the reminder he could locate them around the city. Gortash thought the ire rather childish. They should get used to it now, given how this would be his city soon enough, should things go according to plan. Complaining about such a minor thing now was like a child throwing a tantrum.
He pulled himself from his thoughts and started down the path to a three story building with brick walls and a firm foundation. Rather well built, he thought, given the location, According to the sign near the road, there were several businesses housed here: a tailor for “silk garnets” and a gardener for hire. The gardener appeared to have applied their profession to the land surrounding the building; long garden paths lined the path to the entrance, showcasing an amount of greenery only a skilled hand could coax from the earth of the Gate.
Gortash continued towards the building and looked down at the garden paths that ran from the stairs to the connection to the main road. Closer to the main road, flowers bloomed and long grass leaned over the brick road. It should smell rather lovely as a large collection of flowers did at this time of the year, but instead the overwhelming smell of rot and decay filled Gortash’s nose. As he got closer to the entrance of the building, the source of the stench was obvious. All the plants within a six foot diameter around the front of the building were dead. The tall green grass laid flat on the ground, the color now brown, while the smaller strands turned yellow and appeared sharp to the touch. The flowers were drooping, the bright colors grayed, the petals wrinkled. The bushes lost half their leaves, the remaining foliage merely hanging on to the branches like they didn’t know what else to do in death except cling to where there was once life. The trees were the only things that still looked alive, though from the smattering of leaves that covered the road, Gortash knew their appearance was merely an illusion of life.
There was one spell that could cause this: Circle of death. Gortash saw Hex cast it once or twice, one of the occasions being their heist in Avernus. Given how loath they were to rely on their magic, there had to be good reason to use such a massive spell.
The door was unlocked and opened slowly so as to not make extra noise. Upon entry, there were already two corpses in sight, seated at two chairs facing the other, a lit lantern between them along with a chess board. At both of their sides were a crossbow and a staff leaning against the wall: neither had been holding them. As expected, both were dead, a half elf and a Dragonborn slumped in their respective seats. The Dragonborn faced away from him but he could see the shock in the half elf’s face, mouth parted slightly open. Purple Black veins were visible under their brown skin, the necrotic damage obvious.
Gortash approached the table and looked down at the board. Given their seating arrangements, he assumed they were on watch, though if they were playing chess, he doubted it was a very good effort. They’d almost been done with the game too, if the Dragonborn realized how close he was to checkmate. Given the pieces already captured off the board, neither was skilled tactically. Despite knowing it was silly, Gortash reached for one of the Black bishops, and moved it into position so it properly locked the White King in checkmate.
After that he moved to the second floor. Here too, were a handful of corpses, around three or so if he had to guess. They appeared to also be armed; curious. This likely wasn’t simply satisfying bloodlust then, He started up the third set of stairs but stopped when he heard a voice.
“Disgrace.”
Orin. Damn it. Gortash hadn’t expected Orin. Why couldn’t she be busy making a sculpture out of femur bones or something? Gortash hadn’t considered her presence even as an opinion: the two Bhaalspawn tended to work alone, only appearing together when it was a matter of significant importance. For them both to be out on the same mission was rather rare. Unless she’d stolen Hex’s sending stone-
“Quit whining, Orin,” that was Hex, their voice snappish. Well, at least they were there. That didn’t improve Gortash’s situation much; Orin would react poorly to Gortash’s unexpected presence regardless. While he was sure Hex would intervene before she did too much damage, he wasn’t in the mood to be stabbed. He considered retreating and returning at a later point, but he was loathe to walk back across the city if he didn’t have to. So instead, he reached for his gold ring on his pinky finger, turned it three times counterclockwise and felt the shroud of an invisibility spell fall over him.
He would have to reapply the spell to the ring later, he thought with irritation. But he supposed the cost of materials and hours spent re-infusing the ring with the spell was less expensive than buying a potion for a stab wound. With that, he crept up the stairs until he made it to the landing of the third floor, walked through the door that was left thrown open, and took in the scene before him.
Unlike the other rooms, there was the echo of violence here. A corpse laid in the center of the room, but unlike the others, their throat was slit, and they appeared to also be disemboweled. Blood drenched the floorboards, Gortash was surprised it hadn’t dripped through the cracks and into the second floor. The corpse was that of an elf, well armed with a sword and a shield, though neither seemed to have provided them much luck,. His eyes stared blankly into the distance, his mouth parted in the memory of a scream.
Orin stood above the body, her arms drenched in blood up to her elbows. She ran her fingers across her arms, further smearing the blood, but she didn’t seem to be enjoying it, as she usually would. Every few seconds she mumbled a different word under her breath, growing louder as her sibling continued to ignore her. Hex was crouched near the body on their knees, digging through the corpse’s pockets, ignoring Orin’s grunts. Gortash didn’t know what they were looking for, but they appeared to find it, snatching something small and placing it within their own robes. They were less bloodstained than their kin, but there was a smear of blood across their face that stained their mouth like cheap lipstick.
“Mindless,” Orin hissed, dipping her foot in the blood pool and smearing it across the floor. Gortash wondered if she might try to paint with it, the wretched creature. “The blood split sings. Contained in flesh chests, deprive father of its shine. Disgrace.”
Hex rolled their eyes as they got to their feet. They walked over to a wall and began tapping against the wood there, taking a moment to listen to the echo. “Your complaining is a disgrace,” They said between knocks. “This is at least half a dozen murders for Father’s altar. Are you not happy for his bounty?”
Orin bristled like a cat. Her hair almost puffed out like one too. “No blood-“
“No blood? You’re covered in it.”
“Not enough. Only a tease of red split upon the floor. Many corpses but only one has flesh cut open. A farce of a sacrifice.”
Hex knocked on another part of the wall and paused with the echo came off dulled. They pried their fingernails into the wood and Gortash watched as they leveraged up a section of the board to reveal a keyhole. The force tore at their nails, and blood ran through their fingers from the new injuries.
“Your need for showboating is the farce,” they said, digging into their pocket and pulling out a shiny silver item that they pressed into the keyhole, then discarded it onto the floor. With a creak, a large section of the wall lowered into the floor, revealing a small office with a desk, maps, a closet and a few chests. Once they took in the space, they turned around to look at Orin, contempt obvious. “Father wants murders: he cares not for how they are made. It doesn’t matter how carefully you rend flesh from bone: it means nothing when I’ve delivered him multiple souls in merely an instant.”
Orin’s shoulders raised and she stalked towards them, getting up in their face. Gortash reached for his hand crossbow: if she attacked it would give him a great excuse to shoot her. “It thinks it knows,” she sang in a childish tune. “What father wants-“
She cut off with a strangling laugh as Hex grasped her chin in their right hand, electricity sparking off their fingers. Her body jerked from the pain of the spell, and a small dribble of blood fell from her lips as she bit her own tongue. Hex leaned in, smile wild and unhinged in a way Gortash knew to respond to with caution.
“I know what he wants,” they said and Gortash was sure he could hear another voice rumble under their own, the echo of the divine joy brought from such petty violence. “I am made of his flesh incarnate, I am the one molded from his darkest impulses, I am the hand of the Murder Lord made mortal to bring about his reign. You are of his blood but you are not an extension of him. Your own desires can pollute your own worship.” They let go of her chin and kicked out at her ankle. Orin dodged, taking a step back, but it didn’t look as graceful as her movements usually looked. Hex, meanwhile, snapped their fingers, a font of electricity sparking as a warning before vanishing entirely. “It serves you to remember that.”
Orin hissed, her expression tight, her teeth bared. Both her and Gortash watched as Hex walked into the small office space, and reached for one of the maps hung on the wall.
“Gortash will want to see this,” they said to themselves. Gortash watched as they ripped it down, and shoved it into their robes. Their habit of taking every scrap of paper and parchment reminded him of a bird sometimes, collecting material for a nest.
Orin appeared to have recovered from her electrocution. Gortash watched as she shook herself, almost like a dog shaking off water, and her face changed. Her hair transformed into a long ponytail, her skin gained some color, and her clothing turned into the same robes Hex was wearing now. When Hex glanced over and saw their own reflection staring back at them, they groaned out loud.
“Really, Orin? You’re acting like a child.”
“Better a child than a precocious pet,” Orin said. Gortash found it fascinating, how she could so perfectly mimic how other people talked given how she refused to speak clearly in her true form. Was most of her madness simply for show, to fit the role Bhaal had assigned her? Or was she truly as mad as she appeared to be, just skilled at appearing sane, when required?
“Stop talking in riddles Orin,” Hex said, posture becoming loser, dragging their words out with a hiss. “Just say what you mean.”
Gortash looked at the two Hexes. Orin had copied them perfectly, down to mannerisms. In response, Hex had taken on Orin’s usual posture, shoulders back, looking a mix of bored and disgusted. They mirrored people when they were annoyed with them; Gortash had seen them replicate Ketheric’s tone and lazy hand wave at more than one meeting when the General said something they found particularly irritating.
Perhaps Orin was the origin of that habit. Whenever she turned into the Chosen to mock them, the Chosen did the same back in their physicality and tone.
Having siblings must be exhausting.
“Why must you waste your time with the Banite?”
Hex rolled their eyes with a relish that would be at home on Orin’s face. Walking purposefully slow, like a sulking cat, they bent back down next to the corpse. With care, they trailed a finger through the gore of the man’s slit throat and shuddered in pleasure. Gortash wasn’t sure if the latter but was part of their Orin impression, or their own delight they tried to keep on a leash when he was around.
For some reason, the idea of Hex hiding something about themselves from his own eyes, filled him with irritation. The idea that Orin of all people, might know parts of Hex better than himself was infuriating.
Hex wiped their blood stained finger across their own throat, smiling wide. When Orin smiled in response, more pleased by their mockery than irate, their expression returned to a deadpan that was all Hex. They turned back to the dead man’s pockets and began to pull out coins. Their left hand was deep in his pocket and Gortash watched as they pulled out blood soaked coins one by one to stack in a pile on the wooden floor. He’d taken note of their habit for penny pinching shortly into their acquaintance. It was a habit he often saw in his own men, once street urchins used to emptying drunkard’s pockets for change whenever they passed out in a gutter.
“He’s useful.”
Orin blew her, well Hex’s, bangs to the side of her face. Unlike Hex, she seemed uninterested in scrounging the dead man’s room for anything of use. Gortash wouldn’t be surprised if the only thing that actually interested her was the dead body itself. “Useful? For what? Whetting your appetites? Lesser hungers? ”
Hex looked up at her, appearing to have pilfered the last of the man’s belongings, shoving them into a bag. They placed the bag into one of their oversized pockets and got up, wiping the dust off their robes like they weren’t already saturated in blood. “That’s merely a bonus.” Soon they walked over to the main wardrobe of the room and with a snap of their fingers, opened it to reveal a colorful assortment of gowns and shirts. Gortash was somewhat surprised to see them eye the clothes with interest; when he’d requested their service at any upper crust event, they’d always disguised themselves as the help, refusing his offers to acquire them suitable dress for the occasion. He’d thought them adverse to silk as a concept. Given how they were eying a rather fine doublet, he’d been wrong. “Anyway, you don’t have to deal with him: why bother complaining.”
“A starving pet. A dog he has brought to heel. What commands do you answer to Bloodkin? Bark? Bite? Roll over?”
Hex turned to look at her, then theatrically placed their hand over they heart, their eyes going wide. “Oh Orin, don’t tell me you suddenly care about my honor,” they cooed, tone sickeningly sweet. Orin visibly gaged before she replied.
“Your blade cuts, cuts, cuts. Bites at his command. Blood pours, rich blood. Our father’s name at a Banite’s call. Bhaal’s chosen, a pup on a leash.”
“And?”
Orin turned back into herself, her eyes going back to the voidless pupils that Gortash found unsettling. “Sickening.”
“Good thing it’s none of your concern then.” Hex dragged a dress out of the wardrobe, appraised it, then threw it to Orin who catched it in one go. It was a rather plain frock, but the buttons were a lovely ruby red that Orin ran her thumb over. “A reward.” At that, her expression soured, and she dropped the dress on the floor.
“I am not a pitiful pet in need of treats,” she hissed, stepping on the dress and grinding it into the blood. Hex leaned back against the dresser.
“Then act like one. You’re dismissed.”
Orin appeared like she might linger just to spite them before she headed for the window, flinging herself out of it like the dramatic music she was.
It was curious, Gortash thought, how Hex treated their fellow kin. When he first learned of Orin, he assumed Hex kept her around because they were forced to, much like Sarvok. But as time passed, it became clear Orin’s continued existence was based, at least in part, from a place of affection. They were harsh on their sister, and at times cruel, but they were also deeply protective when anyone dared to question her place in Hex’s ranks.
Gortash wouldn’t think about this much if it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that he despised the women. Where Hex was a blade that could be aimed and directed, Orin was as precise as a storm of daggers. Where Hex planned their next movements unless their father forced their hand, Orin acted almost entirely on impulse. Where Hex was starved of affection that they enjoyed Gortash’s pantomime of it, Orin found it demeaning at best.
She’d threatened to gut him like a fish at least a dozen times. To be fair, so had Hex, but Gortash was confident they would abstain until the plan was complete.
Once he was sure Orin was gone, Gortash cleared his throat, letting the invisibility spell fall. Hex, who was back to looking at the documents on the desk, swirled around ready to cast, before they took him in. Their battle stance fell, replaced by irritation.
“Family can be so trying, can’t they?” He said, leaning against the doorframe. Hex’s eyes narrowed and they turned back to the documents they were inspecting previously.
“How long were you listening?” They said, voice curt. They were not pleased with his presence. He expected as much. Orin never put them in a good mood.
“Merely a few minutes. I didn’t mean to spy, but it seemed unwise to alert Orin of my presence.” He walked up to the secret panel on the wall and took a look at what Hex had used to activate it. Now that he was closer, he could see a shiny silver pin pressed into a keyholel, the harp design a familiar irritant. “Ah, a den of Harpers. Good to see you dealing with pests.”
Hex didn’t respond to his comment, instead going over to the hidden desk. They lit a candle with a snap of their fingers and began to rifle through the collected papers in the first drawer.
“I must say, I thought they were supposed to be made of stronger stuff,” Gortash continued, plucking the pin from the panels. He should melt it down and turn it into a mechanism for one of his traps. It would provide some satisfaction to know some Harper’s might fall to their own symbol.
“These were mostly rookies,” Hex said, holding one of the pieces of paper over the candle to burn while they read another. “If this was a proper outpost, we’d have more trouble.”
“Why bother with the rookies? Strike at a larger fish and some might simply run on their own.”
“Needed to teach Orin a lesson.” They pulled at the next drawer in the desk and grumbled when it did not open. “Do you have your skeleton key? I need to open this.”
“I wasn’t aware she was capable of that.”
“What do you want, Enver?” The dismissal was clear and irritating. If Hex wanted to keep some of their business to themselves, so be it, but Orin could ruin their whole operation. That made her Gortash’s concern.
Gortash decided against pressing the matter, at least not now. He had some theories at least, from his own research. He placed his hands behind his back and stood up straighter.
“I need you at Moonrise. The tadpoles might be ready.”
Hex grabbed another handful of papers, and flipped through them. Gortash watched as they pulled one out from the stack and shoved it in their own pockets. It was hard to read with the low light and distance, but it looked to be a report on a supply stash. “Took long enough. I assume the sooner the better?
“Correct.” Hex stashed a full more papers into their crumpled pockets before turning to look at Gortash properly.
“I can leave within a few hours. Once I torch this place, I’ll inform Orin and head out.”
Gortash tried very hard not to twitch. He felt a headache beginning to brew behind his temples. Orin, Orin Orin; when would he be free of hearing of that godforsaken liability. “Why must you inform that madwoman of anything?”
“Because I plan to drag her with me as punishment for her insolence.
Gortash stiffened, his former resolve to not push the matter dissolving like sand against the tide. This was too much. The last thing he needed was Orin’s presence at Moonrise. “You could simply kill her instead of trying to tame her. It would save you time and significant stress.”
Hex didn’t look up at him, instead reaching into the drawers to pull out any leftover parchment. As they crumpled it up into balls, they spoke in a steady voice. It was a tone that reminded Gortash of a boxer, preparing to take a hit. Fitting; this was to be a fight after all. “That would be a waste of a useful resource.”
Liar. “She’s not a resource, she’s a liability. You know as well as I do that she wants you dead.”
Hex rolled their eyes. They placed a few balls of paper near the drapes of the window, then some more near a hay cot in the corner. Setting up the funeral pyre this building would be.
“So do you.” They said it like it was a certainty.
That wasn’t exactly the case. Gortash was prepared to kill Hex, should he have to. Should Hex bow under the fist of Bane, should Hex decide to submit to his command rather than their Father, he would have no need to kill them. It was unlikely, this Gortash knew, but he could at least entertain such a possibility.
He liked Hex. Maybe even loved them, the same way a king loved a prized caged bird. A cruel type of love, but no less cruel than Hex’s own affections. Hex, who if they loved him, loved him like a hound loved a slab of fresh meat.
If the children of the Dead Three loved at all, they loved just as cruelly as their masters.
“Eventually,” Gortash said, not willing to critique an assumption that likely brought Hex some comfort. “But not anytime soon, less you decide our arrangement is not to your liking.” He winked at Hex who responded by scowling at him. “Orin, I fear, may be more rash.”
“She commands the respect of the dopplegangers,” Hex said, taking a seat in the chair that once held the fallen Harper. They crossed their legs and took out one of their daggers, spinning it in their hand. Gortash knew they were talented enough to avoid cutting themselves, so when their dagger sliced their thumb, he knew he had them somewhat rattled. Good.
“Respect you could easily command yourself as a child of Bhaal.”
Hex turned their gaze from the bead of blood now trailing down their thumb, their dagger still in their hand. Brown eyes met his own. Their voice had a hiss to it. “Since when has it been your business to meddle in the matters of the temple of Bhaal?”
Gortash walked over to them and titled his chin down to look at them properly. They were tense, possibly from the argument he’d overheard, possibly from his own line of questioning. He reached forward and tucked a stray lock of their hair behind their ear. Gortash didn’t miss how they twitched at the gesture. “Since we have joined together in a venture that concerns us both.” Hex’s frown deepened but he decided to push the matter further regardless. “Hex, you know as well as I do that she seeks to take your place. And while she has plenty of skill with a blade, she lacks any capability for planning.” With the same hand he’d used to tuck back their hair, he threaded his fingers through their long locks. Pulling his hand away from their skull only a fraction caused the strands to catch slightly on his gauntlets, and they tilted their head back in response. How lovely. “Plus, I would miss the pleasure of your company.”
Hex’s yanked their head away from his hand, the same strands of hair tearing away from their scalp from the harsh movement. When their gaze meet Gortash’s next, their eyes were narrow and their expression was cold. After placing their dagger back in its sheath, they pushed him backward, blood smearing onto his tunic. “You’d miss the pleasure of something alright. Stay out of my affairs, Enver.”
Hex got up, striding away from him and Gortash ground his foot against the floorboards. Maybe it was the late hour, or the fact they were so close to their goal, or the fact he rather liked this shirt that made him itch for a fight.
“You’re usually much more reasonable than this,” he said, seizing Hex’s wrist with his gauntleted hand. He dug in his fingers, not afraid to leave bruises, to make it clear on Hex’s skin that he had some claim to them. “If you didn’t have a need for him, I know you would have killed Sarvok. So why not Orin? What inspires mercy from someone who is supposed to have none?”
Gortash suspected he knew the reason why. It was on the tip of his tongue, a piece of information he gleaned from years of digging and placing gold into the right palms. He’d kept it to himself, like all good information, knowing that should he reveal his knowledge, it might lose all its power like a spell scroll opened and consumed.
But he also knew that information would cut far deeper than his gauntlets ever could. And the thought of Orin so close to the heart of what would allow him true control, control for the rest of his days, enough control that he could make even Raphael bend to kiss his ring, made him want to cut deep.
“Do not excuse my practicality for mercy, Banite,” Hex said, sparks flying off the hand of the wrist he’d seized. A warning. A threat. You are not in control here.
Time to cut through that illusion.
“And do not mistake my restraint for ignorance ████.”
Hex stopped pulling away from him. The sparks from their fingers sputtered out. Their brown eyes widened, and he could see the slightest flinch.
“…excuse me?” Gortash had never heard them sound like this before. Unmoored in a way only a mortal could be. He smiled, making sure it was all teeth.
“Why?” He sang, letting a bit of the infuriating naive tone he’d heard from years of parties and galas. The “him? The son of shoemakers can you believe it?” tone. “Do you not like it?”
Some of the shock faded from Hex’s expression, replaced by anger. “Don’t play dumb.”
Fair enough. “That is your name, is it not?████? You appeared to have used it for almost two decades at least. I assume you picked it yourself once you were old enough to realize it needed changing.”
Hex was silent, looking straight at him. Gortash supposed he could leave it there, but it had taken quite a bit of work to track down this information. He’d spent hours looking over old newspapers in the basement of Baluldur’s Mouth, his fingers becoming stained with ink from the effort. It was a task he would have usually hired someone for, but when it came to matters regarding Hex, he’d rather keep that information to himself.
He let go off their wrist and began to pace.
“It took me a while to narrow down, I will admit. There were a few options, and I wasn’t entirely certain. It wasn’t like you left a lot of clues. But eventually I got enough to piece some things together. Your knowledge of the Harpers, the fact you’re from the Gate..And when your butler mentioned such a grisly murder at such a young age, well, I thought it couldn’t hurt to check the papers.”
He looked at Hex. They were still staring at him. Were they paler than usual or was it just the darkness of the claustrophobic room?
“An unsolved double homicide and a missing human child around the age of…11? Rather interesting case, actually: two parents and their two adoptive children: a tiefling and a human. The gnome was in the Harper’s records actually, as was the elder child who happened to not be at home during the original massacre: a promising young woman-“
“Stop-“ Hex whispered, voice unsteady.
“She was a rather talented in the Bardic arts.”
“Stop.” This time their voice was a little louder. He pressed on.
“The tiefling was murdered too, though I’m sure you know that. Not until almost a decade later, curious enough. Disemboweled looking for her missing sibling-“
“Stop!” Hex shouted, loud enough to be heard down the street. They were shaking like trying to cast off a fever, like if they shook hard enough they could shake the memory with it. Sickened by their own history. He understood that well enough. He felt similar when he saw a polishing rag when the temperature was just high enough to echo that of Avernus.
Gortash felt a moment of pity for them. Poor thing; too much a monster to be mortal, too much a mortal to be a monster. Clinging to the echo of a feeling for a dead sister, and etching it onto another who had no desire for the regard. He’d been similar once, seeking out older mortals under Raphael’s service and hoping to see parental affection in their eyes. He’d learned soon enough there was none to be found.
Safety was not found through others. Safety was thing you took by force. How silly that Bhaal’s favorite child still refused to admit otherwise.
Clucking his tongue, Gortash walked towards them. When they didn’t move, even when he was chest to chest with them, he reached up with his gauntlet to cradle their cheek with his palm. One of his claws left a scratch near their eye in the same place they had a thin scar. As gently as he could, he tilted their head up to look at them, trying to sound soothing.
“Orin is not Aria, he said, voice low, the sharp edge gone. “It would serve you to remember that.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to their clammy brow, holding their chin firmly with his hand.
And with that blow delivered, he turned around and began to walk out of the room.
CHAPTER 6: WHY?
NOW
“An asset.”
Rune peered past Astarion and watched as the green light faded from Gortash’s eyes and mouth. His body fell back to the floor with a soft thud, the spell far more gentle to Gortash’s corpse than the man ever was in life.
It was over. Five questions and five answers, no second attempts. Unless they could extract more information from Gortash’s own notes, this was the most information Rune was ever going to get about their previous self.
Before they left for this endeavor, Rune knew the results would likely be deeply unsatisfying. But they didn’t anticipate how empty it would make them feel, to reach out for some clarity and only find more questions than answers.
“Well, that was rather pointless,” Astarion said, glancing at the corpse over his shoulder. Rune dragged their hand down their face-they loved this man, but sometimes he really needed to think before he spoke- and groaned.
“Please don’t rub it in.”
Astarion started, paused then had the good sense to look abashed. “I wasn’t-“
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, nothing was, but Rune’s head hurt too much to make a fuss about it. “Look, let’s get out of here.”
Astarion opened his mouth as if to speak again then shut it. Rune watched as he headed towards the window they entered through and followed. On the way, their eyes lingered on a small mirror Gortash had hanging on the wall. It was somewhat cracked from the fight earlier, but they could still make out their reflection even in the dim light. Short white hair long grey before it’s time. Deep dark bags under their eyes that spoke of little sleep. A jagged scar across the bridge of their nose that they had no memory of getting.
Rune stared into the mirror for a long moment. Gortash’s corpse had provided them with some information but none of it was to the questions they actually had. There was only one person who could answer those.
What did they used to look like, before everything? Rune had a rough picture from Kressa’s notes-she’d commented on having to shave off their long hair-but the rest was a mystery. Did they wear makeup or only got disguised? How did they like to dress? Was Rune’s fondness for shiny trinkets their own or an echo of someone else?
They grimaced, watching their reflection do the same. Speaking with Gortash’s corpse had been mostly useless. All it left them with was more questions. And the only person who could answer them had not left a corpse behind to ask.
“Why?” Rune whispered to their reflection hoping Astarion wouldn’t hear. That’s all they wanted to know, truly. Why do all this? Why stop fighting the Urge? Why partner with Gortash and Ketheric?
Maybe if Rune knew the answer to any of those questions, they could stop themselves from becoming that person again.
Their reflection just stared questionly back at them. Rune grumbled and blew out some hot air fueled by their wild magic, fogging the glass so they could no longer see their face.
With that, they walked towards the window where Astarion was waiting to leave this mess behind them.
------------
THEN
Here was the issue: you should have known he’d find out.
You weren’t stupid, in fact you thought you were rather smart. You had to be running a fully stocked and fed murder cult underneath the guard’s nose. Ketheric could call you feral all he wanted; at the end of the day, you were the one who came up with the cult spin to Gortash’s plan. You were smart, you knew it, and that was why you were in charge of the cult and Sarvok was tasked with warming a chair.
So you should have known Gortash would go looking. You went searching after his history, of course he’d do the same. Easier to manipulate someone with the whole picture of their past. But you’d made an immense effort to disconnect yourself from your own history, that it had never occurred to you that there was anything to find. That there was a record of the name you picked for yourself anywhere.
You picked out your own name when you were seven and decided the one you had didn’t fit right. You spent weeks pouring through whatever scraps of writing you could get your hands on, books, newspapers, old letters, trying to find something that you thought was better suited. In the park, you’d curl up under a tree with a tomb stolen from your father’s study and read odd names in the acknowledgments section, deciding how much you liked the sound of them.
Stupid. You were smart but Gortash was smarter. You should have known that much.
“You can change your mind and pick another one if you don’t like it,” your father told you over dinner one night as you furtively read composer’s names out of one of Aria’s folders of sheet music under the table. You didn’t know how to explain to him that you wanted it to be right the first time, how this would be the first thing of importance you picked for yourself and you wanted to be fond of it, even if you decided to change it again later.
Even then, your body didn’t feel entirely your own. Maybe that was why you put so much weight on that choice. Or maybe it was just your natural nerouses. It’s easier to assign intention to such things in retrospect.
You should have known there was enough of your old self in you to connect you to the person you left behind.
You wanted to recoil from that idea. You wanted to vomit at the, likely true, suggestion you were projecting Aria onto Orin. You didn’t have the time to do either, not with Gortash turning away from you, pleased as a cat that pinned a bird.
You noticed he enjoyed bird names early on. Having people pick what to call you was partially born out of convenience but it also told you a lot about a person. You can assume some things from a man who calls his dog “precious” versus one who calls his dog “mutt”. The bird names told you two things.
That Gortash enjoyed having the power to define you. But not as much as he enjoyed the fact that you made the rules.
You could let this interaction end without saving some face. If this alliance was to hold, you could not let this slight go unpunished. Thankfully, you knew just the solution for putting someone in their place. Literally.
Your magic sprung to your fingertips as you called for its power. If it decided to act up, this would embarrass you even further, but it was worth the risk. You felt the weave tangle between your fingers like vines and you twitched your wrist to edit the spell slightly; Hold person worked best when there were no verbal components to give it away. Once you’ve shaped the weave correctly, you unleashed it, all your focus on the man in front of you.
He froze. His right foot was even paused in mid-step, his entire body locked into place. The spell was so perfect that he didn’t even twitch. After taking a second to make sure no imps were about to appear, you forced yourself to smile as you walked into his line of sight. That smile almost became genuine when you saw the slightest bit of fear on his face, barely concealed under the rage.
You don’t love him. You love parts of him- his intelligence, his sense of humor, the fact he isn’t scared of you- but you don’t love him. Gortash is, at best, someone you can feign love with, someone you can reap some of the benefits of love from without your father crushing it immediately for your insolence.
You told him once that the tadpoles weren’t the only parasites in your scheme. He needed you for the power of the cult, you needed him to keep you supplied. He’d retorted it was more like mutualism, but you both know the truth. Only one of you could come out on top.
Time would tell who was the parasite and who’s the meal.
“Would you like some applause for being clever?” You said, leaning in close enough to kiss him. Despite the grin you’re forcing, you kept your voice flat. Thankfully you had practice keeping your voice free of emotion. “Perhaps some praise? I’m sure Raphael didn’t give you enough of either.”
Gortash eyebrow twitched. Good.
You met Raphael once. He appeared in your chambers unannounced around half a year ago, swirling a goblet of wine and complaining about “the stench of the decor.” He wanted the crown, thought he could persuade you to hand it to him if he promised you a deal. After he learned there was nothing he could offer you- why ask for anything when Bhaal could undo destroy it by piloting your own two hands- he vanished and you had to deal with the lingering smell of sulfur mixed with decay and rot for at least a week afterwards.
Even if he could offer you something worthwhile, you doubted you’d take the deal. You disliked cambions.
“Poor little Enver Gortash, unloved and unwanted,” You continued, drawing back to pace in front of him. You felt him struggle against the spell and poured more magic in to shore it up. You weren’t done yet. “Nothing to depend on but his wits and his word. Did you feel clever when you found where I came from? Did you feel special?”
You’re sure he did. He prided himself on being clever and you have taken full advantage of that on multiple occasions. You could see him in your mind’s eye, leering at a headline you lived first hand, his glee at finding something you had not told him yourself.
“Did you feel envious when you realized my parents wanted a Bhaalspawn more than yours wanted you?” You glanced at him, watching as his eyes dilated. Though the hold person, he managed a single twitch.
They loved you. They wanted another child so terribly and your father was so thrilled to find you. He’d told you the story of hearing you cry from an alley over a dozen times when you were small, how he thought you were a stray cat. And then your mother would chime in about sewing together two of her outfits to make you clothes and Aria would laugh and laugh and laugh because they did the same for her-
You felt your magic strain, Gortash pushing the bounds once again. You threw what was left of your magic into strengthening it again and forced yourself to pick up pace. You needed to make your point now: let go of the theatrics. Now was not the time to act like Orin.
“I only have 30 seconds left or so assuming you don’t get lucky so let me make this clear-“ You gentle removed the gauntlet from his left hand, and let it fall to the floor. With your right hand, you dug the nail of your pointer finger into the back of his hand, drawing blood. Gortash growled in response. “I am a thing meant to be controlled but never by you. You finding my ghost means nothing.”
Ghost was the closest word you could pick to describe that version of you, the foolish child who knew nothing of what was coming, who grew into a naive adolescent who thought they could control their very blood from running wild. That version of you had died multiple times from your own hands; literally and metaphorically. You were what was left over after your father burned everything else away.
It was a ruinous, disgusting, pathetic thing, but it was you. Your father owned the blood in your veins, the slice of your daggers, the urge in your head but your contempt for the man in front of you? That was yours.
Gortash could have run away. He could have left the whole damn mess of it alone and used his intelligence and wit to become an inventor or a scholar or a farmer, literally anything else other than bowl it to Banes altar.
“Every concession I make to you is because I will it.” You dug your nail in deeper, making sure to wet the pad with blood.
“Every act of submission is my choice.” You wiggled it back and forth to worsen the wound.
“I let you play the beast tamer, but it is a role. Forget that at your own peril.” You removed your hand and reached up to place your bloody finger over his mouth. And-“
Your magic snapped. You had no time to react before it recoiled back at you. With a flash of light, you found yourself teleported back outside the house, standing on the rooftop of the holding next to it, your hand still raised as if to silence an invisible figure. The last of your lecture died in your throat.
And never mention Aria again.
A curse from next door drew you out of your stupor. You ducked down low and looked over towards the building just in time to see Gortash thrust his gauntlet back on with a grunt. He looked out the window, cursed, and then returned back inside. With a single word, he cast a fire bolt into the debris and stormed downstairs.
By the time you see him leave the building the entire room was alight. It would long be cinders before anyone arrived to put it out, something the guards should write off as an accident rather than sabotage to save the paperwork. The Harper’s would know better; good, best to put some fear in them. That happy thought is enough to lift your spirits just a little.
After you find a way back down to the street you walked into the night back into the city, past the Rock and into the lower part of town. It was late enough that most of the bar patrons were back in their beds, leaving only a slim few to wander the streets. You kept to the shadows out of force of habit regardless. While you should head home, instead you wander ideally, trying to drown out memories with the sound of your steps against the cobble.
Eventually you found yourself at the Docks, looking at out the Chionthar. You liked it here despite the smell, though you find yourself scowling realizing Gortash probably used your fondness for the spot as another one of his clues.
No matter how much blood you drenched yourself in, you couldn’t suffocate who you used to be.
You kicked at one of the loose nails in the boards. It merely wiggled from the force of your frustration. At least Fell wasn’t there to bother you. You told him that you wanted him to assemble five complete skeletons from the bone pile from a ritual and then filched the metatarsals and stapes from them to make it impossible but not obviously so. He’d figure it out eventually, but until then you thankfully had time to yourself.
There was no self for you. Haven’t you learned that lesson. Stupid foolish-
As much as you could manage, at any rate.
You walked up to the edge of the docks and sat down on the boards, letting your right hand dangle into the water. Absentmindedly, you cast shocking grasp a few times, watching as the electricity rippled through the water. Dead fish rose after each cantrip, multiplying with each cast. You hummed, satisfied as their corpses hit the support beams, the thunk of flesh soothing.
For a moment you considered adding your own corpse to the pile. It would be easy enough: just all in and cast lightening bolt. It was a tempting idea. But you’d wake up on the shore coughing up filthy water, Fell lecturing about “the heresy of dying by your own hand,” with the Urge worse than ever for your troubles, and that wasn’t worth the bother.
Anyway, it would all be over soon. That what this was all for. If your plan didn’t work, some enterprising hero would kill you. If it did work, then your so called allies would. And if your allies didn’t kill you, Orin would. And, Gods’ forbid, if all of them failed, Bhaal would kill you when the work was done. You’d be done soon enough. Finally.
With that comforting thought in mind, you got up and walked back towards the lower city, leaving nothing but the piles of corpses to show you were ever there.
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen @archduke-enver-gortash talk about this before but I’m always surprised at the Gortash fans who don’t know about the level of his experiments through the brains in jars and the stuff you find out about his blackmailing and the experiments for the steel watchers.
It’s like. The cornerstones to me, the layers of horror you can uncover about this man! I always think how it could have felt if you had more lead in, as I kind of think they were planning when they first revealed him. Imagine you think he’s just this charming politician in the city to begin with, perhaps with a more meaty alliance that gave you all kinds of perks and access in the upper city, only to then find out that he is the hand of Bane and a man who experiments on brains, who theorises about an ultimate state where lesser mortals don’t get free will, who kidnaps girls to blackmail their grandmothers, has built a whole mythos of a man of the people while actively playing everybody against each other, a man who tortures and murders his adversaries and enjoys only power.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Ship: Past Durge/Gortash, Current Durge/Astarion but not the focus
Fandom: BG3
Warnings: A wide assortment including but not limited to implied/referenced suicidal ideation, toxic relationships, manipulation, just all the stuff to expect from Durgetash
Rating: M
AO3
Summary:
“You grant the semblance of life and intelligence to a corpse of your choice within range, allowing it to answer up to 5 questions you pose. Answers are usually brief, cryptic, or repetitive. “You are as likely to open wounds as you are to close them.
The night after the assassination of Evner Gortash, the Dark Urge takes to Wyrm's rock with five questions. This story is about what they ask.
This story is about what Gortash's corpse answered. And this story is about the five memories behind those answers that the corpse of Enver Gortash cannot speak to.
