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Chapter Text

Gortash had all but assumed he was dead. One rarely survived an encounter with Bhaal’s favorite spawn, afterall, and she had very much been out to kill him. There was no mistaking that penetrating, ravening look she gave him as she charged through cinder and metal and fire—the remains of his office—directly at him. He was intimately familiar with it, ever since their first fight together all those years ago. It had never been directed at him, though. Then it had all gone dark. In a moment, he’d be spirited away by Bane for his soul’s eternal torment. He had accepted it. He would have had to have been a fool to accept victory, especially when Orin had taken the place of her sister, and Ketheric had practically waited with bated breath for the first opportunity to betray their alliance.

But he’d had to try, and he did. And now all that was left for him was… The torture hadn’t come yet. Instead, he heard a muffled voice and discovered bright sunlight bleeding into his vision, importuning his strained eyes.

“I believe our tyrant friend is stirring,” one over-animated voice chirped.

“The wizard is right,” another voice, a gruff, headier one, said. Gortash screwed his eyes shut tightly as he could, but he couldn't block out the assailing light. He tried to cover his eyes with his hands, but found they were firmly stuck behind his back.

“Someone get Tav—”

There was a muddled slew of sound and sensation then; footsteps, the scratch of fraying rope snaking around his wrists, overlapping, incoherent mutters, what sounded like a sword being removed from its sheath, and more of the gods-damned light, before finally, he heard a drawl he had never forgetten and never would.

“He recovered quickly,” a person he instantly recognized as his former ally commented. Then there was a soft touch, achingly familiar, to his forehead. The hand traveled upwards, sweeping his hair back in the process, and eventually settling at the back of his head. Fingers probed there, and Gortash immediately figured out their purpose when he was struck with sharp pain. He flinched, and the touch receded. Gortash finally forced his eyes to blink open, and as soon as he became accustomed to the light, he realized he was not, in fact, dead.

On the contrary, he was very very much alive. How long he would stay that way, he wasn’t entirely sure, though, since he found himself lying on the ground surrounded by his favorite assassin’s troupe and the assassin herself, all looking none too pleased. He was tied up on a bed of straw—thankfully not mud—outside of what looked like a dilapidated barn. A few colorful tents stood in the vicinity. It seemed he was in their camp, specifically on the outskirts of the city, judging by the blurry greenery in the distance.

“You’re awake,” she sighed, crouching down to his level.

Gortash wanted to say something in return, but his words scratched out in the barest whisper. He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Why am I alive?” The tyrant nearly winced. He sounded horrible, raspy and hoarse. He tried to shift around, but he found his legs were bound too tightly for him to move much.

“We knocked you out,” a tall tiefling—Karlach, he recognized, though with more scars than he remembered—huffed. “Instead of just killing you, that is. Boss’ orders.”

Gortash glanced back at his former-ally. “Why?” he asked again.

“You’re worth more to us alive than dead,” she retorted coldly. More than a bit too quickly to be entirely above suspicion, even in Gortash’s addled mind.

“It’s risky—” he paused to cough briefly, “...for you to keep me alive.”

“Well, it just so happens I’m no stranger to taking risks.”

“For some sort of reward, perhaps, but I don't see what you'll get from me now. You've already won, and I've lost. It's as simple as that.”

She frowned at him. “You don't seem very grateful for a man who's been spared death.”

“Have I been spared?” he asked, canting his head. “Because the way I see it, there's nothing preventing you from killing me whenever you please. Or worse…” he trailed off suggestively as he stared up at her.

That elicited a stronger reaction in her. “I don't engage in needless torture,” she snapped.

He raised a brow. “Is that so? I wouldn’t have guessed. It used to be a hobby of yours, you know.”

“I’ve changed,” she asserted quickly.

Gortash hummed. “As you say.”

She ignored him and turned to one of her companions, a cleric with silver hair and a swinging braid. “He still has that head injury. Can you heal it?”

The cleric’s face scrunched up. “I could do a thing or two… But I find that I don't particularly want to, considering our patient.”

Karlach crossed her arms and bit down a satisfied smile, a small victory for her, no doubt.

The spawn sighed. “Alright, I won't force you.”

“Keeping a hostage in too good of a condition is unwise. It incentives escape. Better to leave him like this,” the gruff one piped up. Her green skin, small upturned nose, and slit eyes gave the Banite pause. A rare Githyanki, he realized. His interest was piqued for a moment before he remembered his predicament.

“I concur. Allowing the Banite to slip through our grasp would be a grave mistake. In Menzoberranzan, it was common to cut the tendons of hostages to prevent their escape.” a drow rasped. Gortash nearly winced at the thought. There were similar discussions after his first attempted escape from the hells. He'd spent days trembling in fear in his cell before he was reasonably confident that his captor had forgotten about it.

“...So, now we're keeping hostages? Lovely. And here I thought our little troupe couldn't get any weirder,” a pale elf with red eyes commented sarcastically.

“I don't like this,” warned a scarred human warlock contorted by demonic features. He'd assumed he was a tiefling, at first, but quickly reconsidered. His condition was a punishment Gortash remembered seeing in the hells from the more ‘merciful’ demons. “Even ignoring all that he's done to Baldur’s Gate, he's too dangerous to be kept alive!”

“Am I the only one who finds it a bit odd that we're discussing this in front of the man himself?” the first voice, a bearded human wizard asked. “Seems a bit calloused to say the least.”

“Calloused? He's Gortash!” Karlach exclaimed.

“That's enough suggestions, I think,” their leader said, cutting off the chatter. “I'd like to speak with him alone.”

The others exchanged glances, but eventually took their hesitant leave. His former ally waited until only she was left to silently loosen the bindings around his legs and shepard him into the barn. Light was naturally dimmer indoors, which came as an immediate relief. She sat him down on a small bale of hay before producing a potion. She uncorked it and held it to his lips in a wordless offer. Gortash drank it more obediently than he would have cared to admit before that moment, discovering that it was health potion. He rolled his shoulders, aches he'd barely been cognizant of fading away and his mind clearing. The spawn haphazardly tossed the bottle over her shoulder and stared at him expectantly.

“I'm almost surprised Karlach didn't kill me herself,” he mused.

“She was certainly tempted… But I didn't allow it.”

“Hm. You've never taken kindly to insubordination.” A shame that Karlach hadn't become a leader herself. Though who could compete with such a formidable spawn as her?

She didn't respond to that. “I took your netherstone, naturally. And your gauntlets.”

Gortash flexed his hands. True enough, they were bare. His coat was gone too, he realized, though the numbed state of his mind dampened any sort of potent reaction to that fact. “Anything else?”

“Your crossbow and a grenade I pried out of your hand. I didn't search you very thoroughly.”

His crossbow. He'd spent countless nights perfecting it, fine-tuning every mechanism until it worked as smoothly as another limb. And just like that, it was out of his grasp, like every other carefully laid plan. Wasted. “What did you do with it?”

“It's around. I imagine it's a bit scratched up after everything it's been through, but it's in one piece.”

Gortash nodded weakly in acknowledgement.

“Should we be expecting any major search parties sent after you?”

“...No, I don't think so. You killed most of the cult’s less short-sighted leadership. I can't imagine the few that remain would pass up on an opportunity to take my place. Besides, I'd imagine Bane’s permanently disowned me by now for my failure.” He was less certain about his last assertion. Gortash had crawled his way out of worse situations, and Bane knew it. If he were to escape before she found Orin’s netherstone and take it himself, he could very well regain Bane's favor. If she'd had it, it would have resonated with his own when she'd laid siege to his office. Or better yet, she would've already confronted the brain.

She studied him for a moment, then seemed to accept his answer. “Do you have anything else on you that I should know about?”

“A missive, around 63 gold,” he paused. “And a key to my bank vault.”

“You can keep those,” she replied dismissively, before frowning and crossing her arms. “You know, I'd half-expected you to throw a fit when you woke up.”

“So did I.” He couldn't pinpoint why, but he felt strangely defeated in that moment. Maybe it was what she'd said to him before their fight. For what it's worth, I think I liked you too. That had given him pause. Or maybe it was the head injury.

Her eyes widened and she laughed. The sound hadn’t changed much, he thought. “Good to know I wasn't all that far off.”

“If you're disappointed, I imagine I could muster up a threat or two in good time,” he drawled.

“I'll survive, I think.”

He shifted around on his hay bale, periodically glancing around the barn. His new cell. It wasn't particularly secure, naturally. He imagined someone would be watching him to prevent his escape. If they didn't opt for the drow’s suggestion, of course. He shivered. “So, am I to sit here all day staring at the wall?”

“We have some books. I'll tie your hands to your front so you can turn the pages.”

“How generous.” Better accommodations than the House of Hope, at least. He’d had to smuggle books out of Raphael’s library there and pray to whatever deity would listen that he wasn’t caught with them.

She simply shrugged in response. “More incentive for you to give me the answers I need.”

He tilted his head at her. “And what answers are those, exactly? I was very forthcoming regarding our previous alliance.” For the most part, anyway. Intimate memories flashed through his mind, ones that now lived on only with him. Clandestine brushes of hands against hands, stolen glances over dim candlelight… All no different than if he’d simply imagined it. “An equal partnership cannot exist where there is a disparity in vital knowledge.”

The spawn took a breath and straightened her back. “My past. I need to know what I was before…” She made a vague gesture.

That made more sense. Who wouldn’t want to uncover their own past? Though he doubted she would appreciate the answers he’d give her. “Ah. Well, I’m not in a position to refuse, I suppose. We knew each other for some years, though why you wouldn’t leave such questions for your temple is beyond me.”

“I doubt they’ll have the answers I seek,” she replied dismissively. “Besides, you’re in a perfect position to answer questions now, aren’t you?”

He blinked, nearly laughing from sheer incredulity. “Right you are. Go ahead then.”

She leaned forward. “Our relationship. What was it like?”

“It was an alliance, just as I said. I respected your self control, your intelligence, and you seemed to appreciate the elegance of my plans. We truly were formidable together.” His mind drifted inexorably back to her comment. He’d suspected she had liked him, but he could never confirm it.

Her eyes narrowed. “I meant our personal relationship,” she specified. There was something in the sharp gleam of her eyes, the tension in the line of her closed mouth, the cant of her head. She knew something that she wasn’t sure he did, if what she’d told him hadn’t already settled the matter. She was merely confirming her suspicion.

The corners of his mouth quirked up as he spoke, “I can’t imagine you would ask unless you had your own theories.”

Her lips pursed. “I found a certain letter. It bothered me.”

“A missive?” They did have their strange private jokes, he supposed. Even Ketheric paled when he first heard the one about the drowning children.

“A prayer.”

He frowned. “I’m not familiar. The only prayer of yours I ever witnessed were a few of those directly involving victims.”

His former-ally grimaced slightly at the mention, but nonetheless drew what he assumed to be the offending prayer from her pocket. She unfolded it carefully and held it in front of him, prompting him to read it.

Gortash compiled, curious himself, and began to read. ‘Forgive, Father, for I cannot help but admire the Chosen of your sworn foe: Enver Gortash’s genius will take us far—’

There was a pang in his chest and a thrill all at once. He tore his eyes away and stared up at the spawn. “Why did you show me this?” he demanded, momentarily forgetting his position.

“Correcting a disparity in vital knowledge,” she replied calmly enough to really irritate him. He hated having his own words thrown back at him, even more so in this context.

His brow furrowed. “And what is it you would like me to conclude from this additional piece of the puzzle, exactly?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I somehow can’t imagine I would write this lightly,” she said.

“Neither can I,” he agreed.

“So, what does this tell you?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes and allowed himself to smile. “Why, that you ‘think’ you liked me too,” he responded smugly.

She sighed. “You sound just like Astarion.” He didn’t know who that was, but he took offense to the comparison. It seemed Astarion did too, judging by the affronted noise that he heard just beyond the doors of the barn. The spawn pivoted and glared daggers in this Astarion’s direction, prompting the pale elf of the group to walk out from his hiding spot and scamper off in as inconspicuous a manner as anyone could in his position. Once he was out of earshot, she turned back towards Gortash. “A real answer, if you will.”

“I…” Gortash gritted his teeth. “We were friends, I like to think. Or the closest thing to, considering who we were to each other.” She didn’t remember what they did together. Their strange rituals, the ways they danced around each other. How could he ever explain it? Still, she was the closest thing he ever had to a friend. The only equal he ever acknowledged, in genius, power, and wretchedness, all at once.

Frustration started to seep into her tone then. “You’re omitting something. It can’t be that simple,” she insisted.

He wanted, for a brief moment, to grab her by the shoulders and do whatever he could in his power to make her understand, remember. Of course, he couldn’t even if he planned to. “You’re right, it isn’t simple. It’s complicated beyond the power of words, but we were friends, of a sort.”

Maybe his desire had reached her in some mystical way, because she suddenly stepped forward and grabbed him. The spot she chose wasn’t quite his shoulder and not quite his neck, but she grabbed him and their skin met, and it was as if Gortash’s new reality had suddenly cemented itself in front of him. He wasn’t in purgatory, he was alive, he was here, and the reality dawned on him again.

And she was alive, staring directly into his eyes with the same ferocity he’d tried to burn out of his memory or bury but couldn’t. Her touch was the same as before, but it was no abstract dear thing now. She gripped him like she wanted to drag the truth out of him in a tangible, physical way. Unspool his innermost thoughts and desires, tightly guarded and wound up tightly, and bare them to her. But he sincerely doubted she would like what it was she was vying for.

Then the grip softened and so did her eyes. He didn’t know what sort of expression his face had contorted into, but he felt old grief rise in his throat afresh, thick and painful.

She suddenly reached for his bindings and freed his arms, tying them more loosely in front of him, where he could use his hands in some paltry way, like to read a book.

His former-ally took several steps back. “I’ll tell Gale to lend you some of his books. I’ll be here around camp every afternoon, if you have need of me.”

Then she turned and left.

Chapter Text

When he first learned that his former-ally was alive, Gortash simply assumed she’d return to him in her own time. It had only seemed natural that they would fall back into their same easy rhythm. Her memory loss was disappointing, sure, but the mutual respect they shared transcended specific moments in time. There had always been a certain gravity drawing them ever towards each other, even from the very beginning, as if their partnership was inevitable. She would realize that. She was no less competent than before, afterall, as her swift dispatching of Ketheric had proved. That had been the basis for their first alliance: mutual respect and shared competence. He knew his own achievements spoke for themselves and the respect, well, that would come in time. Yes, Gortash was sure she would keep her word and bring Orin’s netherstone. Certain. He was certain until the very moment he heard of his Steel Watch’s destruction by none other than her hand. After that… It was hard to say he felt.

He shook his head and turned to the next page of his book. In the corner of his eye, Gortash could see the wizard leaning over his shoulder.

He shut the book with a little too much force to be able to deny his irritation afterwards. “If you’re so interested in this book, then might I leave it to you and take another one?” he asked primly, turning to glare at the wizard.

The other man’s eyebrows raised—Gale was his name, Gortash reminded himself—not with shock, but something akin to amusement. Though he doubted he would need to remember it. “No, no, I’m quite alright, thank you very much. I’m far more interested in the present company.”

Gortash frowned at the wizard. He’d spent two days in the camp, with this man watching him for most of that time. He understood fairly quickly why he’d been selected for the job. The man was happy to spend most of their time in companionable silence, reading their respective books. He rarely looked at him except to confirm that he hadn’t escaped under his nose. He didn’t pry, despite his obvious curiosity, or act hostile towards him. It was surprisingly considerate.

The spawn had come to check on him, as promised, the previous night, but she’d hardly said anything to him, merely inquiring how the wizard had treated him and if he’d been fed. There was a glazed look in her eyes when she left, leaving him in the care of his nightguard, the silver-haired cleric. She wasn’t terrible either, though she glared quite a bit. He hadn’t many opportunities to escape, as there had always been someone watching him and even more followers lingering outside who could prevent his leaving. Overall, it was a far better existence than that of one in House of Hope, but he was still a hostage.

That awareness unsettled him deeply, like a constant itch tormenting his skin. He was at the mercy of another again. A position he swore he would sooner die than return to. A part of him hated even more that she had been the one to do it to him, even if she’d done it in a way that was mindful towards his comfort.

Gortash shifted in his bindings, testing them. The wizard glanced up at him from his book. “Ah. Those must be very uncomfortable, aren’t they?”

The Banite sighed. They were beginning to chafe, of course, but he’d endured far worse. He’d survive. He told the wizard as much. A bit of civility in exchange for his continued consideration, he supposed, as opposed to snarling like a wounded animal. It was unwise to show any weakness.

The man regarded him with a pitying look. For a single moment, Gortash wanted to rip it from his face. It was the same sort of look he received when he’d freshly escaped from the Hells, battered and bruised and with a gleam of something desperate enough to be feral in his eyes. He’d wanted to rip it from their faces too. How dare they belittle what he’d been through, what it had shaped him into when they knew nothing of either? He understood it wasn’t intended as an insult, though, and took a breath. The other man started again, “I may be able to find something to treat that. An ointment of sorts, perhaps. You’ve been wearing those same clothes all this time too.”

Gortash glanced over his clothes, suppressing a grimace.

“I can certainly help with that at the very least,” the wizard assured him, not unkindly.

The tyrant stared at the man, his brow furrowing. “I don’t understand why you feel inclined to help me,” he said bluntly.

The other man simply shrugged. “Mother taught me to always be a gracious host.”

Gortash didn’t know how to respond to that, but the wizard was indeed true to his word. He brought clean clothes in roughly his size, though not a tailored fit, naturally, and gave him something to treat his wrists with. Then he quietly undid his bindings and walked just outside with a knowing look. “Inform me when you’re all wrapped up in there,” he called.

Gortash exhaled. The first semblance of alone time in quite a while. He glanced around the barn that had become his makeshift cell. He knew the wizard was not, of course, stupid, so he doubted this would be an opportune time to escape. There would undoubtedly be some sort of contingency. Sure enough, he caught a whiff of magic—runes circling the area. Complex ones, specifically. It was intentional. He could hardly deal with them in the time it would take to ‘change.’

On top of that, his senses felt strangely dulled after his little reunion with the spawn. There was a twinge in his chest at the thought. It was as though a fog had settled over him, weighing down his bones and half-paralyzing him. He didn’t like it. Gortash was able to bury himself in work after he’d learned of the spawn’s ‘death’ originally, to the point where his thoughts scarcely drifted back to her, save for some late sleepless nights, staring into the pitch dark. But now, all he had was time to think, and it made him utterly restless.

He shook his head and took to his task. The wizard had given him a clean cream-colored blouse and ordinary dark pants, neither particularly form fitting, but comfortable enough. He slathered the concoction for his wrists on thickly, then waited a moment before calling the wizard back in.

The other man saunters back in with a pleased look on his face. “You’re looking far fresher, if you don’t mind my saying.” Gortash examined him for a moment. There was a knowing gleam in his eyes. ‘Gale’ was a far more competent wizard than he had given him credit for.

“I am, I imagine. Thank you,” Gortash finally replied.

“Of course,” Gale responded politely. He would have to try another one of her companions, it seemed.

He spent the rest of the day in the company of the wizard, right until the moment his former ally had returned. She walked into the building without ceremony, and all she had to do was exchange a glance with Gale to have him leave them alone. Ever the effortless authority, he thought. He knew she was a natural born leader from the moment he met her. From her effortlessly squared shoulders, to her cold, merciless gaze. Even now, she had the gait of a predator, approaching him with a decisiveness that didn’t quite reach her tensed cheeks.

She inquired after the usual things first. Whether he’d eaten anything, if he’d had something to pass the time, how he’d been treated. He answered her curtly and efficiently, sensing there would be something else waiting for him by the end of it. Surely enough, he was proven right.

“What did you mean?” she finally asked, her voice low. Her eyes flicked down to his fresh clothes, but she didn’t mention anything about it.

Gortash tilted his head at her. “By what?”

“In your office. After I told you that I thought I liked you too once. You were cut off by that earthquake.”

He paused for a moment. “That’s rather specific.”

“I want to know.”

“It wouldn’t have changed much,” he replied dismissively. “The fact remains that you betrayed me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you always this evasive?”

He raised a brow at her. “Well, if I give you all the information I have too readily, you won’t have any reason to keep me alive, will you?”

“I also have less than no use for a hostage that refuses to talk entirely,” she retorted airily, crossing her arms. It was more an expression of frustration than a threat. He doubted she would kill him for this transgression alone, at least.

“Then it seems we are at an impasse,” he responded with a prim smile.

“Are we now?” A smirk crossed her face, and Gortash was tempted to ask what exactly had amused her when he felt something brush up against the limits of his mind. Well, less of a brush and more of a crude banging against a door; an assertion of presence. Her presence. But she wasn’t trying to find what it was she was looking for, she was flouting her ability to take what she wanted. Pride swelled in his chest, and he briefly felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. He did miss this. She was always one to rise to a challenge. It seems she still was. He shook his head and promptly swatted her away. She receded without struggle, confirming his suspicion.

“So, you would resort to cheap parlor tricks?” Gortash asked wryly, amused.

“I would,” she said decisively, her voice seemingly resonating with a thousand painfully similar past utterances. “Now tell me.”

Gortash glanced away from her. “Very well. It was no secret worth keeping anyway.” He thought back to the moment for only as long as it took him to produce his answer. There were a dozen variations, all too fitting. How could he describe a thousand different conflicting feelings, a million different memories together, all over so many years… “‘Is that what you have to say to me.’” he answered, more a statement than a question now.

His former-ally stared at him for a long moment. “What would I have said alternatively?”

“I don’t know. I expected you to gloat, or threaten me, or reproach me for what I’ve done,” he admitted. Enough ‘heroes’ had done one or more of the three thinking they’d be the ones to finally kill him. Had she truly become one, though?

“Isn’t that a bit overplayed?” she drawled.

“I suppose. I’ve heard it all more times than I can count...” But that doesn’t explain why you said what you did, he thought.

He didn’t ask it, but she seemed to pick up on his silent question anyway. “Would you like to know why?”

Gortash inclined his head.

“Because I thought it to be true, firstly…” She trailed off briefly, considering her next words. “And I felt as though I had to say it.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Maybe I assumed it would bring at least one of us closure. Our alliance didn’t exactly end cleanly, did it?” Orin’s shrill laugh seems to ring in Gortash’s ears, mocking him, mocking what had become of them. It had been so much louder that fateful night, he could’ve sworn he’d screamed for hours to drown out the sound, but it hadn’t worked.

“...No, no it did not,” he replied quietly.

“Did you mourn me? Our alliance?” she asked him, leaning towards him slightly. Her eyes were alight, almost as if the question had come from some fragment of the memory, some sort of irrational personal interest. But it was just the inquiry of an amnesiac.

“In my own way, I suppose. But there was little time reserved for grief between work.”

She searched his expression for a moment before nodding. “I’ll keep watch for the rest of the night, if you don’t mind.”

Gortash raised a brow. He wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse, and said as much. She promptly sat down beside him, reaching over and slicing through ropes binding his wrists together. He looked up at her, questioning, but she’d already picked up one of his books and seemed prepared to ignore whatever it was he would’ve said.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t sleep. Gortash had turned away from the spawn on his bed roll, but he was still painfully aware of her presence. It was jarring and strangely irritating the way she was able to continue reading so casually, so lightly, as if to completely disregard the conversation that just took place. Maybe it was just casual curiosity on her part, he considered. Even her comments were flippant. Saying that she ‘thought’ she liked him once. And he couldn’t deny that the flippancy made some sense to him. Why would she care about a long dead relationship that she had no memory of?

Gortash allowed himself to steal a brief glance at his former-ally. Still reading. Looking at her, he was reminded that he still wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by his answer. Or why he was so reluctant to give it, beyond merely testing the boundaries of his situation. Whatever it was, it nagged at him. Maybe he was offended. Their relationship was complex, too complex to be summarized by simple ‘like,’ let alone as weakly and as lamely as it was, dampened by a vexing ‘I think.’ After all they’d been through, it was an irreverent note to end on, even if their entire alliance had been sacrilege to most. That wasn’t quite it though. Or not the full extent, anyway.

Maybe it was that she never told him that, not really. He wasn’t particularly shy with expressing his admiration for her, naturally. Gortash was accustomed to singing far sweeter things to noblewomen and men alike to get what he wanted, charming his way into their vaults or commandeering their powers. Flattery was a second instinct. He was more conservative with what he said to her, naturally, as anything too saccharine made her sick, and she would say as much. But he did mean what he chose to say to her, amusingly. For the most part, anyway. Regardless, words didn’t mean much, especially when it came to expressing affection. She certainly never said that she liked him. At times Gortash would think she was too cautious in dodging emotions from the way she avoided the matter so perfectly. It irked him occasionally, but he understood why. It was enough that she brushed her hand against his.

Hearing her say it was an entirely foreign thing, let alone in half-measures. The few times he’d allowed himself to imagine her telling him what she truly felt for him, he’d expected it would be something groundbreaking. Fittingly grand, same as their plans and ambitions. As if in a sudden, all of the secrets locked beneath her still and dead eyes would come tumbling out. He would finally know her in a way he never could. It would’ve been akin to his every plan clicking perfectly into place, every pesky, conflicting emotion setting in and—well, Gortash wasn’t entirely certain what it would be like. That was part of the appeal of his idle fancies, he supposed. They were so aerial, so abstract that he scarcely had to consider the logistics of any of it. He realized now it was a stupid fantasy, of course. Straying from harsh reality and staunch pragmatism had never done him any favors.

But acknowledging that didn’t make him any less irrational, unfortunately. Maybe that was the difference between them. Why she could both command respect and cast off superfluous feelings at will and he couldn’t. It had irritated him when they first met. Back then Gortash had assumed it was her irreverence, for which he’d gained an appreciation only after being acquainted for some time, but that wasn’t entirely it, was it? He'd had nothing but time to think about these matters—one of the things he absolutely hated about idleness—for the past few days. He realized that he envied her. He envied her, and worst of all, admired her, and what little reciprocity he gets in that sentiment was relegated entirely to a scribbled prayer and an offhand remark. Gortash sighed to himself.

At the very least she’d managed to retain said traits. That was more practical than anyone's admiration. She was shrewd, insightful, firm, and mostly pragmatic—even if the reasoning behind her decision to betray their alliance was still unknown to him. And she was still as fierce in combat as she ever was. Maybe he had been a fool to try and dictate the terms to a spawn as formidable as her. Maybe it was inevitable that she would buck away whenever he thought he’d managed to pin down some part of her. All of this, in spite of losing her Father’s grace and her memory. As impressive as always.

He let his eyes wander over to her again. Maybe their alliance wasn’t as doomed as he’d thought. Granted, it would take a great deal of ameliorating and perhaps some obsecration on her part for him to forgive the transgression of his destroyed Steel Watch...

But Enver Gortash wasn’t an unreasonable man.

Chapter Text

When the wizard was required on an adventure, Gortash was finally met with the ‘Blade of Frontiers.’ The man mostly refused to speak with him, as expected, except to express his displeasure with him. He was, however, far more careful about watching Gortash, particularly with his now unbound hands and his even more recently unbound legs. There had been a brief debate on the matter in the morning before Tav—that’s what all of her followers had been calling her—had left where Ravenguard’s son had been quite vocal about his disapproval, but nonetheless acquiesced to what Gortash assumed was a rather nasty glare from his former-ally.

Now that he saw the man up close, Gortash could confirm his suspicion about his fiendish connections. His ears and hands were very much human and Gortash could catch a whiff of sulfur every time he passed by him in his pacing. It made his nose twitch and his old wounds twinge.

“So, the Blade of Frontiers is a devil's lapdog, hm?” he started, leaning over to take a closer look at the warlock. “And the Grandduke’s prodigal son, no less?”

The warlock’s head snapped towards him in an instant, a red eye glaring at him. “You had better keep that vile mouth of yours shut. It’s madness that Tav would insist on keeping you alive at all, but I’m certain it won’t be long before she sees reason.”

Gortash blew out a low whistle. There were countless warlocks who wanted out of their contract at any cost, and one as righteous as this was a sure bet. Perhaps they could come to some sort of arrangement, though he doubted it. Still, it was worth trying. “No need to growl, hm? I’ve quite a bit of experience in dealing with the Hells, maybe I could help, assuming you ask nicely.”

The other man narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want or need help from the likes of you. I know the kind deals you’ve been making.”

The tyrant was confused by that for a moment. No information about him of that sort was available to the public, but then he remembered Karlach. “So young Karlach’s been telling stories? I suppose I should’ve expected that.” His lips stretched in a slow, luxuriating smile. “You must find me absolutely terrible.”

He could see the warlock’s jaw clench. “You’re as much a devil as the ones I was tasked to kill,” he gritted out, his rows of clawed scars twisting in a scowl.

“You’re hardly the first to tell me that,” Gortash replied dismissively, canting his head. This companion wasn’t at all receptive. Gortash wasn’t particularly inclined to try his charisma either, however. His mind still lingered on the previous evening. On her potential as an ally, the questions she raised both to him and from him, her gaze intense as it ever had been. Trying the warlock in this state was more instinctual than intentional. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from her, from this. All he knew is that he needed something other than books to occupy him or he would go insane.

The other man opened his mouth to respond, but Gortash never found out what it was he would’ve said. Instead, his body had suddenly lurched forward and his eyes squeezed shut. He raised two fingers to the side of his head and swayed slightly before he shot a look at the door. As if on cue, there were a series of heavy footsteps outside, followed by the sharp clash of steel against steel and shouting he recognized as the Bhaalspawn’s. The warlock glanced back at Gortash, then to the door again, seemingly conflicted. He muttered something under his breath to himself.

In his confusion, the smile unconsciously slipped from Gortash’s face, and that seemed to decide for the other man. He glared at the Banite for a moment longer in an implied threat, then rushed out to help his friends, brandishing his sword.

For that first moment of sudden solitude, he was paralyzed. In the next, Gortash had shot up and sprinted to one of the back windows of the barn—he wouldn’t risk the warlock seeing him at the doors—leaning out of it to examine the runes more thoroughly. Judging by the amount of activity, there were enough competent attackers to buy him a dozen minutes or so.

The circle of the inscriptions were a scant few feet from the building itself, enough space for Gortash to slip out of the window and examine them in even greater detail, which he did. As he crouched down, the rune crackled, tiny, jagged blue tendrils reaching for his skin. Electricity. They would shock anyone who stepped onto them, incapacitating them without setting the nearby barn or trees ablaze or making the general area dangerous after the effect wore off.

The warlock, his former-ally, and Gale obviously hadn’t triggered the runes when they came and went, so they must’ve either been attuned to Gortash’s presence specifically, or simply gave immunity to the necessary people. The wizard hadn’t been lazy, but to Gortash’s great delight, they were, in fact, single use from the inscriptions. Anything else would've required far more time and energy, which he somehow doubted Gale had to spare.

Gortash climbed back inside and snatched up a book, promptly throwing it onto the rune. Nothing. He plucked out a few strands of his hair and sprinkled it over the rune, but to no effect. It only reacted to flesh, it seemed. He glanced down at his hand and winced. It wasn’t the first time he’d done such a thing, naturally, but he’d never particularly enjoyed it.

Taking a breath and fixing his eyes on his goal, he promptly sank his teeth into his hand hard, not stopping until he tasted the iron of his own blood on his tongue. Then he slowly withdrew, and in one fluid motion of his forearm, Gortash flicked a few crimson droplets onto the rune. The inscriptions promptly glowed to life followed by the violent sound of air being sundered, like the crack of a whip, lightning savagely skewering the drops before they’d even touched the ground. Gortash fell backwards in alarm, only a few inches short of becoming the rune’s victim too. The air around him shook with the very force of it, vibrating hard enough to make Gortash’s teeth chatter until the worst of it had subsided. Once there was only a faint buzzing left, quiet enough for him to hear the din of combat on the other side of camp over it, the Banite glanced down. The inscription was gone—single-use, as he’d predicted—and scorched, brown-black blood spatter seeped into the grass beneath it. A pitchy, almost hysterical sound ripped its way out of Gortash’s throat.

He’d done it. Escaped. It had been easy too, almost too easy. He looked over his shoulder behind him. The fighting was waning now, and the rune had no doubt been loud enough to alert the party to what he was doing. He had a few minutes to escape…

He glanced back again. Gortash felt irrationally rooted in place. If he escaped, he'd no doubt that his next meeting with his former-ally would be fatal for one of them. He ran his tongue over his teeth, contemplating. The appendage felt thick and clumsy, as if a snail were lolling around in his mouth. He hadn’t had much water lately, too distracted by his dilemma. The taste of blood was beginning to nag at him. Gortash never understood how she could enjoy it, nor did he particularly care. It was likely an acquired taste, and one very easily acquired as a Bhaalspawn, no doubt.

He remembered she said once that his blood was particularly tantalizing, when he’d wounded himself making one of his contraptions. Her head had reared up, nose twitching like an animal’s, as she stared at him. Then she'd murmured it to him as if the fact pained her. She never did taste get to taste it, as far as he was aware anyway, and she probably didn't consume very much blood now, he thought, considering her attitude towards torture. That didn't mean exceptions didn’t exist, though. He wondered if she’d finally sample it when she killed him properly. He always fancied himself an exception for her. Maybe he'd remained such, even now, considering the camp hadn't the faculties for a hostage.

Exception… She was very obviously his too, against his better judgment. He'd already considered offering her another alliance, but if he'd simply done it the other night, she'd have no reason to believe he wouldn't run at the first opportunity, particularly without gods to supervise the arrangement. If he can prove that could've escaped, however, and had chosen not to, there would be no denying that he wasn't making deals he would break.

Gortash considered what would happen if he simply ran off now. Assuming he wasn’t caught by Tav or her companions, he could hardly go back to Wrym’s Rock. He doubted Bane would have waited very long to appoint a new Chosen. Gortash would have to wrest control of Bane’s cult away, which would no doubt be a lengthy process without his Steel Watch. If the earthquakes were any indicator, he didn’t have time for a lengthy process. Not to mention how his reputation must’ve shifted with the Gondians free—he’d only managed to take limited measures to cover up the nature of the incident before his former-ally had come for his netherstone—and his disappearance effectively rendering his powers as Archduke moot.

Gortash sighed. It’s not as though he had to choose an alliance. He was clever, he worked well under pressure, and he had more than enough people and resources in Baldur’s Gate to get back on his feet immediately. But when he imagined being alone at the very top of the ladder again… He felt an unshakable sense of loss. He had once benefited from having a peer, even enjoyed it. Thralls with no free will hardly made for good company, even if Gortash had decided they were necessary for a fair and functioning society. And her shrewd judgment and work ethic would make the job of running that new society far easier.

So perhaps he didn’t need an alliance, he wanted one. He had a policy of not accepting back allies who’d betrayed him, naturally, but he supposed now was an unprecedented time. He turned his back to the expanse of farmland, the near-guarantee of escape and calmly climbed back inside through the window. He ultimately decided not to enter the barn proper, but to seat himself primly in the window, communicating to the group that had promptly barged through the doors exactly what he'd done.

Tav was the first inside, naturally, her eyes darting from place to place with a nearly feral urgency until she finally set them on him. He tilted his head impishly and smiled at her. She stared at him for a long moment, her companions stilling behind her too. Then her gaze fell unerringly, unmistakably, to his mouth. Her nose twitched and a strange look crossed her face for a fleeting moment.

“What have you done?” she asked, her voice noticeably taut. Gortash half-consciously realized there must still be blood smeared on his face. He lifted his forearm and wiped his face with it crudely. It probably didn't do more than smudge what was already there, judging by the thin, flaking smear that came away.

“I disabled some of the runes,” he replied casually, lifting his wounded hand as if to present proof.

At her flank, Gale’s eyes had widened with something between shock and amusement, before muttering something about an unhealthy degree of cleverness under his breath.

“How?”

“It reacts to the flesh of the target, or at the very least those that aren't meant to be able to cross them without issue…” Gortash's smile widened. “And they also happen to be single use, meaning that if I could set off without dying, the way would be clear.”

“And you chose to do so with fresh blood?” Gale piped up, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “I hadn't considered it, embarrassingly. I imagine he must be telling the truth. I can still sense the remnants of my magic where the rune once lay. And he’s obviously, well, not electrocuted.” He made a vague gesture towards Gortash.

She frowned at him. “That much is obvious. So that begs one question then… Why are you still here?”

“Because I decided I want to be. Because I believe you were right to spare me. Because I am prepared to renew our alliance.”

The Bhaalspawn met his eyes again, obviously incredulous at the notion. “After I destroyed your Steel Watch? Why?”

“I'm willing to forgive that little transgression of yours, assuming we maintain our pre-established terms and you refrain from destroying any other creations of mine. As for why…” he trailed off. Why indeed. He'd given himself a dozen reasons, and yet he could acknowledge now that it was an impulse at its core. It wasn't exactly difficult to recognize Afterall, he'd spent a lifetime trying to tame his sudden impulses, trying to be slow feeling and quick thinking, pragmatic and coldly logical. And yet here he was, acting on a feeling, on what should be ephemera to his ultimate goal. “It only seemed logical,” he finished unconvincingly.

She picked up on the hesitancy instantly, like a wolf scenting bleeding prey. “Why is that?”

Gortash raised his chin and consciously straightened his back. The way to scare a predator was to make yourself look larger, wasn’t it? Or at least something to that effect. “You’ve quite literally destroyed most of my leverage in this city with the Steel Watch. Bane has undoubtedly selected a new chosen in my absence, and you killed all of my allies in the cult. It will be no easy thing wresting control of the operation back from the current Chosen, and I hardly have enough time to do so before the brain rebels. And it's not as though I can casually saunter back to Wyrm’s Rock after the mess you created and expect the Watch to help me, can I? If I want a chance at ruling Toril, my only recourse is a second renewal of our alliance.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, blatantly scrutinizing his posture, his expression, every little give away. He wasn't very intimidated, though. Afterall, he couldn't help but notice that she'd always linger on the sight of his blood. Old habits die hard, he supposed.

“You want to keep the same terms?” she finally asked.

That caused a wave of outrage in her companions, who all turned to her simultaneously as if she'd said something universally insane. Even Gale's eyes had widened, and the warlock looked as though he'd been betrayed. The Bhaalspawn raised her hand before any words were said, though.

Gortash nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. “Yes, the same.” He was almost shocked by how easy it had been. “And I expect my status as hostage will be dissolved effective immediately, naturally.” Sighing, Gortash made to dismount from the window, arms bracing at his sides before she spoke again.

“—I can't,” she said. Gortash froze suddenly. It was like a slap. His face fell.

“Why?” he demanded with a little more urgency in his voice than he cared for.

“My intention is to destroy the brain. I can't rule with you, and I can hardly lie and claim I will,” she responded calmly.

“What? You're going to pass up on an opportunity like this? Destroy your own hard work, my hard work?” he exclaimed. “For what?” She couldn't be doing this, this couldn't be real.

She looked off to the side, her expression softening with something akin to… grief? Disappointment? It was a strange medley that made his chest twinge inexplicably. “I expected you would say that. But that's simply not the life I want to lead anymore. If you're willing, however, I have a counter-offer for you.” She was holding something back, and that fact only angered him further. What kind of life was that of a wolf trying to live among sheep? One of biting your tongue until you bled out entirely, most likely.

“And what is it you propose, exactly?” he responded arily, frowning.

“Help me destroy the brain, and you can remain Archduke of Baldur's Gate. On the condition that you swear to rule reasonably, of course, and you sever all ties with Bane.”

Ridiculous. She would reject perfection, and make him complicit in destroying it. He considered her words for a moment. As if to insult him, she'd suggested it quickly, eloquently, and without hesitation. Staring at her, he realizes she'd had her deal pre-prepared. But she couldn't possibly be stupid enough to simply offer it to him. There would've been nothing preventing him from simply attacking her or running away at the first opportunity. No, she would have had to wait until she could be sure he would keep his word, until he'd offered an alliance to her.

Gortash felt his eyes widen, and for a moment he felt like laughing. So she hadn't insisted he be unbound, or offered him books, or lent him her most amiable companion as often as she could out of the goodness of her heart. She'd planned it. In that precise moment, he caught sight of the knowing gleam in her eyes, confirming that she knew what he'd figured out. The entire time, she'd known what he would do, and if not, Gods knew what she could've arranged as a contingency. He felt a thrill of alarm and excitement both. He'd underestimated her.

She truly was his peer, even now. He'd still benefit from having her rule but his side. And even if he didn't, he was hardly in a position to refuse what she’d offered him. She probably knew that too. He'd effectively proven that their system wasn't secure, and that further measures would have to be taken to make sure he didn't escape. That's if she decided not to kill him, of course. Neither outcome of this dilemma was particularly appealing. But... their deal wasn't exactly set in stone, was it? He could very well convince her of the beauty of his grand design, couldn't he? Prove to her that free will is a blight and that together they've an obligation of culling. The Bhaalspawn was shrewd, she would most definitely see it, he decided firmly. “Very well then. I accept,” he eventually replied. He knew a challenge was ahead of him, but he'd never shied away from difficult work before.

A small, pleased smile spread across her face. He was tempted to smile back almost instinctively. Gortash wondered why she was so intent on keeping him.

The thought was interrupted, however, by the warlock, who promptly stepped in front of Tav to express the indignancy that had no doubt been growing more and more potent as the interaction progressed. “Please, you cannot do this! He enslaved and took prisoner countless Gondians, kidnapped and used my father, the Archduke, as a puppet, and he's probably committed countless other crimes on top of it! You can't just let him walk away alive, let alone allow him to continue to rule Baldur's Gate under an agreement as simple as that!” he implored. Gortash would be lying if he claimed he didn't understand the sentiment. Long ago he'd thought the same way, in fair and unfair, cruel and merciful. But the House of Hope had stamped out such sentiments permanently, and now there was simply use or be used, stab or be stabbed, nothing more.

She crossed her arms, pausing pensively. “His knowledge of the brain could be the determining factor in whether or not the city is saved entirely. The enemy you know is far less dangerous than the one you don't. We need him, whether we like it or not.” The Bhaalspawn glanced over at Gortash again. “I’d be lying if I said I didn't share your concerns, Wyll, but if you're concerned about moderating his cruelty, perhaps we could come up with an arrangement. You could be the one to supervise him…” she said.

“I'm amenable to such an arrangement. I could create a special cabinet to check my powers as Archduke,” Gortash offered civilly.

The Bhaalspawn nodded in affirmation, turning towards Wyll.

The man sighed, his anger dissipating into despair and defeat. “Is this truly…? Fine, very well. You're right. I suppose this is to be my lot in life is it? Slapping the wrist of a tyrant away from the very temptations his nature demands?” He shook his head. “I'll accept. But I'd like to be alone for a while, if you don't mind.” Gale gave him a sympathetic look.

“Of course, thank you, Wyll,” she said.

The warlock nodded and left, the wizard promptly trailing after him. The pair began a muffled conversation outside that grew fainter and fainter, as they wandered further away.

Gortash slid onto his feet at least. He'd been sitting in the window long enough for red lines to form on the palms of his hands.

“Come on, I'll show you where you can get cleaned up,” his now ally offered, waving him along. Now that the debate and the confusion had subsided, he could appreciate her appearance properly. She'd barely taken any damage in the fight that had taken place, except a single shallow cut on her jaw. She herself, however, was liberally splattered with the blood of whoever had attacked her.

Gortash smiled, his tongue darting out to clean some of the dried blood off his lips, as he replied, “I would like that.”

Her eyes fell to his lips briefly before she turned towards the doors.

Chapter Text

Over the next day or so Gortash was introduced to the rest of the troupe. Well, the Bhaalspawn—Tav; Tav, was her name now, he reminded himself—facilitated an exchange of names, at least, but tensions were high. Gale was still relatively polite, if not wary, and the warlock, Wyll, had seemingly resigned to civility with him, considering the promise that had been made—which naturally would never come to fruition if he succeeded, but the Duke’s prodigal son didn’t need to know that. The rest of the group, however, made no attempt to hide their displeasure with his presence.

Gortash didn’t particularly care about a bit of censure here and there though. No, what really displeased him was the conditions, more particularly the clothes he’d been allotted. Not only were his old, considerably expensive clothes gone (the ones that had remained, anyway; his coat had been absent ever since he'd woken up), but he’d been forced to make do with the same starchy blouses and worn down boots. But the more disconcerting thing was its lack of enchantments. His old garb had been enchanted to inhibit fear, hesitation, and whatever else could get in the way of his plans, and without it, Gortash felt strangely exposed. He’d scarcely realized how religiously he’d been wearing them, as well as the gauntlets. Part of him was ashamed for having relied on such a crutch, but he wanted it back nonetheless.

It didn’t help that Karlach was as hostile as expected, despite having apparently agreed to keep the peace while the threat of the netherbrain persisted. She snuck glares where she could. It was strange and a bit unsettling to see her again, and so unchanged at that. He’d half expected her to become more like himself; cold, calculated, and yielding—a true leader—but she hadn’t. She was as vulnerable and easily swayed by passions as ever.

Part of him was disappointed, of course. She was still a follower, still kept her heart on her sleeve, still put her sympathy before her logic… But strangely, all of that only made him nostalgic. Gortash saw the remnants of her obstinate way of preventing what needed to be done purely because she found it distasteful. Worst yet, Gortash had acquiesced far too many times to her whims, slightly endeared by or perhaps curious about her habit..

She’d held him back as well as herself with that excessive sympathy of hers. He knew that she would obstruct him eventually, if not then, and he understood what he had to do. Karlach would’ve hardly tolerated him simply up and firing her without any notice. She would’ve just laid siege to his office until she managed to get her answers or convince him to take her back in that inexplicably persuasive way of hers. No, what Gortash needed was a more permanent solution. He needed to sever any ties of goodwill forever, like his parents had severed theirs to him. He needed to send her to the Hells, and that was what he did.

There was no point in dwelling on the past. He’d done what had been best for both of them at the time, and he didn’t regret any of it.

It was unlike him to brood over such things. He shook his head slightly, as if to loosen the thoughts’ hold over him. He looked instead to Tav, who was busy preparing to leave the camp. On another adventure, no doubt. Gortash frowned. He’d been left to his own devices at camp for the past few days, mercifully unbound and unrestricted, but still incredibly restless. It didn’t help that her companions’ eyes were almost always on him… In many ways, was essentially a hostage, not an ally.

“Where might you be going?” he called after the Bhaalspawn.

“Astarion has some business that needs settling,” she responded without so much as looking at him, focused on packing a bag. The pale elf perked up near his own tent.

“Astarion?” he asked incredulously. “And Astarion’s business cannot wait until the netherbrain has wrest itself out of our control entirely and taken over Faerun?”

His ally gave him a look. “No, it can’t.”

Gortash crossed his arms. “And what if I insist that it can?”

“Then I would remind you of the position that you’re in, as well as the fact that you don’t know anything about Astarion’s ‘business’ or its urgency.”

“Might I remind you that if we do not deal with the brain shortly, Astarion’s business will cease to be relevant at all? To anyone?” he remonstrated.

The Bhaalspawn raised a brow. “Alright then, we’ll just go and destroy the brain right now. How’s that?” she asked sweetly, smiling at him. “I’m sure you would like that, wouldn’t you?”

His eyebrows raised. Well, he hadn’t exactly been subtle with his intentions. He didn’t need subtlety to convince her of the beauty of their own plan, but he didn’t intend for her to use it to her advantage.

Gortash gritted his teeth. Charismatic as he was, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to persuade her to rule with him in the time it took for them to arrive as the brain, particularly with her companions accompanying them. And he couldn’t start over from scratch, not now. Especially when he didn’t know what remained of his resources and his reputation. He had rather taken the risk.

Gortash sighed. “No, I’m certain your friend’s dilemma is more… urgent.” He hated being on the losing end. He assured himself, however, that he was tolerating it for good reason, just like the Hells. It would benefit him in the end.

She blinked, before smiling more naturally. Had she not expected him to acquiesce? “How very gracious of you. I’ll tell Astarion he’s got your support.”

“—On one condition,” he added. “You take me with you.”

“...You want to go?”

He nodded. “We’re allies, are we not? I believe I should be participating, not stay seated at camp with the dog.” He cast a disdainful look towards the off-white shaggy dog rolling in the muck.

“There could be all sorts of complications, you know,” she protested weakly, almost obligatorily.

“Surely you don’t believe me incapable of navigating tight situations, do you?”

“Then what if someone recognizes you? You’re the Archduke of Baldur’s Gate, after all, hardly a face anyone forgets.” His ears pricked up at his title used in the present tense. A lame attempt at flattery?

“I’m not so careless as to go out undisguised. I’ll change my appearance,” Gortash scoffed.

The Bhaalspawn eyed him for a long moment. “Alright then. I’ll tell Lae’zel to hang back a while.” The gith likely wouldn’t be pleased, but she would accept it begrudgingly.

“That’ll do,” Gortash said, grinning. Finally, he’d be out of that boorish camp for the day, but more importantly, it could be an opportunity to gain some leverage over his ally or her followers.

It didn't take him long to grab what few things he thought he needed—he didn’t have very many possessions in camp to begin with. He took his crossbow, which he’d fixed and worked on to whatever extent the camp’s supplies allowed, some grenades, and gauntlets, as well as a few other practical supplies. He borrowed a few light pieces of leather armor from the vampire spawn that were largely unused, but otherwise kept his starchy blouse on display. Gortash had never been very keen on wearing significant amounts of armor, finding enchantments and bodyguards more effective and reassuring, but he could hardly go without it entirely.

Before the small group set off, he cast a spell of disguise on himself—a tiefling with bright red skin and heavy, gnarled horns. Karlach seemed particularly vexed by his choice, but she was staying behind regardless, so Gortash paid it no mind.

Soon enough the camp was well behind them, and he scarcely thought to hide his sigh of relief.

Chapter Text

The streets of Baldur’s Gate were different from below—that shouldn’t have surprised Gortash. Playing children darted between them, thieves slinked into alleys, vendors hawked products with a competitive, almost spiteful volume. He could still navigate it almost unconsciously, though. The others didn’t seem particularly phased by it either, except the pale spawn, who’d been twirling his white hair around his fingers all morning.

Gortash couldn't, of course, neglect the opportunity to learn the aftermath of their little battle. The Bhaalspawn had promised him his old position, which meant she was either telling a bold-faced lie, or she had made it possible for him to keep his position somehow. He glanced around furtively for any signs of what had happened to his position. Wanted posters, conspiracy theorists wailing on soap boxes, compromising news stories—he couldn't find any. The posters of his face remained up, and all seemed orderly, as it had been before Gortash had started mass-producing the Steel Watch. He looked over at his ally: her face was blank. He’d have to inquire about it sometime soon. For the time being, however, Gortash would try to focus on their present task.

“You haven’t informed me as to where we’re going—or what we’re doing, for that matter,” the Banite eventually said.

There was a pause nearly long enough to make him assume they were willfully ignoring his question.

“I doubt you’ve forgotten the attack against our camp a few days ago,” the Bhaalspawn started, still walking ahead. “Well, that came courtesy of a gaggle of vampire spawn—Astarion’s old associates. They slipped away before we could get any answers from them though, so we’re going to find some of the others… For peaceful questioning.”

“What was their aim in attacking the entire camp? Were they trying to kill him for insubordination?” The vampires of Baldur’s Gate, from what Gortash knew of them, would hardly take kindly to one of their spawns escaping.

“No, they were trying to take him back to their master. We have our theory as to why, but we need more information.”

There was a dramatically exasperated sigh. “Oh, well, just go ahead and tell him all of our secrets, I suppose!” the vampire exclaimed, waving his hands. “Don’t you have your own stunningly personal information to share?”

Gortash half expected her to lash out at the insubordination, but instead Tav’s shoulders stiffened apologetically.

“I would be rather upset if I were in his position,” Gale agreed. “But he’s going to see all regardless in a moment, is he not?”

The elf shot a glare at him. “Well then, I’m sure you’d love to tell him all about your relationship with Mystra, hmm? No point in delaying the inevitable.”

The wizard’s ears colored slightly in response. “Now that—that is uncalled for,” he sputtered.

“Mystra? The goddess?” Gortash clarified, bemused.

Gale sighed. “Yes, Mystra. We were… lovers, for a time.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised he managed to keep that secret from you for this long. The wizard’s always talking about Mystra, Mystra, Mystra,” the spawn drawled.

Gortash raised a brow. “Impressive. I’ve heard of Mystra bedding her chosen before, but I believe she only does so with the most competent of her wizards.”

“Well, it was…” the wizard trailed off. “It was complicated. Not to be summarized in a few short words and certainly not amidst such a crowd.”

“The gods’ attentions are rarely bestowed without cost to mortals,” the Bhaalspawn added cryptically.

Gortash frowned to himself, but he still let go of the subject.

Not long after their conversation, the Bhaalspawn stopped before a washed-up boarding house.

“This is it,” breathed the elf. The party proceeded, and the familiar melange of stale air and staler ale washed over Gortash. It didn’t take them long to find their targets; an uncannily pale pair with painfully cheesy lines to offer. Well, before the spawn made his presence known anyway.

Without much hesitation, he grabbed the throat of one of his ‘siblings,’ pressing him into the column of light streaming through the window.

Gortash’s eyebrows raised, mildly intrigued by the sight. Astarion’s teeth were bared, as he made his demands of the other, petrified spawn. But it wasn’t difficult to recognize a similar fear within the aggressor, even if it took on a more feral shade at present. The room was filled with short, sickening snaps as cracks formed in the spawn’s light-bathed skin, which itself took on a gray, stone-like complexion.

“That’s enough, Astarion,” the Bhaalspawn interjected, raising a diplomatic hand. “You’re going to kill him.”

The elf looked at her for a moment, before sighing and releasing his fellow spawn. The latter scrambled to his feet, ducking behind his companion.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to kill Cazador regardless,” he hissed.

The spawn scoffed, incredulous. “You—You’re going to kill the master? He must be bluffing. You can’t even raise a hand to him.”

“You have no idea what I can do,” Astarion replied crisply. Admirable words admirably said. They’d find out eventually if the sentiment would hold.

The spawn turned and walked out of the room, leaving the rest of them to follow behind him. Soon enough they were back on the busy street, and Tav strided up to the elf, a brief whispered exchange ensuing.

Then after a few moments, the Bhaalspawn nodded firmly once then twice and faced Gortash and Gale.

“We’re heading to Cazador’s directly today. Are the two of you prepared for it?” she said.

Gale agreed without any real hesitation. “If you think it wise, who am I to encourage procrastination on a matter like this?”

Gortash, on the other hand, wanted this business resolved quickly. Having vampire spawn trail them was a liability. He told the rest of the group as much, though he left out the small detail of some personal curiosity. The spawn had made his promise of unpredictability to his siblings, but he suspected the sentiment extended to the rest of the room, at least in part.

He followed that curiosity out the Wyrm's Crossing and into the Lower City, where their entrance, a tower, lay. Through the corner of his eye, Gortash spied a dreaded, familiar place. He stared at the familiar storefront for a moment, daring himself to think about what had happened behind that scuffed door, practically falling off its hinges, the creaking stairs, those cloudy, cracked windows, before he couldn’t trust himself any longer and tore his eyes away.

Tav was looking at him, unreadable. She glanced at the store, then at the tower’s entrance without a word.

“Shall we?”

The pale elf took a breath, and nodded.

So up the shadowed, winding stairs they went, the scent of old wood and a touch of something acrid (judging by the occasional pitchy squeak, it couldn’t be pleasant) wafting up from every groaning step. Astarion led them silently across thin stone battlements for a few short minutes, then eventually stopped before a metal door. He made to grab what Gortash assumed to be lockpicks from his side, but was interrupted by the click of the door unlocking. His throat bobbed.

“It seems your master has been awaiting our arrival,” Gortash commented.

“I’m not surprised,” the spawn muttered.

The Bhaalspawn measured up her companion. “We can leave, if you need.”

He shook his head. “No. No, I need to confront this. Him.”

She inclined her head, then gestured towards the door. The spawn padded towards it, then swung it open.

The interior of the castle was quintessentially vampiric: ostentatious patterns and paisleys swirled on red walls, and ceilings lined thickly with sagging, musty velvet, heavy chandeliers and torches suspended from it. A handful of bats flitted through the thicker shadows, squealing amongst themselves. All of the wealth was coated in dust, moldering blood, and filth. was melodramatic, even for Gortash’s tastes. The poorly maintained and dingey fixtures especially gained his ire. At least Raphael had had the sense to keep his marble floors polished for his guests. Cazador seemed to maintain no pretenses of his horde or home, though perhaps it was more a show of power than an inability to acquire servants—afterall, they’d passed multiple servants, both there of their own free will and not. Even Gortash hadn’t touched the vampire patriarch over the course of his career. Not that he had to, seeing as the master paid all of his dues, but he couldn’t deal with him lightly.

The Banite glanced around afresh, considering the new perspective. He still came away disgusted the second time around, unsurprisingly.

He didn’t make much commentary as they moved through the labyrinthine mansion. Astarion steered them wherever they needed, all the while supplying grim explanations of his master’s sickening games. Cruelty for cruelty’s sake seemed to be the motto of the place. Gortash sneered. It was cloying and superfluous. As many people as he harmed, Gortash took little pleasure in it. He only did what he knew to be necessary. A tyrant who engaged in needless terror was nothing more than a sadist lacking self control, and he knew well that a lack of self control was the gravest weakness any ruler could possess. That his ally was a contradiction didn’t cross his conscious mind—he never cared to think about what she did when he wasn’t around if it didn’t pertain directly to him, and he still didn’t. Instead, he was reminded of Raphael; the same sort of needless violence and absurd, violent flourishes. He shivered.

Regardless, there would be no negotiating with this Cazador. Perhaps it was best for the future of Baldur’s Gate that he be disposed of swiftly and cleanly.

And disposed of swiftly he would be. They brushed past the… unsettling skeleton and necrotic chambers, made quick work of the inane signet door and the various cliched gaggle of creatures behind it. Almost without even realizing it, the group had made it to Cazador’s odd, geometric dungeon. The air was thick with misery and decay, coupled with a fittingly generous whiff of sewer.

They approached the final chamber steadily, prepared to enter through the final doors, when they were stopped by a hollow, thin voice; "You… I know you…” it rasped.

Gortash looked for the source: the shadowed walls, he realized, were lined with cages, dotted with hundreds of red, glowing eyes—vampire spawn. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he saw them proper: pale, emaciated and neglected, forced into pens like cattle. One particularly miserable-looking elf had stepped forward out of the rest, gripping the bars of his prison. His eyes were fixed on Astarion with violent intensity, seemingly taking no notice of the rest of the group.

“You’re the one from the tavern,” the imprisoned spawn continued more sharply.

“Astarion, do you know him?” the Bhaalspawn asked calmly, her face blank.

“I… I didn’t know this was here, any of this—”

“Astarion, yes, that was your name. You approached me at the tavern…”

Astarion flinched. He took a sharp breath, and looked around him carefully. The more he surveyed of the place, the more horrified he became. Even children weren’t spared the strange treatment, it seemed, Gortash noted. It couldn’t have been any easy task to turn so many people. It must’ve taken decades, perhaps centuries. Moreover, the purpose of such an effort was entirely beyond him.

The spawn continued on, not noticing, or perhaps not caring, about the freshness of Astarion’s epiphany; “You flirted with me. I told you I didn't know how to kiss.”

“Sebastian,” the free spawn said quietly. “I taught you how.”

“My name sounded so sweet from your lips... And then you led me here—tricked me,” the imprisoned elf finished bitterly.

The exchange went on for a few more minutes, Gortash looking on passively. It wasn’t his business, afterall, to intervene in the matter. It seemed, however, that Cazador had intended to sacrifice all of the imprisoned, as well as Astarion and his sibling spawn, in a ritual to enhance his own power. As overly brutal as Cazador had made the affair, it would’ve been hypocritical of Gortash to pretend he hadn’t sacrificed at least as souls, one way or another, for power far less tangible than what Cazador would be gaining from the ritual. He’d reconciled what he needed to do with what he needed to achieve long ago.

Cazador, however, was clearly in no position for such power, even if he could take it. He was evidently crazed and served no ends but his own self-satisfaction. Ordinarily, that would merely earn Gortash’s distaste, using power for no higher means; neither collective unity nor progress nor any enlightened state. But Cazador had committed the grave error of becoming a threat to the city and therefore to Gortash’s power, and for that he needed to be disposed of. Briefly, though, he remembered the warlock that had torn—no, facilitated the exchange between Raphael and his parents. That warlock too was a mere middleman, forced to do the bidding of a more powerful master. Had they regretted what they did to him? Done to anyone on Raphael’s behalf? Gortash couldn't remember their face regardless, let alone the expression they wore when they took him away.

He wondered if they looked as miserable and guilty as Astarion did then, even for a moment. Really, there was no logical reason for him to be upset, as he hadn't any agency in what would happen to his victims, let alone knowledge of what was currently happening to them. He'd no responsibility in the matter, no free will. And yet, he showed more remorse than Cazador seemed to. Gortash almost pitied the pale elf for a moment, having neither free will nor the ability to separate himself from the actions of those who controlled him. Cazador, Gortash decided, was no proper tyrant at all. There would be nothing like this in his new world, his Ultimate Slate.

“We’ll free you,” the Bhaalspawn interjected suddenly, severing Gortash from his thoughts. He raises a brow.

Astarion too glanced back at his leader, incredulous and a bit indignant, from the looks of it, but he didn't challenge her promise. Instead, he added the promise that Cazador would die soon, and they set off again.

All that was left, really, was to descend to a final suspended platform by a staircase. Before they came into view of Astarion’s master, however, the Bhaalspawn—Tav, he reminded himself again—stopped the group quietly, crouching down somewhat needlessly. She bid Gale and Gortash stay near the stop of the staircase and out of view, flinging spells and arrows and bombs where needed. They begrudgingly accepted, being in no position to argue, and so Astarion and Tav went on alone.

The details of the ensuing conversation between master and spawn was just beyond the cusp of hearing for the pair, but it was perfectly clear from movement alone when they were needed in combat. One moment, the pale elf was flung, by way of some sort of telekinesis, out of view, and the next, the shrill wail of sounded werewolves pierced the vast chamber. The battle itself was little more than a trifle, surprisingly, with a little bit of fire and daylight being sufficient to take out the vampire lord’s avatar and his entourage. Gortash and Gale had barely made it down the stairs before Astarion was ripping Cazador’s body—the real one, he supposed—out of its coffin.

The Bhaalspawn, slathered in blood—whose blood, Gortash wasn’t entirely certain, though she didn’t seem overly bothered by any of her own injuries—watched passively. He and Gale drew up beside her, observing the scene before them. Astarion had been stripped clean of his shirt and armor, the strange, jagged scars of his back exposed to the cool, damp air. Vulnerable. Almost like a wounded animal, Astarion stooped rather than stalked, chest heaving, fangs bared, and a nearly feral desperation in his eyes. Still, he loomed over his former lord, now crawling on his own floor. The spawn brandished his dagger, Gortash smirking faintly at the sight. Cazador hissed and sputtered as he pleased, but Astarion had wholly gained the upper hand—nothing he would say would make the pale elf his tool ever again, from that moment on.

Then, seemingly, there was a shift in the air. An even greater triumph was revealed to linger just within Astarion’s reach: to take the ritual and the power for himself. A boon and a fittingly ironic one at that.

He turned towards the Bhaalspawn, anticipating a warm reception for the new opportunity, but instead, her expression twisted with unconcealed horror. He wasn’t sure what he expected, truthfully, but he couldn’t have predicted the deluge of sickly sentiment she provided.

“If you do this,” she said, “you’ll never be free of Cazador. You’ll become him, and you’ll see everyone around you like commodities just like he did, starting with Sebastian and those other spawn.”

Little more convincing was required after she’d said that much. The spawn was stunned into silence, merely listening as she went on about fear and freedom and all sorts of similar rhetoric. He eventually nodded, acquiescing to Tav and killing his former master right then and there, then, continuing in the same folly, released the thousands of spawn to the Underdark—at the very least not the streets, Gortash sighed quietly. Stupidity and sentiment fed off each other, it seemed. While he didn’t particularly care about the inevitable bloodshed, the havoc that hordes of vampires would wreak upon orderly society was obvious to anyone with half of a brain intact. Perhaps he should have recruited a vampire lord to his cause instead of a Bhaalspawn…

The matter concluded itself in the same vein, with some high emotions, platitudes, and anticlimax. Gortash merely watched Tav with incredulity. They left the mansion with a quiet, sympathetic air, the vampire spawn naturally shaken from what had just transpired. Gortash said nothing; it was pointless to cause a stir by that point.

Rather than setting up camp on the outskirts of the city, it was decided they would stay on the top floor of the Elfsong Tavern. Gortash glanced around the familiar place quietly, noting its changes. It had been veritable ages since his last visit.

The apartment had already been rented for the foreseeable future, so they were free to go up at their leisure, finding that the rest of the party had already beaten them there. Immediately, Astarion was flanked and swept away by a gaggle of his companions, and pulled to the best seat by the fireplace. Gortash took up a more isolated corner of the apartment, as Astarion was fawned over for the next hour or so. Warm, indistinct murmurs and muffled laughter reached him there in his nook, eventually peaking some mild interest, when he realized he couldn’t focus on his crossbow’s maintenance or his books or any other usual pastimes.

Gortash finally stole a glance at the vampire spawn, freshly freed from his master. The elf was smiling softly for the first time that day, looking from friend to enthused friend. He wasn’t smirking or laughing or gesticulating as usual. The usually animated creases of his face, perpetually pulled taught or deepening, were smooth under the warm candlelight. His eyes were soft, but still glimmered with amusement. It was a rather foreign expression that could only be described as contentment.

Suddenly feeling stifled by the sight of the group, Gortash turned away and slipped out of the apartment quietly. Eyes, for once, were not on him, and the temporary escape was easy.

He found himself wandering up to the deserted rooftop, perching himself on the edge where his legs could dangle freely over the wall. (He hadn’t bothered with the illusion again, reassuring himself that no one would follow him up at such an hour. The decision was born more out of laziness than assurance though.) A quiet lower city sprawled out beneath him, buildings and rooftops unfurling as if anew with the hollow echo of children’s laughter somewhere far off. It had been a while since he’d felt so present in the city. Sure, he’d reminisced about the mouth-watering scent of fresh roasted fish from seaside stalls to comfort himself on the floors of Raphael’s cold, dank cells, he’d walked its streets, nose buried in documents, as Karlach urged him to pay attention to where he was going or at some sight she’d found fascinating, and he’d stared down at the tops of these same buildings from Wyrm’s Rock bathed in the same moonlight and privy to the same wispy, salty breezes. But had he really been there? Or had he just allowed the city to sublimate into an abstraction, composed entirely of complaint forms and taxes and industries and pandering correspondence with snot-nosed nobles, just paper and ink piled on his desk?

Thick pain rose in the back of his throat, looking at his old home. What did it all mean now? Now that he was usurped as Bane’s Chosen, now that his Steel Watch was dismantled and his plans were upended, now that neither Raphael nor his parents had met a fitting end. It was as if nothing changed from his childhood, everything he’d worked towards gone to shit.

His only hope now was to sway the whims of his old companion, the only person he ever really trusted with his life, who’d all but forgotten who he was, the only record of their years spent together his own moth-eaten memories, a vague nostalgia, and a damned prayer.

Gortash took a deep breath. It didn’t matter. None of it did. The only path, as always, was forward, and the only way he could move forward is if he convinced her—

“I couldn’t find you at camp,” a familiar voice broke out, interrupting Gortash’s thoughts.

“Did you assume I ran off?” Gortash supplied dryly, turning his face up to greet his ally.

“Not necessarily,” she replied, setting herself down beside him. The blood spatter she'd been wearing in the dungeon had been exchanged for clean camp clothes. “No harm in taking a breather.” Gortash looked back over the city.

“You used to be more shrewd than that. Back then you would’ve never let me out of your sight.” She probably would’ve done worse than that, but he didn’t want to consider it any more on that night than he ever did.

She laughed. “If I’d been shrewd, I wouldn’t have become Bhaal’s Chosen in the first place.”

“If you were shrewd now, you would appreciate the power your station grants you,” Gortash insisted.

“I acknowledge no such thing.”

“Reality doesn’t change because you refuse to acknowledge something. You were best off when you were Bhaal’s Chosen.”

“You believe that?”

He gave her a questioning look. “You gained considerable power and influence, thanks to your father’s favor.”

She widened her eyes at him, almost shocked into amusement. “Power? I was entirely under Bhaal’s thumb. I didn’t have the basic power to exercise free will, let alone exert my will over other people. I was miserable, and worst of all, I was powerless to change my own misery.”

Gortash bristled from her tone. If she was constantly miserable, what did that say about his presence? “What do you know about misery? You don’t even remember who you were.”

“I remember enough. It wasn’t much more than flashes of red, anyway,” she replied dismissively.

“And you think you can draw your every conclusion from that?”

“I’ve drawn all of the conclusions I care to.”

Gortash sighed. “Don’t continue insulting me. Why did you follow me up here?”

There was a pause.

“...I know what you’re trying to do, Gortash. I think that you know that I do. And I don’t intend to continue letting you believe it’s going to work. That would be indignity.”

He gritted his teeth. “Indignity? From what superior moral position do you presume to lecture me about my indignity? You imprisoned me for days!” The humiliation was still fresh from that event.

“I had no choice in that matter,” she protested limply.

“Oh, but you take issue with my reasoning when I use that same phrase, do you?” His reasoning wasn't nearly as selfish. Everything he did was for a grander movement, for progress.

“When you say you have ‘no choice’ you end up plying refugee children with explosive teddy bears. You know that it was that or I had to kill you, and I couldn’t kill you,” she snapped.

“You had no right. My life isn’t yours to spare,” he replied simply, minding that his tone stayed even and calm. He could feel himself trembling slightly.

“I—” she sighed. “I’m sorry, truly. But death is too easy an end for you while I’m still alive.”

“Oh, you wish to torment me, do you?”

“No, no of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gortash raised a brow. “Really? I’m being ridiculous? Then why?”

“Why?” she repeated incredulously, her brow furrowing in consternation.

“Yes, why?” he enunciated. “Or do you simply do things such as these for no reason? In which case, lacking ‘shrewdness’ would not even begin to describe the base impulsivity you’ve descended into.”

“I just… I need…” she trailed off, gaping helplessly for a few moments. “Because we’re one in the same. If I can change, you can as well, and if you can’t find redemption, then neither can I.”

“You’re being ridiculous and sentimental,” he scoffed. “This isn’t a matter of philosophy, it’s life or death, success or failure. Either we take the stone and the brain, or we don’t. ‘Redemption’ is completely irrelevant, and even still, I don’t have anything to do with your attempting it.”

“Redemption isn’t something you can ignore when it’s not convenient. And besides, I hadn’t taken you for the type to write off philosophy.”

“My sole focus now is the brain, as should yours be. Conquering it, that is, if you would see reason,” he replied

“You’re being too narrow minded. What comes after you’ve conquered the brain? You’re just going to sit up in that tower of yours all alone with your paperwork for the rest of your miserable existence? That’s going to be your reward for having done all of this?”

“It’s not about reward, it’s about making the world a better, more just place,” Gortash hissed. “Free will is a blight upon society. The only way forward is absolute unity and nothing else. I thought you understood that once—I thought… I’d always planned to rule alone, but then I met you, and I thought that perhaps I might not have to sit alone up in that tower, as you put it… Nevermind, I was mistaken.” He took a deep, steadying breath, shivering with immediate regret.

As he’d feared, her face softened suddenly, twisting instead with pity. “Oh, Enver… I never could’ve done that.”

He clenched his jaw. She wouldn’t win him over with a tactic as cheap as his name. “Why in the Hells not? What prevents you? This outburst of yours isn’t wise, sure, but I’m certain it won’t impede you in the future once all of this discord is done with.”

The Bhaalspawn shook her head weakly. “No… I just can’t do it.”

He stared at her. “I’m not going to change, willingly or not. Not in this fairytale way you seem to think I can. Your refusal won’t make it so.”

“I don’t believe that. Never changing is the same as being dead. In fact, I think I would rather be dead. I can’t return to what I was, and I know you would be much happier if you left this all in the past.”

“What do you know about my happiness?” he demanded. The fixation on emotions was beginning to grate on his nerves. To fixate on superficial conceptions as happiness would be to disregard his purpose, his goals, his power. No, there was no such thing as his happiness, only his goal and the restlessness he felt when he wasn't progressing in achieving it.

“The same I know about my own, and my friends’, and so many other people. That you won’t be happy unless you’re free, and you won’t be free so long as you cling to… to this.”

“To what?”

“Power, control, tyranny Bane—take your pick. None of them will save you from fear or suffering. Bhaal certainly didn’t save me, nor would Cazador’s ritual Astarion.” Raphael’s grating laugh summoned itself from long-buried memories, the sound as fresh as the first time he'd heard the sound.

“You know nothing of what you speak. Astarion should have taken it,” insisted Gortash vainly, beginning to grit his teeth. “He would have, had you not interfered. That power would have liberated him from all of the constraints of a vampire spawn, would have assured his freedom and superiority.” The vampire’s look of contentment flashed in his mind. That feeling wouldn’t last, certainly not for an immortal. That lost power would make him restless with regret one day, Gortash assured himself.

“He wasn’t seeking superiority, he was just afraid, Enver.” His name again.

“Fear is one of the greatest drivers of human progress. You stymied him willfully. Once he’d settled into his power, he would’ve understood that and, eventually, surpassed that baser emotion, if he had it in him.” He wasn't particularly sure how Astarion would tolerate an unknown set of powers, in reality, but Gortash felt an inexplicable pull to defend that position.

Her eyes narrowed at him. “I don’t regret what I did. He would’ve turned into his master some day, and I know if he could’ve predicted that too, he would’ve recoiled in disgust from the notion of the damned ritual.”

Gortash let out a laugh. “You sound so sure of yourself. Is your spawn really as noble as you think he is? Or are you merely projecting your new notions of morality onto him like you are me?”

“I’m not projecting anything onto anyone. I’m appealing.”

“Appealing?” he repeated incredulously. “To what?”

“To you. To whatever part of you refuses to understand what I mean to show you in—”

“—I won’t tolerate this moralizing,” he interjected calmly. “If that is why you agreed to this alliance, to feed this new heroic fetish of yours by badgering me, then I made a mistake in proposing it.”

The Bhaalspawn went quiet, perhaps in shame, and glanced away from him.

He shook his head. “Why is it so important to you that I condescend to agree with the things you do? My opinions shouldn’t matter to you, not anymore.”

She seemingly ignored his question, asking her own with an almost childlike singularity; “...Are you going to leave?”

“...Hm.” Gortash clicked his tongue. “That depends, I suppose. Will you hunt me down and kill me if I do?”

“No,” she replied decisively. He breathed a laugh. Logically speaking, he’d no reason to take her at her word, especially considering the threat leaving him alive could pose, but part of him had already known instinctively that she had never planned on it. Gortash paused, trying to detach himself from feeling and consider the matter properly, but he found he couldn’t. With his coat gone and his mind horrifically malleable, sentiment and fact mingled in his mind, all pushing him towards one decision. It was as if the matter had been decided for him—with specifically the most offensive resolution to his sensibilities—and he was helpless to resist it.

“...I’ll stay,” he said quietly. “I don’t have very many other options, do I? Time is running out, and there are certain considerations to be made…”

“Alright...” she breathed, looking down. “Thank you.”

“Don’t. I didn’t choose this for your benefit, I did it for mine,” he snapped. He was clinging firmly to the last scraps of his tattered plan: it wasn’t too late to make her see reason, he repeated to himself. It couldn’t have been. The desperation he was exhibiting shamed him. For a brief moment, his mind danced back to the vampire spawn Astarion had lured to that dungeon. The squalor, the neglect, the misery, and most of all, the betrayal. And all because of a silly fancy, not much different from his own. Part of him wondered if she would lead him to a fate beyond her control too.

She smiled weakly. “Still.” The thought crossed his mind that this could very well be another manipulation of hers. He stared at her for a long moment: she didn’t look back, eyes dejectedly fixed on the shore line. If she knew he was scrutinizing her like he was, she didn’t say anything or give any other indication to suggest it.

Then Gortash stood and left her there. He only vaguely remembered his remaining questions and thoughts: what had happened to his reputation and his position, his dissatisfaction and incredulity with her changed character, why she needed to change him so badly, Hells, even why she saved him was still unclear—and there were more questions still. It was all so miserable and exhausting and confusing and ever-mired in old, ill-advised feelings. Walking away, the echo of the children’s voices seemed to follow him, chastising him for half-wishing the ocean breeze would just sweep their conversation and his thoughts away forever. He knew very well that reality never conformed to mere wishes.

Chapter Text

“So, I feel inclined to ask, what was our fair leader like exactly? Before her fateful little bump on the head that is?”

Gortash turned his face up to the offending party. Astarion stared back at him, expecting an answer. Morning light streamed through the windows in columns, pricked with bright motes of dust. The spawn’s cool white hair was warmed by it, the sharp shadows defining his curls melted fuzzy. Gortash was only half-awake, his mind still lulled by the sticky-sweet call of denied sleep.

“Well?” the elf demanded.

“Well what? I don’t answer to her followers,” Gortash replied, leaning back on his palms and letting himself sink back into his soft mattress just a touch.

The spawn barked a laugh. “Spoken like a true fellow follower in denial. I recall you trailing after Tav rather obediently yesterday.”

The Banite frowned. “I am no such thing, and if you are to ask me for such favors in future as personal information, I suggest you cut back on the wit.”

Astarion sighed dramatically. “Fine. Will you tell me more if I refrain, then?”

“...I may consider it,” came the prim answer.

The elf furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue. “You’re not a very fun tyrant, are you?” Then he sauntered off to a different waking companion.

Gortash wasn’t grieved by the loss of his company. He had other things occupying his mind—chiefly amongst them the spawn’s leader. He made to rise from bed, then, realizing he'd rarely slept so well in days, perhaps even weeks, threw himself indulgently back into his bed. There was no paperwork awaiting him, so why shouldn't he? He stared up at the wood-framed ceiling, unblinking.

Her, her, her. What to do with her? Every time he thought about his situation, his rational mind was smothered under heaps of confounding sentiment. The vampire’s question prodded at him, but not on its own account. How did he see her? What had drawn him to her? He wanted to tell himself it was her power; the sort that was present in every confident step, every word, and arrested every room she entered. It was what had made him respect her, among other things, but it wasn’t what came to mind first. He almost couldn't acknowledge what did, painful as it was. In hindsight, that same sort of sentiment was probably what doomed him. Gortash hadn’t realized the depth of his partiality towards her until it was far too late into their partnership, and then he couldn’t rid himself of her. Whether that was because of the agreement between their respective gods or his own inclinations, he couldn’t tell anymore, only that her disappearance made removing that coat of his a rather troubling prospect.

His coat. Gortash was thinking of it more and more often, needing it. As vile as a crutch like that was, he suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of doing without it, like an unbearable itch. He sprang up from his bed and sought Tav out.

“My coat—” Gortash started as soon as she was within earshot. He’d no taste for pleasantries, not with the previous night still fresh in his mind. "What did you do with after I was unconscious?"

She turned to face him and frowned, pausing for a moment before clarifying: “the one from the coronation?”

“What other coat could there be?” he demanded. “Tell me what you did with it.”

The Bhaalspawn blinked at him. “Nothing. It was destroyed back at Wyrm’s Rock; a casualty.”

“Destroyed? You think I’ll believe that? Even if the rest of my clothes hadn’t survived, that coat was enchanted to withstand more than your paltry spells—where is it?”

A beat, before she sagged slightly in defeat. “Fine, we cut it away. You were bleeding heavily, and Shadowheart couldn’t reach your wounds, and it was impossible to take off in time—”

“You cut it?” Gortash repeated incredulously.

“Yes, but if we hadn’t you might’ve bled—”

“What right did you have to do that?” he snapped. “What right did you have to do any of this to me?” He wasn’t sure why he said that, or why he’d felt so strongly about it, in hindsight. Afterall, he thought nothing of doing the same, even worse, to others. Was he upset because of what was done to him, or was it who had done it?

Tav went silent, glancing off. It wasn’t the first time she’d sagged away from conflict. He’d seen it in their discussion the previous night, in talking to her subordinates, even letting that cleric refuse to do her bidding when he’d first woken up. Even that ‘detect thoughts’ display, her threats, her claim that she spared him for ‘information,’ were all mere bluster. When had she become so weak? Bhaal’s Chosen would have screamed back, or threatened him with a dagger, or done more than merely threaten, but she would have never just stood there and tolerated it. Resentment started to prickle in his chest.

“You’re not who you were before. I regret that I ever believed otherwise,” Gortash said quietly. “Bhaal’s Chosen would’ve never allowed herself to be so weak.”

For a moment, it looked as though Tav was ready to slink away, but she didn’t. Instead she looked up at him, expressionless. “Do you think you’re strong?”

Gortash frowned. “Stronger than you, yes.”

“Really? Is that why you had to agree to my terms?” she asked calmly. “Or why you stayed perched in that dungeon with Gale exactly where I wanted yesterday, or why you’ve come to me to ask for that enchanted coat of yours instead of finding it yourself and taking it?”

He blinked. “I—”

“You what? You believed you had the upper hand?”

“Is this how you speak to an ally?” Gortash interjected, heat rising in his cheeks.

“Don’t confound my patience with weakness, Enver. You were upset last night, and I tried to accommodate that, but my generosity has limits.”

“I am not a child, I don’t need your self-gratifying consideration—”

“Pretend that’s true if you wish. It doesn't change reality.”

“Reality corroborates that you base your decisions on ephemera—if that sentimental drivel you recited yesterday is to be believed—and I on necessity. It seems you've become incapable of anything else.”

“Make no mistake, I take no pleasure in doing what is necessary, but I will do it.” She was laying contradiction upon contradiction, and so arrogantly at that, wasn't she? Perhaps the manner has stayed, even if its justification—the intelligence, the will, the power—hadn't. “You've seen as much, haven't you?”

He laughed sharply and humorlessly. “If that's true, then you and I possess very different definitions of necessary.” Hers was very distinctly saccharine.

“I'm aware. You revel in yours, don't you?”

“I'm no sadist,” he retorted sharply. “I don't know where a Bhaalspawn finds the gall to tell me I enjoy the suffering I inflict.”

“No, you take pleasure in being completely and utterly careless, in confirming that you're the tyrant you think you are. You know you have to push down every hint of emotion you can because you don't want to confront a reality where you could feel the slightest bit of sympathy or regret for anyone you've hurt. It's too difficult for you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Is that supposed to be your attempt at psychoanalysis? You should’ve learned by now that there’s no bravery in sympathy or regret, especially not with our pasts. Even if I were capable of feeling it, it wouldn’t change a thing. But you’re almost right, I don’t regret anything I’ve done, except perhaps this.”

“You can lie to yourself, but not to me. I know you, Enver,” she said, so simply, so confidently, like she was describing the weather.

He nearly gaped, stunned into smiling silence—by the stupidity of it all, he mused to himself later on. How does one even begin to deny the perfectly absurd? How did she presume to think that she ‘knew’ him?

Tav didn't seem particularly concerned with whatever sarcastic reply he would’ve eventually summoned, though. “I want you to accompany me somewhere tomorrow,” she said.

After a few moments, Gortash finally regained use of his tongue. “Are you still asking at this point?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Yes, I am.”

He stared at her for a long moment, but didn’t change her posture or mind.

“There's no point in showing you something you don't want to see,” she added. This, of all things, she refused to force?

Mild curiosity struggled with stubborn pride. Gortash’s face twisted up. “Fine.”

Chapter Text

“Your question.”

The spawn glanced up. “What question?”

“About your leader. I’ll answer it if you answer one of mine.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes. “I’ll need to know what it is first, naturally.”

“—Do you regret it? Forfeiting the ritual?” he quickly supplied.

He frowned, tapping his chin with a contemplative finger. “Ah, that. No, no, I don’t think so.”

“Why?” Gortash pressed.

“Ah, ah, ah! I’m afraid that’s my business, dear Banite. I promised only to answer your question, not give you a free lecture.”

The tyrant’s face pinched. “Are you serious? You surely understand that a yes-or-no answer is useless to me, don’t you?”

“Perhaps, but that’s not my concern, is it? Now I believe I’m owed an answer in return.”

He stared at the man for a long, exasperated moment, but he seemed to take no shame in his cheap sleight of hand. Typical rogue. Gortash hadn’t been above similar exploits at one point or another in his life, but he, at least, had done it for a reason. “Fine,” he eventually sighed. “It’s not much of a secret regardless, I imagine.”

Astarion grinned and gestured him on. Perhaps it would do him well to think it through aloud. Something of a catharsis. Or an exorcism.

“Strong. Confident. Extremely self-controlled. Always either impossibly elegant or gloriously brutal. She never occupied middle-grounds or took half measures. She barely seemed mortal at times…” Gortash started, intending to summon more descriptors, then stopped, noticing his audience had wilted at incredible speed. “What?”

“I know all of that already. I’d have expected you to offer some sort of… I don’t know, original insight? But you’re just as clueless as the rest of us,” the elf moaned petulantly. “Did you do nothing but stare at each other from afar in that elusive past of yours like schoolgirls?”

“I told you it was no secret. You had better be grateful I didn’t return your succinctness with my own,” Gortash groused, opting to forget his last little comment for his own sanity—at least for the time being.

The other man sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m surprised you could see beyond the tip of your own nose with that perception of yours… Tav practically offers her secrets on a platter to you.”

The human rolled his eyes. “Now you’re simply searching for excuses to whine. She may not be the stoic she once was, but she most certainly does no such thing.”

The elf let out a high, breathy laugh. “Isn’t she? Because all she shares with me and the others is cryptic advice, like a less skeletal Withers. I mean honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she started addressing everyone as ‘thou’ the next morning. Were it not for that spontaneous violence of hers, I’d wonder if there wasn’t any impulse she couldn’t strangle. Well, that and sparing you, though I’d probably group that with the other urges… Granted, she can be rather harsh at times too, but that’s besides the point.”

Gortash’s frown deepened, the shadows at the corners of his mouth darkening.

“Oh, don’t pout, I’m done with my ramble. You’re welcome to go back to… whatever it is you do. Probably brooding.” The vampire clicked his tongue and turned to leave, but not before adding, “you should really find something to do, you know. She won’t be back for quite a while.”

The Banite sighed, returning to his quiet corner. A pile of books lay virtually untouched in the corner, but he couldn’t bring himself to open any of them.

After being left to idle a few moments, Gortash ran a hand absently over his stubble, discovering it wasn't so much stubble by then as it was the beginnings of a beard, after having neglected shaving for so long. He frowned. It was no goal of his to imitate Gale—he’d have to clean himself up.

He half-ran to hunt for a razor and the nearest mirror, eager for something to occupy his time. He found the former, along with some shaving cream—albeit a rather cheap variety—in a communal bathing area of the tavern’s (thankfully empty, he noted later on), and the latter in the vampire’s tent, ironically. Gortash sincerely doubted he would miss the token very much, as he snatched it up. It would go to a good cause anyway.

He performed his task carefully and thoroughly. Too many times, when in a rush or pensive, he’d cut skin. The shallow, stinging wounds left their mark in thin pale scars, reminding him of the inconvenience. At some point, when he hadn’t the time to have someone else shave him, Gortash had merely begun neglecting his stubble. Many nobles even seemed to prefer it, adding to his ‘rugged’ charm, apparently. They always delighted in the exoticism of something rough and unlike them. Now, though, with nothing but time in need of passing, he could train his focus solely on this, his mind narrowed to a thin, precise needle.

It wasn’t long before Gortash was done. He’d gone rather above and beyond, scrubbing his skin and teeth closely when he thought of it and sweeping his hair from his eyes. He’d rinsed that too, though more briefly, when a rather generous amount of grease—mostly remnants of expensive hair gel—glinted back at him in the mirror. He felt better afterwards. Calmer.

Gortash walked back to his corner quietly and almost without incident, until he rounded a pillar.

The cleric, who had been walking by, promptly stopped and stared at him—or gawked, rather. “What did you do?” she asked incredulously. He nearly didn’t recognize her voice, infrequently as he was graced by it.

Gortash frowned at her. “Are you accusing me of something?”

She gave him a puzzled look, then waved a hand over her face illustratively. “Your face.”

"What about it?"

"It's changed."

“I shaved. Isn’t it obvious?”

She squinted. “Yes, but that doesn’t account for all of… that.”

Astation, walking by, noticed the commotion. “Whatever is the—” The vampire almost immediately joined in gawking. “What happened to your face?”

The subject of fascination sighed. “I shaved, that’s all. I don’t understand why that’s so enthralling.”

“No, my dear tyrant, you just miraculously excised about a gallon of grease and 8 years from that scruffy…” the elf gestures vaguely, “well, that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, yes that’s it. It’s rather an improvement, if that can be said about him...” the cleric mused.

“It’s a start,” Astarion amended. “Improvement is a little generous with so much room for it left.”

Gortash scoffed. “Is this how you’ve been taught to conduct yourselves before a Lord? Because if so, then your polite education was insufficient.”

A few more cheap jabs and comments, and the Banite was finally able to pull himself away from the accumulated crowd. Staring into the pilfered mirror, Gortash couldn’t see any significant difference. His skin was cleaner and somewhat smoother, and his eyes were no longer shadowed so heavily by sleep deprivation and his hair, but he still looked like himself. He frowned. It didn’t particularly matter, he supposed.

In the back of his mind, a small rumor pieced together. Bane’s avatars were said to look ‘greasy’ and ‘sleazy.’ He wasn’t Bane, though, nor would he ever allow Bane to infringe upon his person in such a way, no matter how much respect he had for him—still, he thought of it. Perhaps because he hadn’t communed with, or even thought of, Bane for longer than he had for years. He’d been distracted, and after the embarrassment he’d experienced, he doubted Bane would be pleased with him.

Gortash ran a hand through his dark, now somewhat dulled, hair. He felt strangely exposed. He didn’t have the powers bestowed upon him by Bane, the constant weight of his lord’s gaze on him, the meaningless platitudes of sycophants that his every decision was wise, nor the lull of the strange, fuzzy state his coat and various other enchantments put him in.

He blinked. It was pointless to think about it. He’d merely grown accustomed to it—it was only natural he would feel strange without it, harmful as such a reliance was. Perhaps he would have to reevaluate certain strategies of his. He didn’t want to think of anything else, certainly not the consequences of his weakness…

Gortash rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. The yellow morning light was still streaming through the windows. It would be a long day.

Chapter Text

“Let’s get going.”

Gortash glanced up from his bed. “Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s me. Are you ready to go?” Tav asked. She was staring at him more intensely than usual, scanning his face. The vampire and the cleric weren't the only ones to notice, apparently.

He yawned, very undignified. He'd have straightened up and concealed it instantly, a few weeks ago, not wanting to present such a front, but now he couldn't bring himself to care. “I suppose. Is it far?” He didn't betray the suspense he was in.

“Not particularly.”

Gortash rose slowly, unhurried and unburdened. “Hm. Alright then, lead the way.”

“Don't forget your disguise—” she warned.

“What do you take me for?” He scoffed, moving for a disguise self scroll. He chose the same tiefling as always.

Afternoon had come by the time the pair had left the tavern proper, though the day still wore on. The streets bustled with the usual suspects of the Lower City—children, workmen, tourists, the like. They were alone, however, so weaving through it all was no trouble.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Gortash asked after a while.

“You'll see,” Tav replied cryptically. He wasn't surprised.

“So you've finally decided to put me down then,” he scoffed.

She sighed. “If I had, I wouldn't have let you carry your crossbow.”

“You always, or at least used to, like a challenge, against all reason.”

“Hm. Well, not today.”

“I'm meant to believe that?”

“You don’t have any other choice, it seems,” she said definitively.

“...Are we at least close?” he asked. “To our destination, I mean.

“Close enough.”

“Be more precise.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Is it really that important to you?”

Gortash went silent for a moment. “Are we going to be there soon?” he asked.

The Bhaalspawn suddenly paused ahead of him, stiffened, and then her shoulders began to shake.

“What?”

“You're so impatient,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Gortash frowned. “And what, that upsets you?”

He walked up to her side, trying to peer at her face, only to find a poorly bitten-back grin. “Not at all. The contrary,” she replied, peering at him through the corners of her eyes.

“Are you… laughing?”

“Maybe a little. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, you’re incredibly impatient. Of course you'd resort to nagging.”

“I wasn't nagging, and you refused to answer my perfectly reasonable questions!” It seemed so infinitely stupid and simple and small, and she laughed. Not dryly or smugly or in some strange murderous excitement, but something else. “But really, just because I made a simple, natural inquiry?”

“Now you're just whining.”

“I am not whining.”

“Some tyrant you are…” she said under her breath.

“You realize I can hear that, yes?”

“...Are you going to ask if we're there yet?” she asked, ignoring him. Her eyes were soft, crinkled at the corners, the smile tugging at her lips light and unburdened. It was almost uncanny. Gortash turned his head away.

“Gods, you're acting hysterical…”

She hummed, walking back into his sight. “But I can get away with it now, can't I? At least with you.”

Gortash didn't reply.

“I shouldn't have said anything. Maybe you would've said it on your own,” she mused. “We're not far, in case you're still wondering.”

“Fine.”

Her face slackened, the smile dropping from her as quickly as it had come.

Gortash took his opportunity to scout out his surroundings again—any evidence of his current position would do. After a few minutes of searching, he couldn't find anything he didn't before. The posters of his portrait were still up, the Steel Watch absent, and the newspapers were still running. It was as if nothing had changed from before their invention, except, of course, the presence of the brain. Halfway through their walk, a slight tremor broke through the city. Gortash only staggered, bracing himself on a nearby building, while the Bhaalspawn hunched over in the street holding her head in her hands. When the episode subsided, she'd broken out into a sweat.

“The brain,” Gortash said simply.

She nodded. “You don't have a tadpole. You don't hear it, do you?”

“No, I don't. I take it we're avoiding the Upper City then?”

“Yes.”

He stayed silent for a moment, then spoke with a calm that surprised even him, “You realize it's breaking free.” It wasn't a question—the answer was obvious.

“Yes.”

“Something has to be done, and soon.” Conquer it with me, he wanted to say. He wanted to explain his plan again, list all the reasons it would work, all the reasons it had to work—

“I know.” She said it with a finality that made him hesitate.

Gortash sighed to himself. He'd do it later. He couldn't discuss it there anyways, in the middle of the street where anyone could see them and hear them, especially Bhaal's pets.

Gortash glanced around himself, gaze lingering on shadowed alleys. He'd wait. He was patient, contrary to popular belief.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, stopping in front of the old sight of the Steel Watch factory. Strange choice. Gortash knew the state it was in. It was in ruins, as expected, the ground singed and debris strewn everywhere. Gnome workers dotted them, carrying steel scraps and chirping in conversation.

Gortash frowned.

Tav watched him quietly.

“What are they doing?’ he eventually asked.

“Rebuilding,” she answered.

“Why?”

“Because they agreed to.”

“That doesn't make any sense. Did someone make them?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Why not? They're free to do what they wish now.”

“But why would they wish this?”

She shrugged. “They needed work, and someone offered good pay and decent hours and guarantees they could manage themselves.”

“After all of that? They all agreed that easily?”

“Well, not all of them stayed, naturally, but enough did. Plus the ironhand gnomes.”

He stayed silent for a moment, watching the work blankly. “...Did you do this?”

“Not really. Florrick campaigned for it, mostly.”

“Florrick?” He distantly recalled news of her absenting her cell before execution, there being so much commotion at the time.

“She recognized they were still useful. Crime rates dropped pretty significantly after their implementation. Of course, she couldn't condone the more… dubious elements of it, but she pushed it forward nonetheless.”

Gortash sighed and tore his eyes away from the wreck, looking at the Bhaalspawn. “It doesn't work without dubious elements, as you say. You need tadpoled brains to control the machines, it's inefficient to have people work in shifts, it's inefficient to train dozens of new people and train even more when those people quit. Even if you manage to produce a functional Steel Watch, what will happen if it falls into the wrong hands? Florrick, if she's a decent option, won't be around forever, will she? Then what? Someone could lay siege to the entire city.”

“You're saying this won't work,” she said.

“I'm stating the obvious. These are just a handful of many, many factors that cannot be managed through democracy. An operation like this needs a single strong hand to guide it.”

“How can you say that without having seen anything?”

“Because I know.”

She frowned at him. “You can’t know what you haven’t seen.”

“Oh, but I can. I don’t need to glance up at the sky to confirm that it’s blue.”

“Entertain me then. Spare a few moments of your time, and let me show you what progress they’ve made.”

Gortash scoffed. “You’re petitioning for my time now? How my position has shifted…”

She crossed her arms and waited.

“Alright, show me.” His curiosity had seriously dwindled, but they'd come all that way already. Perhaps he should've expected the moralizing.

The Bhaalspawn straightened herself, and started towards the ruins proper. Behind most of the rubble was a few work benches, tents, and some salvaged mechanisms and tools.

Tav motioned to one of the workers—a foreman, from her different attire—and she promptly walked over.

“Any updates?” The Bhaalspawn asked.

The foreman glanced at him, a red tiefling then, without interest, then back at her.

“Yeah. Our first prototype’s functional. We're proud of it too,” she said, smiling a little.

“So quickly? How is that possible?” Gortash interjected.

The gnome barely disguised her glare at the nuisance. “Underestimated us, huh? We studied off the old schematics and remains. Then—”

“We believe you. My friend here is just curious about these things,” Tav interrupted.

The foreman raised a brow. “That so? Then we might have something to talk about, if you need work.”

The Bhaalspawn shook her head quickly. “No, not like that. They're quite content with where they are at the moment.”

Gortash frowned a little at that, but said nothing. A few more headshakes and polite refusals won them their freedom from the foreman, and they walked away. He watched in a daze as the ruined lot thinned and dwindled til they turned a corner, and it was out of his sight entirely. They cut through a familiar area. Gortash unconsciously counted the well-worn cobblestones to that old, peeling shop. It sent him even deeper into his thoughts. They turned another corner and reddening sunlight poked at his eye.

She didn't press him. They trudged on in silence, as night crept up behind them.

“We have business just outside the city limits. We may need to camp there again,” she said eventually, glancing at him.

Gortash raised a brow. “And?”

“Will that bother you? Considering…”

“You are concerning yourself with that now? After all that's happened?”

“I… Well, yes. Now that I can afford to.”

“You couldn't afford to?” he repeated, pressing.

“It had slipped my mind. I'm sorry.”

He stared at her for a few moments, unblinking. Then he sighed. “I don't particularly care. I'm not thrilled, naturally, but it doesn't concern me.”

“Alright,” she breathed, sagging a little.

He didn't know how to react to the relief, except to echo, “Alright.”

They gathered up the party from the tavern, and the entire group set off. Once out of the city, they stopped before the border of a forest—well, less a forest than a collection of relatively sparse but tall trees, as well as some other greenery. Either way, Gortash wasn't particularly impressed.

“Didn’t you have something to say, wizard?” the drow piped up, her voice bored.

“Ah, yes—Thank you, Minthara. Everyone! Everyone, can I get your attention please!” the wizard exclaimed.

The group looked rather unimpressed, all already turned towards him.

“I imagine you all remember those runes we put up the last time we were here? Yes? Well before we last departed in our usual rush, I realized there was a… discrepancy in how many runes I’d planted and how many I’d dismantled.”

“Are you telling me there are active runes around here?" Tav asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he replied sheepishly. “Well, technically only our friend here can activate them. No one else would’ve been harmed. They would’ve simply faded into nonexistence eventually. And I assumed we wouldn’t be returning, considering the state of the brain, so I didn’t take the extra time to locate them—it would’ve delayed us by then. I am sorry. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll all have to...”

Gortash sighed and walked on quickly. He kept his eyes on the ground with an almost contemptuous focus. He didn't want to look at any of them, to be reminded of his situation. The sun was beginning to set, so it wasn't as though it was unwise to look closely.

They did, in fact, catch one rune on their way. It wasn't electric that time—apparently Gale favored some variety with his traps. And blatant carelessness for that matter. He didn't know why he was offended by that. He'd said the runes wouldn't affect any civilians, as expected, and the wizard had no reason to worry about his Gortash's safety, beyond a desire to satisfy his leader’s whims. The wizard removed it carefully, and they moved on. Another few minutes passed without incident, until they heard a soft rumble. Gortash didn't slow down in the slightest, even when everyone else did.

“Gortash—” Gale started cautiously, before he was cut off by something louder.

The ground shook—far more violently than ever before—throwing him off his feet. Most of the party had thrown themselves to the ground or clung to something, hands clutching their temples.

“Enver!” Tav yelled, out of his sight. He absently wondered why as he staggered onto his feet. He wasn't the only one thrown off the ground. Astarion was dangling rather precariously from a tree branch. All he'd thrust one foot back to prevent himself from falling over. Then the sound of rushing magic.

Gortash turned and saw the glow. He lunged forward, hard, but the trap had sprung, and bright green acid spewed up.

His foot was in agony before his stomach hit the ground. That was an understatement. It burned like nothing had ever burned in his life. He could feel his foot practically liquify, and in other, spottier areas, chunks of flesh slouching off the bone. Everything stung, pain ripping up his leg violently.

He let out a strangled cry, his hands clutching at the grass beneath him.

He didn't want to look, he couldn't look. His eyes were stinging with tears, his chest heaving. The air seemed so thin, yet so harsh, the light breeze like knives on his wound. He felt dizzy, so dizzy, and he sobbed from the overwhelm—he didn't care anymore who saw anymore.

Tav stumbled towards him as quickly, picking up when the tremors began to subside. She fell to her knees, turning him onto his side. Did she think he was going to vomit and aspirate, he thought to himself feverishly. Was he? He wasn't sure anymore. Gortash glanced up, avoiding the inevitable sight of his foot. He definitely felt sick.

He hated it, and yet he nearly wanted to laugh. This was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. There was no chance anyone, let alone the wizard, would be that careless, it’d be more believable that she’d planned—Gortash paused. That couldn't be true, could it? A sickened feeling shot through him, different from the swelling pride he’d felt watching her other manipulations. Betrayal. No… that didn’t make sense, did it? It’s not as though she could’ve planned the tremor. Maybe she would’ve shoved him instead? His mind started racing. But what would be the point? None of her companions would care if he died in an accident or at her hands, or at the very least they wouldn’t have opposed her. It couldn’t be for public opinion—she could expose his crimes whenever she pleased, or really find any number of solutions for explaining his continued absence. Regardless, this clearly wasn’t an effective means of killing him… Gortash’s eyes darted up to Tav’s frantic ones. What if she just wanted him maimed, just like this? Conveniently taken out of commission when everything mattered the most… Then she’d just return to him, wouldn’t she? All nice and docile, waiting like some pet she could lock in the house whenever he got in the way. But he wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it.

“Did—did you intend this?” He demanded deliriously, grabbing at her arm. “Did you do this to me?” His chest was heaving, gasps of air breaking up his words.

A bewildered look crossed her face. “What? I—Why in the hells would I—Shadowheart, cast something, quickly!” Tav called urgently. Some part of him wanted to believe her. He thought she didn’t want to hurt him, despite her instincts. If she did, how could she want this to happen to him, he thought despairingly.

The cleric rushed over to them, bending over the Banite. “I can heal him, but I don't know any spells to fix… that.”

“How is that possible?” she exclaimed.

“We never needed it, I suppose,” the half-elf shrugged a little stiffly.

“What—whatever, cast what you can, there has to be something!”

“I'll try it.” A subtle warmth enveloped him, light filling his vision. The horrific stinging in his leg subsided to a dull, rhythmic throb. Then his head began to pound. The pain started almost imperceptibly, but quickly became unbearable.

“Hey!” He winced at the noise. His teeth seemed to chatter with the force of every thump, like someone was digging into his skull with a dull butterknife.

An arm, or at least some sort of longish abendage, was waved in front of him. Gortash squinted at it. The world around him was shifting nauseatingly, once-solid shapes shifting and flowing around like liquids. He couldn't make out who was talking anymore, only what was said. Faces were indecipherable too, so he closed his eyes. “Why is…”

“Why does he look like that?”

“I don't know. I got rid of the acid. And the spell should've stopped the blood loss.”

A cool hand touched his neck.

“His pulse is erratic. And his skin is burning.”

Gale’s voice interjected: “He's not sick. I think it may be a reaction to the spell… I’ve heard of this happening with particularly extensive healing magic, though it’s rather rare—The fact that he's seen acid suddenly couldn't have helped either.”

“He—Can’t you fix it?”

“No. I don't know how,” someone else said, “but he should be fine if he…” Gortash blinked, the words melting away from him.

“...sure? He…terrible…” Had one of them begun mumbling? Or were they whispering, trying to keep something from him? The volume hadn't changed, oddly. All clearly alarmed and sharp and ringing clearly through the forest.

“...potions?” He strained to listen, but he could only parse a few words by then.

“...useless…... dilated pupils…take care…rest…”

A new voice pitched in, different from the others. “...the tremor…”

“...the brain…destroy…” Destroy? They couldn't destroy it, no, no no, he wasn't fit to rule at the moment, but he would be, he had to be. He couldn't lose the brain now! All of his work, everything, his entire life, had led up to this. What would he be if they destroyed it? Gortash mumbled protests, twisting his body himself back and forth. A pair of hands darted in to hold him still.

“...urgent…no time to wait…”

“No, no!” He vaguely recognized that he said it, but he didn't feel in control of himself—it felt external to him. Someone hushed him, smoothing down his hair.

“...sure?”

“Someone…him…”

The pain only grew worse, every agonizing pulse wiping away more and more of reality until there was nothing

Chapter Text

Had Bane finally taken him? Every nerve seemed as though it'd been bullied and fried and was being fried again. Air burned, but he couldn't get enough of it. Beads of sweat pricked his skin. His vision swam and everything was far too hot. He hadn't known about the Tyrant God's affinity for deserts…

Movement in his periphery—the lick of a red flame on black canvas. Time seemed to start again, reality filling out around him like a returning ride. He was still alive, somehow.

“Karlach.”

No response.

Gortash sighed. Of course they'd meet again, always drawn inexorably together—usually by her own insistence, like a bouncy puppy clinging to his heels. There was a sincerity about her, though, that he sorely missed, that made flicking her off his leg and leaving almost impossible. Almost. A strange anger struck him, looking at her. He needed to be cruel, every part of him practically strained to be, or something more terrible would burst, something he didn't identify. That made it all the worse.

“...I wanted you to become a leader, Karlach. Really. I'm disappointed.” Gortash's voice was hoarse enough to make him wince. He sounded like the dead.

A moment of silence, like she was deciding whether or not to make her presence certain. Or maybe she was just delaying the inevitable.

“...Shut up,” she finally said, quiet and bitter.

He clicked his tongue. “Believe me. I truly—”

“Shut. Up. I don't want to listen to your grating voice for another moment,” she snarled.

“...Are you here to finish me then?”

“...No, unfortunately. I can't.”

Tav’s orders, no doubt. A bit of venom rose in him, lifting his tongue with it. “Hm. Are you sure? This is quite the opportunity—” He reared up and coughed.

She shook her head. “You're pathetic.”

He glanced back at her. “Not the only one.”

Karlach scoffed. “You always need to get the last word in.”

Gortash lifted his head—with more than a little difficulty, but he did it—and looked at her. Karlach was hunched over and half-turned away from him, face hidden in the dark. The edges of her jaw and chin flickered with the steady thump of her infernal heart, lighting the tent like a lantern. Her webbed scars glinted, new and old. “Why are you here? Not that I mind terribly, but why?”

“Don't ask.”

“I already have.”

“Then retract it. I don't care.”

“I want to know.”

“You don't have a right to know. You never have, and you never will,” she spat. “There was something I needed to confirm, and I did.”

“What do rights matter? Even if you don't tell me, I know why,” Gortash said.

“You don't know a thing,” she snapped, bristling. Flame surged up, enveloping her in red. The air in the tent seemed to rush up with it, heating and cracking.

“You haven't changed.”

“You don't know a thing,” she repeated bitterly, “about what I've suffered, how I've hated you all these years, how difficult it’s been for me to stand there and watch you laugh with my friend and go out as that fucking red tiefling that you know is a slap to the face, and have to say nothing.” Karlach paused, her entire frame heaving. The flames dwindled, then sunk into her skin. The entire room seemed to thank her for it, the tent walls deflating and sagging. “But I've come to realize something recently. When I saw you curled up like that on the ground.”

Gortash waited, his throat suddenly seized too tight to let a single breath pass.

“There's no point.” She shook her head, as if to punctuate. “There's no point in hating something as pathetic as you. Especially now. You're nothing. Just some hateful little man who doesn't even have the power to hurt other people anymore, just to make himself feel powerful. And I know why you did what you did to me.”

He froze at that, blood running cold.

“—Don’t. I don't care enough to share whatever dark secret you think I've found. In fact, I don't really care why you do anything anymore. I might've back then, but not anymore. If I've learned anything, it's that sometimes people like you exist and do the things they do for no more important reasons that they felt like it, or maybe they needed to feel powerful, or superior, or something equally stupid. It doesn't matter. I'm not you, that's all that matters,” she said. “No matter what people like you did to me. I just want to live, I… I wish I could live…” she added more weakly.

His lips parted, but he couldn’t say anything. What could he say? It all seemed so infinitely stupid to him at that moment. Nothing he did had mattered. Nothing. Everything around him proved it, from the gnomes to Bane’s abandonment—which he'd scarcely even thought about, really, to his horror—to the fact that he'd been felled by a rune and quake, both consequences of his own actions, and saved her again, weak and useless as he was. Hells, even the fact that he'd been spared at all. All but in a few gestures and fewer days. He felt like a child again. Helpless, and scared for it.

What was even more insulting than his fallen station was that she could grant it to him again so easily, on what was just a whim. He'd worked so long and so hard, alongside her too, and she could just grant it to him now, like a parent handing a child a toy. He felt horrifyingly lucid, like he'd put a finger on the pulse of creation and had been reminded just how small and inconsequential he really was. And he'd struggled against it. Just like Raphael and that pathetic Cazador, whom he was no better than, trying to gain a single inch against the inevitable. The inevitable seemed like it was her, for a long time, the wall he needed to throw himself against again and again to salvage what was left of his tattered life.

But she was the one dealing in both of their fates out there. He, instead, had been punished. What did it matter if she had done this to him, if she'd even done it at all? Everything was a consequence. The runes were set up because he'd proven himself a threat, the quakes because he'd put the brain where it was, knowing full well he wasn't guaranteed to control it, and she'd—well, that was more complicated. But he wasn't inclined to thrust his trembling, battered mind into the matter any longer. Trying to focus by then felt like inviting knives to slide through the gray matter.

All he knew—instinctively—was that everything was all one big, horrible mistake that he'd committed himself to making again and again and again. The horrible thing had been this very epiphany, one he'd choked down for so long… And now there was nothing that could change what he did. Not to Karlach or to anyone else.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She deserved an admission of guilt, at the very least, he decided. He wasn't sure he felt it, but it eased out of him like he did.

She paused, her eyes narrowing at him. “What?”

Gortash swallowed. “I’m sorry, Karlach. Truly. I wish I hadn’t done it.

She laughed, bitter and humorless. “Is that your definition of a joke?”

“No, no it's not,” he said, more firmly, “I'm sorry.”

She went silent, staring at him.

“I know there’s nothing I could possibly say to ameliorate, or to undo the damage that I did, but I am sorry for it.”

“...Why in the hells should I believe that?” she demanded.

“...I suppose you shouldn't,” he admitted, “but if you’ll let me, I’ll take a look at your heart. I understand the machinery better than anyone else in Baldur’s Gate—I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure you can stay here permanently—I’ll modify it to the absolute zenith of my ability. I swear it.” Why was he promising that? Even if he could, he didn't have to. But her plea rang in his ears again and again—she just wanted to live. Something so simple.

Confusion filtered into her expression. “You’re fucking right it’ll never be godsdamned enough! Not even close… But you’re serious?”

“I am,” he affirmed, his voice starting to tremble.

The flames seemed to falter, the engine fluttered, and Karlach’s body seemed to sag under the sheer weight of her grief. She looked utterly exhausted. How her rage hadn’t completely engulfed her after all these years, he couldn’t comprehend. “Can you really fix it?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “I believe so. And if I can’t, I’ll find a way to do so. I’ve never given up on a machine before, and I won’t now.”

Karlach sighed and wiped her eyes with her forearm—he hadn't realized she was crying until she'd turned towards him just then, and they glinted sharply in the light of her heart. The light seemed to stab him. “You’d better not be lying—I’ll hold you to that, Gortash.”

It felt right, it felt fitting, it felt strangely… peaceful. Gortash took a breath, but he couldn't say anything to her.

“I… I need a moment alone. But I'll be back soon for you to look at it. I don't have long with my engine like this…” Karlach turned away from him and left, ducking out of the tent. He was alone now, heat subsiding in the air. Gortash knew he was slightly delirious, but he felt… lighter.

Chapter Text

Sleep, cold and restless. No hellfire or pain anymore, just him suspended in the endless void. He can't think, he can't feel; it's like he’d never started living at all. A cold hand dashed through, and Gortash opened his eyes.

“Better?” she asked, hastily retracting her hand.

He eyed the Bhaalspawn with no small amount of suspicion. It was light out by then, pale yellow ribbons streaming through gaps. Something about the way his lungs rose with air, thin and flat—he felt grounded again. Gortash’s eyes trickled down and—Tav stopped him, hand gentle on his chin.

“You don't want to look,” she said.

Gortash narrowed his eyes.

“...We’ve put off healing it until you recover from your fever.“ Calm but clearly uncertain.

Gortash leant his head back. He was too tired to protest.

“What happened?” he asked coolly.

Tav seemed to hesitate. “Don't you remember…?”

Gortash sighed and shook his head. “Not that—I know. With the brain.”

“Ah. We didn't handle that yet. We just got back with Orin’s netherstone.”

“In one night?”

She gave him a look. “No. It's been a couple of days.”

“A couple of days?”

“You slept through most of it…” More hesitation. “Karlach said she only saw you awake once.”

“...Yes, Karlach.” Gortash frowned.

“Nothing happened, did it? I wouldn't have left you with Karlach, but I had no choice, and she swore…”

“Nothing happened,” he said quickly.

She scrutinized him, for a moment, plainly disbelieving. “Alright, good…” Decided against asking? Odd. Gortash watched her in return. She bit a lip, and her eyes darted away from his injuries.

…Had she done it? Could she have? The concern seemed so real… Did she have a reason to? Maybe she was doing this intentionally, muddling, obfuscating, confusing. It certainly wouldn't be beyond her. But he didn't want her to have done it. A little desperately, from the way his chest seemed to cave at the thought.

He'd thought it before, but did it really matter? They'd hurt each other worse. She'd planned to kill him—if that prayer were any indication—for her Lord Bhaal.

“Bhaal,” he repeated aloud. “What happened with Bhaal?” He couldn't imagine her father letting her go when she stood in his very temple, especially with Orin gone.

She didn’t say anything at first, lips just parted.

Gortash waited. For once, it didn’t feel urgent to learn. He felt a strange acceptance.

“Orin is dead,” she finally said.

“And Bhaal?”

“I denied his gift.” Then, with a faint smile: “I’m free.” Oh. Now he was noticing it, with his eyes clearing. She was calm, muscles relaxed, jaw unclenched. The dark circles had softened from under her eyes, and her pupils weren’t pinpricks straining against the irises. Her skin lacked her usual unhealthy sheen. Her whole demeanor had unwound. It was as if she’d emerged from a long illness.

He stared at her. Is this what it meant, then? She smiled a little wider at him, like she understood—she did, didn’t she? No one else ever did, could—but she understood compulsion. She knew what it meant to have the dark specter of the past, your own pain and screams and desperation drive you blindly forward. What it meant for it to be impossible, for your path to be wrong. It was like being torn apart—you were wrong. He was wrong.

A small laugh escaped him. He was wrong? The searing, their laughter, hunger, filth, those damning eyes—from him, then at him, as he condemned them. It was all supposed to mean something, to transcend itself in something so great and powerful, so infused with light that even the people he sacrificed would stop and be grateful at having been a part of so grand a design. But it hadn’t.

He’d failed. And now, from the ashes of his enterprise, something better was rising? So, what was the point? Why? Why, why why—the question pounded in his head like a hammer, plaguing him with every memory he’d ever tried to numb or hide. Tacky scent of fresh, bad shoes, slippery muck on the streets, the sting of humiliation; burning fire, aching bones and bruises, shrill, rising laughter that made him want to claw his own ears out; cold isolation, howling, unbearable doubt that he could never touch, because it couldn’t exist—now consummated, finally.

Who was he? If not some machine, some means to his ends. Enver looked past the Bhaalspawn, through the light-filled crack of the tent until his vision adjusted, and the blind gave way to a sliver of oasis. The chime of laughter, smiles, peace before a storm. Friendship. Trust, hard-won. A flash of red and a throaty voice peaking.

“I’ll never come back from this—not fully,” he said hoarsely. Had she done it? He didn’t really know. Regardless, what would he do? Being alone was unbearable. It was how time got lost and sense crossed. Even then, each in their respective hells, he had something of a consolation.

“I know,” she said. “Neither will I.” Enver propped himself up on his elbows a little. There was some difficulty, and he didn't get far in that venture.

“It’s impossible,” he said aloud. It could mean everything and nothing. Redemption, his plans, his getting up from the bedroll.

Tav nodded. “But you’ll try, won’t you?”

Gortash stared past her again, at Karlach’s blinking figure. “Yes,” he replied. “I will.”

He decided he wanted to live too.