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Gortash strides into the Wyrm’s Rock penthouse in high dungeon. There’s a score of Banites scuttering around the table in the center of the hall, collating reports, consulting tomes, giving and receiving orders, and just generally breathing and chattering and taking up space in his godsdamned apartment. The only abode he has access to, at the moment, since his sprawling upper city estate was hardly designed with defensibility against unhinged Bhaalspawn in mind, and he cannot take the risk of the Archduke of Baldur’s Gate being seen exiting of one of his numerous safehouses. And thus, he is reduced to being crowded into this space full of idiots babbling so loudly he cannot even hear himself think.
“Out,” he demands, voice pitched perfectly to cut through the chaos. “All of you, out.” There is a moment of frozen silence, but none here would dare disobey him and risk his displeasure. They pick up their things and hurry out of the room in quick order.
He turns to the Steel Watchers lining the walls next. “Remove yourselves from this space,” he commands, enunciating clearly. He would keep them here, let their soft and precise mechanical ticks and whirs lead him through work and sleep, but there are other considerations. “Take up defensive positions around the perimeter as demonstrated in Paradigm Two Beta, unless any of these units require repair, in which case return all affected units to the foundry and use Paradigm Nine Sigma. Execute.” The Steel Watchers salute in concert, a clang echoing through the room, before trooping off to carry out his orders. He’d be safer with them inside, he knows, but everything they see is processed and recorded in their memory banks and stored at the foundry. Only a fool would assume that such records, even under his control as they currently are, could never come back to haunt him. The Archduke needs to be larger than life, an untouchable figure to secure the confidence of the Gate’s citizens in the face of this adversity. A confident citizenry is a complacent citizenry. Better to simply ensure that there is no record of any of the mortal frailties he can neither confirm nor deny he possesses. Better to relax for a moment in a room without someone else’s eyes upon him as he sorts through the detritus of this overlong day.
He removes his coat and drapes it over the back of his desk chair, close at hand should he require its more esoteric effects, and sits. He begins to shuffle through the papers on his desk, but the words and designs on the pages are blurring before his eyes. He's exhausted from dealing with Orin and spending night after night chasing down every lead on the adventurers who killed Ketheric, setting up contingency after contingency, only to have all his effort wasted when he learned that the one holding Ketheric's Netherstone was his old partner. The one possibility he never planned for. He'd thought them dead, until Orin had informed him otherwise this very morning, and even then he hadn't believed her until he'd laid his own eyes upon them in the throne room.
Alive, very much alive. But diminished. Lost to him still. They had walked through the shadow-cursed lands, slaughtered one former ally, and appeared before him, their eyes still empty. Soft. They had not known him, had not remembered that it had been their hands, his and theirs, that had woven the very web they now found themself caught in. It had galled him to see the way those new toys of theirs swarmed around them, and driven him half to fury when that brown-haired man had laid a hand so casually, so possessively, on the shoulder of his partner. But perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised at their new stable of allies. They’d always had a knack for drawing people to them, putting them under their spell. Still, the sight of it had woken something hot and coiled in his chest, and he’d let its lash drive him to make such a public display of his pleasure at their return. He always would have stopped the coronation for them. After all, what did the mindless bleating of the assembled masses matter compared to the return of his partner? Let the lot of them wait at his pleasure, as was their only use. But to see another touch Vesper so casually? He wanted to let them see how these new toys of theirs took to the knowledge of what they were, what they had wrought. Let them remember that he was the only one who could truly know them. Let any reawakened memories of what had been combine with the revulsion of their hangers-on to drive them back to their proper place in this world – at his side.
Assuming, of course, that this person who has returned is actually his partner and not just some vicious mockery swanning about in their skin. They had not known him. They had not instantly accepted his offer of alliance, though rationally he knew that meant little – even before, they had always insisted on thinking things through, always been cautious at the swearing of oaths. He still cannot help but wonder if they’ve gone soft, lost their edge. He had seen the way they flinched, like a struck dog, at nothing but a harsh word from that brown-haired man, the same one who had touched them earlier. The version of them that he had known would have either been unbothered entirely by the opinions of sheep, or burned the man alive for taking such a tone with them.
He gives up on getting any work done tonight, mind clearly too consumed by exhaustion and thoughts of his old partner for him to make anything useful of himself. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. He can’t think of a night in the past eight where he’s managed to sleep for more than three hours straight and this day has been exceptionally long and trying. He staggers over to his bed, determined to try for at least four hours of sleep tonight. He kicks off his boots and unlaces his shirt as he goes, planning to simply pass out fully clothed, and pulls back the curtain that surrounds his bed.
Vesper looks back at him and smiles. “Hello Enver.”
His back hits the pillar across from his bed and he sags back against it for support. They’re propped up against his headboard, ankles crossed, reading what appears to be, on closer consideration, his biography of Dribbles the Clown. “Fascinating reading, this book. The man certainly lived an interesting life. Though I do believe he rather went to pieces during his later work.”
He thinks he should say something about this. He can think of a lot of things he should be saying about this, actually, but none of them appear to be manifesting as actual, spoken words. He feels exactly as he did the first time he received a violent electric shock from an improperly grounded mechanism – electrified, high on the thrill of it, fingertips tingling with potential, and so, so alive. He wonders for a single, fanciful moment if his hair might now be standing on end the way it did back then. Vesper is here. Vesper is in his bed, commenting on his books. Vesper is making jokes about the dead and dismembered circus clown.
He manages, finally, to recover and volley back. "I must say, I'm impressed. You work quickly, old friend, to have already obtained Orin's stone in the few hours since I saw you last.” He knows they don’t have it. He would feel it if they did. But he wants to remind them of his instructions, wants to hear what they have to say about why they would dare defy him.
They seem completely unfazed. “Oh, I don't have it yet," they respond breezily.
Here they are, in direct contravention of his stated orders, and they don’t even have the decency to pretend at contrition. “I believed I had made myself very clear earlier today that you were not to come back until you had that stone, but perhaps Orin scrambled your brains harder than I thought.”
“You gave me orders and were under the impression that I would follow them? More fool you, I suppose,” they reply, shaking their head condescendingly. “You, who claims to have known me so well. If you could delude yourself into believing that, then I can hardly give credence to the idea that you knew me at all.”
He cannot fault their logic there. They have always kept their own council and made their own decisions, and he has never known them to take an order without first deciding whether or not they agreed with it. It was part of why he had phrased it the way he had, been sure to give them such a direct command. He'd wanted to see if they would bend to him. He'd wanted to know if they wanted to come to him. “Perhaps I erred when I assumed the…gravity of our present situation would change your behavior. I should have remembered that you could never rest easy when obeying any command of mine.”
They hide it well, but he catches the quickest flash of triumph in their eyes. They hadn't known, not for sure, if they had always been this way. It had been a guess, a well-aimed guess, but a guess all the same. And he had just handed them confirmation of their theory. It's always been a favorite trick of theirs, to hand the person they'd put to the question just enough rope to hang themselves with, to wedge the gap open with sly inferences and see what would slip through. Clearly he's grown rusty, these past months, to fall for a ploy he knows so well. Fine. A point to them in this exchange.
“Err you did, but I do believe such a thing can be forgiven just the once.” They rummage in their pockets for a moment before producing a thin, ragged piece of cloth that they tuck into the book before closing it and turning back to face him. “Come, allies speak to one another, do they not? Let us speak, and ask of the other the questions that weigh upon our minds.”
He feigns confusion. “Allies, you say, but I’m afraid I can’t recall you agreeing to renew our partnership this afternoon. In fact, I recall you saying that you needed to think on it before accepting. Hardly a declaration of allegiance, to my mind.”
“I’ve had my time to think. You made reasonable points. And more importantly, I don’t have the eye of Ulder Ravenguard’s son boring a hole in the back of my head.” They set the book to the side and stand up off the bed, hand held out to shake. “I’ll take you up on that alliance of yours.”
He needs to be careful here. They’re offering him exactly what he wants – he’d be a fool to simply take their word for it. He runs his eyes up and down their body, taking in the steady rhythm of their breath, their calm gaze, their confident expression. He does not think them a liar, not in this instance. They see the value in this alliance, are aware of what is at stake should their plan fail. They intend to see this through by his side. He can also tell that what comes after they subdue the Elder Brain is a little less certain. They are less devoted to the plan than they were before, of that he is certain, and they certainly seem to be struggling with somewhat divided loyalties. The fact that they waited to accept his alliance until their new allies weren’t there to hear them certainly tells him that. Though that may simply be out of a desire for self-preservation or to better keep their new allies under their thrall, if they’re all the same sort of obnoxious moralists as Ravenguard’s brat. After all, they’ve just demonstrated that they’re not above trying to play the people around them for their own advantage. Ever his devious little monster. He supposes his little ploy this afternoon at the coronation might have something to do with it as well, if their little friends haven’t taken well to the reveal of the viper in their midst. That might have pushed them to come alone, driven them right into his waiting arms. He ought to thank those idiots. Send them a fruit basket, maybe, once the situation is back firmly under his control.
Reasoning and potential future issues aside, he needs competent allies in the here and now. He’s hardly in a position to turn them away given the circumstances. And he’s confident in his ability to, given time, bring them back to their proper place in the world. He’s charmed them once before; he can do it again. All their other little toys and temptations won’t stand a chance, not in the face of he who knows them best. Besides, they’re here now. They’ve come to find him – alone. He’s already taking the lead. He clasps their outstretched hand and smiles. “To our alliance. May it prove most satisfactory for both parties.”
They smile back at him and squeeze his hand in return. “To our alliance.”
In some mad fit of sentiment, he sweeps their joined hands up and presses a kiss to the back of theirs, exactly as he had done on the night they first met. He catches, just at the edge of his vision, the slight widening of their eyes and parting of their lips, in what might almost be surprised recognition.
He releases their hand and their unaffected mask slides quickly back over their face. At their side, however, their hand flexes and their fingers tap against one another restlessly, the only hint that they are not so unaffected as they seem. A certain restlessness in the hands has ever been indicative of suppressed emotions on their behalf. It’s not something noticeable to any but those who know to look for it, but he prides himself on both his observation skills and his knowledge of their many quirks and facets.
Mask firmly back in place and fingers finally stilled, they address him once more. “Now that we are truly collaborators, we should share information, no? Answer one another’s questions. How can we work together if the right hand knows not what moves the left hand makes?”
Clearly they’re hoping to press him for information, so he may as well return the favor. “Allies do indeed answer one another’s questions. Perhaps you might start. Do your companions know that you’re here making me promises?”
Their raised eyebrow manages to impugn his intelligence. “Of course they know I’m here. Do you really think I’d walk into this situation without letting a soul know what I was doing?” They shake their head. “Reckless.” True enough, he supposes. Walking into his lair without even the promise of an attempted rescue should they fail to return would be rash beyond measure, and they have never been given to rash decisions.
“Now, I’ve got a few questions for you. Obviously I am, ah,” they look down for a moment, before looking back up at him and giving him an almost embarrassed grimace, “somewhat out of touch here, given the current state of my memories. You said that this was our plan, that we made it together. How did we even get our hands on an artifact as powerful as the Crown of Karsus? And you said that I spoke for Bhaal, I assume that means I was his Chosen? Then surely if we worked as closely together as you claim, you would have visited the temple at some point? Could you not tell me where it is? You yourself have said it’s of utmost importance that I claim Orin’s stone quickly.”
It’s a calculated show of vulnerability, this play at embarrassment, meant to assure him that he has the upper hand here, meant to draw out answers that he might not otherwise feel safe enough to give. But he knows them. They’re well practiced in this sort of deception, to be sure, but it sits ill upon them to his overly familiar eyes. Since he knows where to look, he can see around the edges of the mask of yielding discomfiture, can spot the sharpness hiding in their eyes.
If they’re up to their old tricks, and he very much assumes they are, then they’ll know the answers to at least one of those questions, if not all of them. Another one of their old favorites – and an easy way to test if he’s lying to them. Luckily for him he has no need to lie, at least not in this present moment. All the better to earn him a little trust.
“I’m sorry to hear you remember so little of our exploits. Every one of them makes for a fantastic story, from our very first escapade together at the Hall of Wonders to the crowing of the Brain. I do think the theft of the Crown was perhaps our most impressive achievement. We stole it from the vaults of Cania themselves, right out from under the watchful eyes of Mephistopheles. It was the culmination of so much planning and strategizing. Our plan was brilliant, daring; we were brilliant. Neither of us could have pulled it off without the other, but together we were unstoppable.”
They nod slowly, as though processing the information.
“As for the location of your temple,” he spreads his arms, helplessly. “You were ever so guarded with it. I visited it only a small number of times, and was brought there under blindfold each and every one of them.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Perhaps if you had trusted me more, I could have been of greater help, but alas I can only say that it must be somewhere within the bowels of the Undercity.” If their memory loss is truly as profound as they claim, then even that might be new knowledge to them. It’s also just as likely that they’ve already guessed that much. Bhaalists have never been a creative bunch, and they’ve ever clung to the miserable, rotting darkness of the underground like so many rats.
A frown mars their countenance for a moment, though they do not interrupt him. Unhappy with his answer or simply disbelieving, he cannot say for sure.
“And it was very much your temple,” he continues, “your temple that you lead as Bhaal’s Chosen. Although you were more than just his Chosen.” He’s watching them carefully, now, looking for even a hint of a reaction to this next potential revelation. “You were his scion, his true heir. And as his Chosen, you led that temple of yours in your dread Father’s name.”
They dip their head in acknowledgement, a faint smile on their lips. Too calm a reaction, even for his talented old friend – that had certainly been a test. They had known of their heritage and wished to see if he had known as well. He wonders once more about those ingrates who swarm around them, wonders if they know the truth of their illustrious companion’s bloodline. He thinks it unlikely. Few in this world have the constitution not to flee before one of Bhaal’s spawn, have the genius to see the brilliant mind behind the bloody stories. He can, of course, but there are few men like him.
“I am glad to see you remain unbothered by it, dearest. I know many a Baldurian parent has scared their rebellious children with tales of Bhaalspawn and that the boorish are prone to claiming your kind as nothing but mad dogs meant for slaughter, but I’ve always found you to be well in control of yourself and a charming conversationalist to boot. There’s simply no need to despair over your birthright. It has certainly never prevented you from being my equal.” He wants to remind them that they’ll always have a place at his side. Regardless of the uninformed prejudices of the uninspired masses, regardless of how their companions might have taken the reveal of their past activities, regardless of how those others might flinch from them in fear of their true nature, he will always want them. His virtuoso of a partner, his wickedly creative genius.
They smile, ever so slightly, at his little speech, and he can see the touch of genuine feeling in the way it lightens their tempestuous eyes. Oh, there’s a little amusement too, they know the game he’s playing, but they’re touched by his declaration all the same. “I’m glad to know you found my conversation enjoyable enough to be memorable – it’s always nice to have your talents recognized, after all. So few people are capable of truly appreciating intelligent conversation. I wouldn’t have guessed based on that façade you put on, but I suppose we’re all capable of rising above our baser natures. And I’m also gladdened to hear that I’ve found myself such a…staunch ally.” They tilt their head ever so slightly, and slowly drag their eyes up to meet his, looking up at him from under their delicate white lashes. “A rare and precious thing, that.”
“People like the two of us are rare indeed,” he agrees, “and ought to be held all the dearer for it.” He reaches out to brush a strand of their hair that has fallen loose back into place, and lowers his voice, just a touch, just enough that they have to lean a little farther in to hear him, and says, “I, for one, am very glad that we are so in concert on that point. Now,” he claps his hands together, breaking the moment’s spell, “I do have another question for you, my dear. I had thought you dead, until my agents brought me confirmation of your identity along with the information about your impending return only a few days past. I know you found the Astral Prism and struck down Ketheric, but whatever happened in between when you...…left us, and when you made your move against Ketheric? I assume you must have been somewhere far distant from Baldur’s Gate, elsewise I would have heard of your exploits.”
Their harsh, unexpected bark of laughter startles him. “A poor and unfounded assumption. Not in your usual style, I think. That period of time is…foggy, for me. I remember it only in flashes. But no, I did not wander aimlessly.” The smile they flash him is sardonic enough to verge on a sneer, capped with the slightest hint of pointed teeth. “Something I’m sure the Sword Coast was quite relieved by. No, there was no fate so sweet for me as to be let loose to wander and wreak my particular brand of havoc upon the world. I was kept, you see, in the oubliette under Moonrise Towers as some demented necromancer’s plaything. She’s dead now, of course, but I spoke to her. Found her journals and logs and such. Apparently, I tried to strangle her with my own disemboweled intestines. Pity it didn’t work. Points for creativity though, I suppose.” There’s sublimated rage there, curling around the clipped consonants of their words, slithering across their face, being impaled upon the tips of their pointed fingernails as their hands flex into claws. It hangs in the air between them for a moment, this violent and dangerous thing, before they relax their hands and affix a politely empty smile to their face, their spasm of fury draining away – no, being shoved back down. How delicious it is, to see his partner still has their fire, no matter how tight a leash they keep it on.
He needs to keep his own furor just as well leashed. It wouldn’t do to appear too disarmed by this revelation, no matter how furious he feels. “How wonderful that you were able to acquaint her so intimately with your particular creative genius. Vengeance is sweet, my friend, as I well know. And allow me to offer my apologies. I should have known that had you had your own recognizance, you would have found your way back here, memories or no.” Information is what he needs. Someone must have known of this. Someone must have guessed at their true nature. Someone must have kept this from him. Kept them from him.
“Sweet indeed,” they agree, and oh, their smile is that of the pleased sadist. He just knows this woman died screaming under their tender ministrations, suffered at the behest of their dexterous hands and cruel mind. “As for the apologies,” they continue, waving a hand dismissively, “consider them accepted. Groundless theories can be a vice of even the most experienced. Especially if they sound prettier than the truth. Even so, it bodes well for our alliance that you took correction so gracefully. It will certainly make you much more bearable as a partner. I’ve heard that your lot can be dreadfully instant about being right, even when you’re wrong.”
Their words slide between his ribs like a spectral blade aimed for the heart. For a moment, he’s standing back in the Hall of Wonders, meeting them for the first time over again, hearing them express the exact same sentiment in nearly the same words. They’ve used their old tricks so well, been just as clever as he remembered them, and so he had forgotten just how profoundly they have changed. Just how much has been lost to them. He had hoped…well, it mattered not, now. But he's played this part before. He knows how the story goes. Knows exactly what they're looking for, what twists and turns they’ll be watching for. Knows them better, even, than they know themself. They’ve lost their edge and walked right into his grasp. Not willingly, not intentionally, but they’ve done it all the same. He can play them now, and with such ease. How sad. How sad, that who they were before is truly lost to him. For that person to have been stolen from him by the likes of Orin, perhaps assisted by Ketheric and Balthazar.
They’re both dead now, and he knows Orin will soon follow. Even diminished, they are more than a match for her, at least. But he has to know, to piece together what those rats knew. Dead or not, he must discern how far the rot had spread, that he might catch it earlier in the future. And perhaps he’ll have the chance to spit on their graves someday. “In your opinion,” he says, and he can hear the anger rippling underneath his words despite his earlier attempts to contain it, “did Ketheric and Balthazar know about your presence in the oubliette?”
“Balthazar most certainly knew. Of Ketheric,” they shrug, “I am somewhat less certain, though I assume he did. He certainly seemed amused enough when he spoke to me at Moonrise.”
Balthazar’s silence did not surprise him. The man had been bizarrely obsessed with Bhaalspawn, past and present, and had likely reveled at the chance to keep one captive for some experimentation. Ketheric, though, was an unwelcome surprise. The man had appeared to be dully, dutifully devoted to Myrkul with nary a thought in his head besides that runaway daughter of his. Gortash had thought him well and truly leashed, but perhaps there had been more in that withered body than old clotted misery and the massive stick he kept lodged up his ass. It almost made him like the man more. Not enough to actually regret his death, of course, but enough to at least elevate him above “incompetent moron” status. “He spoke to you? When you killed him, I assume?”
They nod. “Before then as well, though I cannot say the exact day. Time was hard to track in the shadow-cursed lands. Before the brain was removed to Baldur’s Gate, certainly. He knew who I was the instant I stepped into that throne room.” They pause, brows furrowing, before continuing. “Though if I recall correctly, did you not just say you heard of my survival from Orin, and heard of it only recently at that? Did Ketheric not tell you? Did he send no word of my arrival? I assumed he had – he had time aplenty to send a letter before his tragically belated death.” There’s an odd underlying tone to their questions, something he can’t quite place, but he doesn’t have time for whatever this stranger is feeling right now. He has practicalities to consider.
“No. He said nothing when we spoke. Nothing of the fact that it was you who held the Prism.” That bastard. He’d assumed that Ketheric hadn’t known, hadn’t put the pieces together, had missed exactly who that rogue True Soul had been in the chaos of the battle. But no, he had known. Had known for some time, even. At a minimum since before their attack on Moonrise, possibly since the beginning of their disappearance.
“When you spoke? The two of you spoke, and he said nothing? It’s a good thing that you were so willing to offer me an alliance. It certainly seems like you need all the competent and reliable allies you can get. Don’t worry, I’m good at what I do and liable to keep my word. Never fear darling, no matter what the stable of malcontented allies would suggest I know you can be quite charming if you work at it.”
There’s more than a hint of condescension in their words, but he’s too focused on Ketheric’s betrayal to properly address it. “I appreciate it,” he replies, almost distantly. Ketheric had known and hadn’t told him. Ketheric had known and kept that knowledge from him for his own ends. What game had Ketheric been playing at? What ends had he hoped to achieve in keeping him separated from Bhaal’s former Chosen? He can feel himself grinding his teeth. Perhaps he had resented their disinclination to take his orders. Perhaps he had meant to betray the both of them, to take their stones for himself, and had sought to keep them weak and divided. Perhaps he had been the one to pour poison into Orin’s ears, to drive her to strike, in the hopes of breaking the alliance that might have prevented his ambitions from being realized.
He's so lost in his own spiraling thoughts that the soft hands on his chest and neck are a shock to him. He had not even seen them reach for him. His hands move to their waist of their own accord, mimicking the many, many other times they have been pressed so close. They are gazing right at him, eyes wide, wet lips slightly parted. “What…I…there’s more, there, more in your anger than just betrayal. There’s…I feel…” their voice is but a whisper, as though they fear the very words they are speaking. Their eyes dart back and forth across his face, as if searching for confirmation of this thing that they are struggling to voice. “I…when we’re close, I feel…I remember…earlier, you said we were allies. But I…surely, we were…we must have been more than just that. What were we, to each other?”
Had he been so obvious? Had his excitement at their reappearance, his offer of equality to them and them alone betrayed him so clearly? Perhaps they are simply as perceptive as they were before, or perhaps, even after such a profound loss of memory, some scraps of what they’d had together had lingered, squirrelled stubbornly away in the deepest recesses of their brain. Or perhaps he had wound himself around their bones, and left his indelible mark upon the very fibers of their being, as they have left theirs upon him. He cannot deny the truth of their assertion. They had been…a great many things to each other, once. But they are not what they once were. They are too soft now, too ripe for manipulation. To ask that question so bluntly, to make their own feelings so obvious was to place themself so entirely at his tender mercy that they may as well have pulled the very heart from their chest and offered it to him, beating and bloody. And manipulate them he will. He’s done it before, wrapped many a lovestruck fool around his fingers. They will bring him Orin’s Netherstone. And then? Well, time may return their memories to them, restore their former brilliance. If not, if this state is permanent…he will confront that eventuality if and when it arises. For now, he needs them. He needs to use them. He’ll play along.
He tightens his arms around them and pulls them closer. “We were equals. We are equals, still. Beyond that…well, we have always been many things to one another.” He caresses a sharp cheekbone with one thumb, and then brings that hand under their chin, tilting their face up toward him, dropping his eyes, slowly, deliberately, to their lips. “Including, yes, lovers. And once you get Orin’s stone, once we secure our dominion over the brain, the two of us will be gods in all but name. And then? There will be nothing to come between us.”
“Is that why you offered me an alliance? Why you would agree to share power with another, despite your nature?” Their eyes search his as they ask, perhaps looking for some shred of sentiment on his behalf.
He drops his hand back down to their waist. Not particularly. One person alone cannot control the brain effectively. He simply must have allies for this, and they’ve proven competent enough. While he’s certainly pleased it’s them, he could make do with another if it were required, unpleasant though it would be. “It is indeed why I offered. The chance to see you returned to my side was something I simply could not forgo. I will admit to what might be called some sentimental weakness for you, dear.” He supposes the second part is true enough, after all. He wants his partner back, wants the Vesper he knew, and even now hopes somehow to see some flash of them behind those black and silver eyes, despite everything. It is a damnable weakness, he knows, but these months without them have been drawn and dull, and he has more than once found himself leaning over to deliver some witty aside into the ear of a partner who is no longer there. How tedious this world is, when there is no one capable of perceiving the brilliance of your design, when there is no one to charm and challenge you, to lay out a work of inventive genius that you could never before have conceived of, to know you. He does not wish to be without them again.
There is one thing, or rather a group of things, that might interfere with his wish. “And now, a question for you. You’ve indicated that at least one of your new…friends might not be entirely pleased with our alliance. Will they accept it, when you insist upon it?” He cannot have them back out now, not at this delicate and critical juncture.
“They will. Oh, they’ll whine and complain, but they’ll fall in line. They understand what is at stake.” There is an unshakable certainty in their voice. It is a tone that brooks no argument. These lackies of theirs will obey, he entertains no further doubts about that.
“And after?” How will their loyalties break, when they must inevitably face the divide? They are not as they once were and he can take them if he must, but it would hardly be his preferred outcome.
They shrug carelessly. “I hardly think that matters, assuming everything you’ve promised pans out, no?”
He chuckles. “I suppose that’s true enough. You did always have an ability to cut to the heart of things. As it were.” The faintest of nostalgic smiles touches the edge of his lips.
They press a little closer, eyes wide and curious. “You knew me well, it seems. Forgive the odd question, but I have precious few sources on my old life. What was I like, before?”
“A veritable terror on the battlefield. Not one of our enemies could stand against you. One of the most talented wizards I have ever seen, though it seems that, at least, has certainly stayed with you. You never had any trouble making short work of our enemies, and from what I’ve heard you continued that tradition with anyone who dared to stand in your way over these past weeks. But more importantly, brilliant. You had more brains in your head than half the city put together at a minimum. You actually had something worthwhile to contribute when I spoke about my prototypes. We were very similar, you and I, which is why we got along so magnificently. A perfect match.” Their wide eyes stay fixed on his through his entire speech. It’s all true, of course, all true of the Vesper that he had known. But he would have said the same even if it had all been lies – he needs them by his side and under his thumb for the moment. An objective that will be easier to achieve if they want to be there.
“I suppose it makes sense. I certainly wouldn’t have had any patience for anyone who couldn’t at least provide me with some intelligent conversation.” They look at him through their lashes again, eyes locked to his face. “And you must be intelligent. I’ve seen the Steel Watchers, which are a most impressive feat. Your work alone, I hear?”
He smiles like a proud parent. “Aren’t they just? Almost entirely my own work, yes. The first prototypes were mine alone, but once our alliance had been truly solidified you began to contribute to the design as well. I said we were partners and equals in everything, and I meant it. You had genius enough to see the potential in the earliest prototypes, and after you proposed some fascinating revisions, they became as much your project as mine until you vanished. They were mostly complete by that point, but I did make some adjustments as we learned from experience.”
“And in the usual Banite fashion, they all answer to you and you alone. All controlled from a central location, or so I hear. The foundry, I assume? Clever of you to spread out your operations instead of concentrating them all here.” They smile at him again, the perfect adoring sycophant.
Their hands haven’t moved. One over his heart, one on his neck, fingers right on his pulse, and they haven’t moved, not a millimeter. And their eyes – a fool. They’ve been playing him for a fool. He’d thought them a lovesick dupe, gazing dreamily into his eyes but now he can see the sharpness in their fixed gaze. Gazing into his eyes, no, his dearest has been doing nothing so pedestrian. They’ve been staring at them. My little monster. How he’s underestimated them, played right into their perfectly placed hands. They’d seen him dismiss them, and played on his distraction and sentimentality. Let him think them the weak, lovestruck fool and used it to get exactly what they wanted. His darling had sensed his weakness, like a shark smelling blood in the water, and taken cold-blooded advantage. The hands on his chest and neck, all the better to count his heartbeats. And leaning in so close under the guise of passion just to gain a more favorable position to watch his pupillary reactions. His predatory beloved has made their own little lie detector. And the questions! The questions, so innocent at first, so sweet and flattering, winding their way to their final objective. Were he anyone else, he has no doubt that they would have him eating out of the palm of their hand. My Vesper. No one else could play him so well. What an idiot he had been, to write them off so easily. Memories or no, they are formidable. Memories or no, they remain every inch his partner, his equal.
He’s hardly going to hand them the source of his power on a silver platter. Not now, not while they’re still relearning their trust. Not when his darling still might be concealing a knife behind their back. “Oh, I think it’s a little early into our partnership for you to be asking that question, don’t you? I trust you, of course, but surely you must understand how it sounds to be asking a question like that.”
But now – now he must return fire. He wouldn’t want to deprive them of their fun, after all. Pupillary dilatation and pulse are the two responses they’re using in their little con. Well. One can manipulate those easily enough, given the right…stimulus. And he certainly has memories enough of that. He dredges those memories to the front of his mind, lets himself dwell on the soft warmth of their skin under his hands, their pleased sighs, their sweet taste. He can feel his heart begin to speed, helped along by how tightly his dearest is pressed against him, how close their lips are to his.
They smile at him, fake contrite. “Forgive me. I let my curiosity run away with me, as wizards are wont to do. Not even good sense can stop the likes of us from being curious, I fear. But I presume you knew that about me already – I must have been just as endlessly inquisitive before…everything. It seems you had at least some knowledge of my practice. Do you know what I specialized in? I’m sure I talked about it at length,” they look a little abashed, “willing audience or no.”
Covering their tracks, well done. Clever of them too, to place the blame so neatly on their inherent nature and then try to hurry him along onto another topic to avoid any further questions. He’ll let himself be hurried – he’ll certainly have more fun that way. “Nonsense! For you, I was always willing. Your specialty was the parting of the veil, seeing beyond our confining surrounds,” he sweeps one hand broadly around the room, before returning it to their waist, “into the other realms which overlay it, the hearts and minds of men, and even into the future itself, from what you said. I saw your talent for it – nothing could be hidden from your eyes, enchanted or no, and I know there were certain pivotal moments in time where you used your knowledge of the future to ensure our success.”
He’s watching them carefully, so he spots the momentary narrowing of their eyes, sees the frown flash across their features before it’s carefully smoothed away. Up to their old tricks once again. He’d suspected as much – it was too deft of a dodge to be anything but purposeful. How delightful! How their mind must be churning, attempting to produce any number of theories about why he would possibly lie about such a minor detail.
They rally quickly and hide their doubt well when they respond. “Exactly my specialty today. It seems like some things never change.”
A perfect segue for his next question – it’s one he’s suddenly very interested in knowing the answer to. Plus, he wants to play with his beloved a little bit. He lets his mind wander back in time, back to the feeling of their nails raking down his back in ecstasy. “Some things, but not others. You say you remember some of what we had, but from what I saw today it certainly appears like you’ve quickly found yourself another. What of him?”
They shrug. “What of him?”
“I’m a generous ruler, but you I will not share. Divided loyalties have brought down many a kingdom and we cannot afford such a distraction, not at so critical a moment.” The memories have added a rough edge to his voice, which pleases him. He sounds appropriately wrecked, both by their proximity and by the thought that they may have found another.
They give a mirthful laugh. “Jealous, Lord Gortash? How petty and unbecoming an emotion for the ruler of a city. But no, I don’t think you need fear any competition for my affections here. The man’s half in love with the Crown of Karsus and his own potential divinity. And somewhat unhappy with the architect of his misery.” The raised eyebrow they direct his way tells him very clearly that they knew this had been part of his plan when he had announced their schemes to all and sundry in the throne room. “And yes, it was quick perhaps, but until recently I remembered little and less of my own history. Nights on the road are lonely and cold. Surely you cannot begrudge me some small comfort in such a trying time.”
There is a hint of truth to what his dearest has said, that much he can tell. The man had certainly appeared unhappy after hearing the revelations about their shared past but he does note, however, that they’ve said nothing of their own feelings on the matter. He tucks that piece of knowledge away in the back of his mind for later. Perhaps there will not be a role for that particular man in his golden reign to come. “I suppose I cannot. Especially not when you have sought me out so immediately. And jealous? No. That would require that I actually believe he could stand against me, and I know that man is no equal of mine.” Once more, he returns to his memories of them, of their tongue in his mouth, of their teeth as his neck.
He watches a smirk spread across their face as they shake their head in amusement. “I see. Such confidence in your appeal. Well. I’m glad you cannot resent me for it, at least.” They blink rapidly for a moment, seeming to remember something. “Ah, I know this is an odd change of topic, and I do offer my apologies for that, but I must ask – whatever happened with all those dead patriars downstairs? Did someone tell you to lace up your shirt?”
A hint at last about how they had managed to slither their way into his bed. They had gotten up through the throne room, or at least come close enough to peep in through the windows. Interesting. He lets his mind wander for a moment, lingering on the thought of them naked on that throne, legs spread so beautifully for him. All, of course, in the name of keeping his heartrate up. He can hear the deepening roughness in his own voice when he answers, “They all made a brave and noble sacrifice in the name of progress. With the army of the Absolute bearing down on our gates, they understood that power needed–”
They’re smiling at him. Not one of their vicious smirks or polite half-smiles, but a real smile. The kind that changes their entire face, shows all their unnaturally sharp teeth, a real, forthright smile, the sort he has seen from them so very rarely. Once after their successful Crown heist, once after they’d made a major breakthrough on some spell, and precious few other times. They know. They know exactly what he’s doing. And now he’s smiling in return, truly, genuinely, because they know. And they know he knows. And then they’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and they’re tightening the grasp of the hand on his throat just enough he can feel their nails digging in, leaving little bloody crescents. “Bastard,” they call him, and they’re still chuckling even as they say it.
He smiles even wider. “Aren’t I just?”
Smiling all the while, they slide the hand on his neck up to grab his chin, the pad of their thumb pressed against his lips. He bites the tip of it gently, tracing his tongue just along the edge of it. They consider him, eyes ever so slightly narrowed, head cocked to one side, delight still radiating off of them in waves. “I was beginning to think you really were too thick to catch on,” they tell him. “But I think for once I might be glad to be wrong. Of what we had before…well, I remember enough. I know what I’ve seen tonight. And I think you, Enver Gortash, just might be the only person in this world who could ever hope to keep up with me.”
He swears his hearts stills for a moment underneath their hand. From them, he knows, this is a declaration of everything, without peer. He knows because it is the same for him. To have someone who can match you, can play your games, can understand you in a way no one else ever can or will is intoxicating. He could no more stay away from them than they could stay away from him on this very night. They will always be drawn to one another, always seek for their true counterpart. Their perfect equal. The only suitable partner either of them could ever have. He murmurs his reply into the thumb still pressed to his lips, knowing they and they alone will understand the true gravity of it. “I have often thought the same of you.”
“I’m glad you’ve managed to figure that much out,” they tell him as they remove the hand from his chin, only to bury it in his hair, “partner mine.”
Then their lips are on his, and oh, how he’d missed this. Missed the soft contours of their body pressed against his, missed their taste, missed the sweet-sharp pain of their pointed teeth on his bottom lip. He feels, for the second time tonight, as if he’s just grabbed a live wire – as though the charge is rippling through his veins. As he bites down on their lower lip in turn, feels their flesh give beneath his teeth, he hears the slight gasp they give at the contact and feels the tightening of the hand in his hair. They push back, press him firmly against the pillar at his back, and kiss him harder. He feels the hand still on his bare chest flex, driving their pointed nails into the skin over his heart, and he knows he’ll have bloody little crescents there the next day, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not here, not now, not when he has his dearest pressed so tightly against him, his lips on theirs.
He trails kisses down their neck, alternating with soft bites that have their breath hitching. “Will you be staying the night,” he purrs against their throat, “or do you need to return to your merry band of morons?” He mouths at the soft skin of their neck again and considers biting harder, worrying his mark into their skin, to leave some evidence of their renewed partnership upon their skin. To remind those fools who they really belong with. To let that brown-haired man know he has competition – to let him know that he has already lost.
“I do,” they respond, and oh, how pleased he is to hear how breathy their voice sounds in response to his ministrations. “They’re – mmm – they’re expecting me back soon. If I don’t return by the expected hour they’ll come looking.”
Well isn’t that interesting. Most anyone would never have caught it, that slight flick of their eyes, that most minute change in their tone, but he knows them. Knows them better than anyone else in this world. He’s pleased, pleased that he’s caught them in a lie, and pleased that he’s affected them enough for them to let the mask slip. There is no one waiting up for them to return in those tavern rooms they’ve taken as their own. They have told no one and come here alone, walked into the dragon’s lair without so much as a backward glance, either heedless of the danger within or perhaps simply too curious to stay away. How sweet, that they will lie and deceive those they call closest to them if they stand in the way of what they want. How dull, that those same people will stand in the way of what he wants. In order to keep their little dalliance with him a secret they will need to leave soon to ensure they’re back snug in bed long before anyone else stirs. Sharing his dearest with the rabble – how plebian.
He continues to bite kisses into the column of their neck, worrying a small bruise into the base of their throat. It will be easy enough to cover with the right clothes, but now they will have to think of him while they choose their outfits. “Terribly rude of them, don’t you think, to demand your attention when you are otherwise occupied? But I suppose they must have your attention some of the time. Unless, of course, I ensured that they were in no position to demand anything. After all, I’ve missed you so dearest, and I’m hardly in the mood to share.” A little tease, to see how they will react. There is no pressing need to have their companions imprisoned or executed, at least not yet. They cannot truly hope to compete, not with someone like him, and they will sit so prettily at the feet of they-who-will-be-gods soon enough. He needn’t worry about them.
They tighten their fingers in his hair further, almost pulling now. “Careful, darling, I’ll be mad if you go around breaking my toys and we both know you need to keep me happy. Orin will tear your sweet little throat to shreds unless I stop her, there’s no doubt about that.”
They smile at him mockingly as they say it, and begrudgingly he must admit that they aren’t incorrect. Orin was barely stable in the best of times, and the return of her prodigal sibling has hardly brought her closer to some semblance of sanity. She’s been growing ever more erratic, and while he knows his defenses will kill anyone who tries to harm him here, the Plan cannot take the Archduke holing up in Wyrm’s Rock indefinitely. “Besides,” they continue, “we may well need allies to handle the Brain, sweet thing, and since you seem intent on killing or tormenting everyone who crosses your path it’s up to me to cover for your many deficiencies.” They will need no allies to deal with the Brain should all go to plan, but he supposes he cannot blame them for their contingencies. It’s a dangerous gambit they’ll be making. “Do try to keep yourself in hand, hm?” He had forgotten how he so enjoyed the sweet sting of their vicious condescension, how easily their imperious cruelty went straight to his cock. Still – they spoke so very eloquently of necessity of allies for someone who did not rely on their own.
“Ah yes, these allies of yours that you need so badly and who have your full faith and trust. The well of trust runs so very deep between all of you – that is why you told them that you were coming here to me, after all.” He smiles back at them, just as mockingly.
A slight raise of an eyebrow is all he gets in response. “It is as you say.”
Well-played, but he knows the truth of the matter. “Liar,” he names them, lightly, conversationally, with a gentle tap of one of his claws to the tip of their nose.
He is rewarded with a coy smile and a biting kiss. After, they trace a finger over his lips before saying, “One should always commit fully to the deception, and give no ground, lest you hand over something that was not already lost. Most any situation can be saved, if handled with the right skill, after all. What I mean to say is of course I’ve been lying, but surely you couldn’t expect me to give up the game and own it.”
He couldn’t, not really – he certainly would have done the same. Anyone truly committed to a deception should never concede while there remains any chance it might be salvaged. He leans in and kisses them again, biting them back as hard as they had bitten him. He shivers as they yank his hair in retaliation, and press themself further against him to deepen the kiss. Truth be told he is pleased, pleased that they have come here even when they know their companions would disapprove, pleased that they would hoodwink the others to find some way to be by his side. It bodes well that they desire him so.
He breaks the kiss at last. “Go then, you little snake. I expect to see you again very soon.”
They laugh, and use the hand they have still wound in his hair to drag his head to the right, exposing his neck. With all the grace and practice of a long-time predator, they lunge forward with lightning speed and bite a bruise into the side of his neck, mirroring the one he had left on theirs – with one difference. He feels the points of some of their too long, too sharp teeth embed themselves in his flesh as they bite and suck, and he knows that his bruise will come with a delicate ring of needle-sharp bite marks.
They pull back and examine their handiwork with a satisfied smile. Pleased with what they find, they step back, and smooth their hair and adjust their clothes. He does the same, then offers his arm. “May I see you out?” he asks, hoping to remain in their presence a little longer, and to glean some further hints as to how they dodged so neatly through his every security measure.
They watch him for a long, lingering moment, before exploding into movement, flickering their hands through a practiced series of motions before they vanish entirely from his sight. He hears laughter, though it is quiet enough he cannot use it to pin down their location, before he feels their warm breath ghost across his ear. “As though I’d let you see how I made it up here,” they whisper to him.
He reaches back to grab at where they should be standing – and grasps nothing but thin air. They laugh again, mockingly this time, somehow near and far all at once. He feels fingers brush across his neck and down his chest but forces himself to hold still this time. He knows now that if he reaches for them, he will not find them. “Hope springs eternal,” he replies dryly.
He gets a soft laugh in response. “Doesn’t it just,” they respond directly against his ear before biting it sharply, then soothing the sting with a kiss. He feels one last trail of fingers over the back of his neck, then nothing more.
He leans against the wall and waits several minutes until he’s sure they’re gone before finally relaxing and laying down in his bed. His dearest has always been prone to theatricality, and he’s sure it amused them to toy with him like helpless prey. Perhaps it would behoove him to pull those anti-invisibility goggle schematics back out and give them another look. His little monster, indeed. He shakes his head.
As he does so, the slight sting he feels reminds him of the bite on his neck. He traces it with his fingers, mapping out its contours, feeling the rapidly forming scabs and dimpled impressions left by their teeth. They have chosen well – the mark will sit just at his collar. It will be hidden by his shirt, until he bends or shifts and his collar moves, putting in on full display. It will be the talk of the town well before midday tomorrow, unless he raises his neckline to better hide it, and that’s like to invite just as much gossip.
A problem for the morn. Sleep comes swiftly to claim him now, and for once he is loath to fight it. Orin is not like to be a thorn in his side for much longer. His partner has returned to his side, sharp and vicious as ever, and they have chosen him even in the face of the disapproval of their merry band of idiots. With them by his side there is a chance, the best possible chance, that they will be able to call the Brain to heel. Things are being set to rights. Everything is taking the shape it always ought to have had. With their control reaffirmed, they’ll be able to make some changes here in the city, changes that will make things better. For them, anyway. It’s going to be just like old times – his dearest by his side, the world at their feet.