Work Text:
“ORIN,” Hela yelled, storming into the inner chambers of the Temple of Bhaal.
“Orin! Come speak to me. Now.”
The women in question peeled herself from darkness, cloaked in the form of a handsome noble man, elfin ears betraying his lineage.
“Ah. Sister. You heard of my exploits? My blood and bone soaked beds? The fear I have struck in the putrid hearts of those little nobles? Their blood sings just as sweetly as gutter trash.”
“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t have gone after the godsdamn head magistrate!”
She took her sister's shoulders in her hands, shaking her slightly, “Do you not understand? Do you wish for Bhaal’s following to be wiped from the city?!”
Orin hissed through her disguise, shifting back into her changeling form.
“We are bloodspawn of the Murder Lord himself! We do not fear the flesh bags of Baldur’s Gate, even the ones dressed in gold.”
“Orin! If we are discovered, they will send their soldiers after us. They will come to the underground. They will wipe the temple from the map. No matter our lineage, no matter our dread father, if we are stupid and thoughtless we will be outnumbered. No godly blood will save us. No godly blood will save you.”
“We were made to kill! In my artistry, I sculpt sinews and intestines, fingers and femurs, all in praise to the glory of Bhaal! My canvases of pain and death make the dread father happy.”
“Orin. Father doesn’t care who you kill or how you do it. How many times must I tell you this? We are best fit to take the lives of the forgotten and disposed of. Those unmissed. Criminals vagabonds.”
She sighed, running a hand through her hair, “You must think Orin. Beyond your immediate bloody desires.”
She sat heavily on the bed, closing her eyes. She breathed deep while Orin used her knife to investigate a crack in the stonework, pulling a piece of flesh from the opening. Orin must have hidden it there earlier in the day. It didn’t yet stink of decay.
Without opening her eyes, she addressed her sister more quietly, “Sit Orin. Your hair has come undone.”
With a hmmph, and a roll of her eyes, Orin sat at her feet, taking the piece of flesh and carving designs into it with her knife.
With careful hands, Hela unlaced the rest of the knotted hair, picking gently through snarls and patches of red refuse.
“It has been some time since we brushed it. Would you like me to?”
“No. It matters nothing to me.”
“Alright.”
The time passed in relative silence, just the sound of the knife, the braiding, and the screaming coming distantly from the altar room. As silent as it ever was in this place.
Hela braided with swift and sure hands, used to the task. Blonde strands streaked with red passed through her hands, and so lost in her own thoughts, Hela didn’t even think of her aversion to the gore spread throughout Orin’s matted hair. Something she usually had to repress on her own.
Finishing off the long hair, she tied it tight and secure. She held it gently in her hand for a moment. Then leaned in, pressing her own forehead to the back of Orin’s.
Orin just fidgeted on the floor, baring her teeth a little. She already needed to move, and perhaps Orin was also uncomfortable with the small display of affection.
“I will deal with your mess, Orin.”
“You always do,” Orin hissed, pulling her head back and looking at Hela, “I don’t see why carving one little man into mincemeat is of any concern to me.”
“I always do,” Hela agreed, her face twisted into a hollow smile. “I can frame it on a rival of his,” Hela said, “But Orin. If you’re not careful, one day you’ll make a mess that I can’t fix. And then what will you do?”
Orin stood, flicking her braid over her shoulder.
“I am no squirming child, I am a deathbringer of Bhaal, and I don’t need you.”
Orin waltzed out of the room, sparing not a second glance to her sister on the bed.
Hela’s eyes followed her, sad.
“Yes, yes you do Orin,” she whispered to no one.