blueprints_bloodstains | Toppling from Cauldron to Blaze

Toppling from Cauldron to Blaze

Orin's stone has been obtained.

Enver Gortash is just coming into the floor of his office when the voice touches his mind. Familiar, though heavier. Closer. Like breath he can feel on the back of his neck.

Anticipation. He feels it himself, the sudden rush and thrill of the dawning thought that there were no steps but the last at this point. Soon the Dark Urge and the rest of the rogue True Souls would return and they would journey to the Underground to finish this. The Elder Brain would at least be back under heel.

The Absolute Plot, at last, would move confidently forward.

His men from the temple stand at the ready for orders. Better to get them posted in the city, just as soon as it was certain it was time.

There is no remaining trace of Bhaal's living flesh.

The Archduke halts mid-step.

Bane does not speak needlessly or without thought. His Chosen knows to heed his words and their clear intent.

Hear me. This changes nothing. The plan continues with or without Myrkul and Bhaal's hands to help guide it.

And he feels something like a hand closing around his mind. Not enough to hurt, but a clear sign it could. A warning reminder.

He responds immediately, with no waver in his voice because that is what that silent command requires. "This changes nothing." The Dark Urge is dead. And he feels the band around his chest tighten. He draws in a resolute breath. Because he will take in air. He will not show what presence in his mind and in the very air around him does not want to see. "The plan continues."

He was always going to be gone. Cruel to have deluded himself into thinking otherwise.

Feel that, and be done. There is more to do, imminently.

The disciples go about their duties at his back as he continues to cross the chamber. He doesn't notice when they actually fall. Neither of them do.

When they bring the stones, take them or bring the rogues along. It is time to assume your rightful place.

And that voice bleeds into every tendril of sensation, washing over those places that hurt like something caustic, refusing to soothe but unwilling to be what is chased away. Bane feels more present, like a firm hand on his shoulder. A presence in the doorway of his mind.

Prepared to see the end.

Reminding him, perhaps, that he rules alone today. As he should. But he never was, truly.

Footsteps bring him toward the back of the chamber. Some of the traps arm themselves.

He doesn't notice them immediately switch off.

The Black Hand is telling Enver now, because what would have happened if those people came to him and he knew only then that the battle with Orin had cut their numbers down? Rude. An attempt to compromise him. But he is prepared.

Feel what you must now. Then never again. You promised yourself this once already.

He doesn't realize until it's too late that the person he senses nearing him is not, in fact, one of his footmen.

Black. The feeling of fingers that were bearing down bleedingly hard, pried away.

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The reassuring weight of that hand in his own, palm over palm and here and now - at the start of the end - all he really wants. He squeezes just enough to be felt, but not enough to be painful. His eyes drop to their intertwined fingers, lips twitching up at the very edges as he realises he's attempting to burn this moment into his mind as though he's worried about forgetting again.

He just hadn't understood all that Orin had taken from him. Not until it's almost, in some ways, too late.

"Would you have a kiss from me now? Or have me deliver it when I return?"

The hint of a humour older than this moment, stretching back to before. Something remarkably casual given their previous positions and modes under which they had been introduced and made colleagues of a kind. In this moment, there's also the new. The quiet confidence that doesn't need violence to be persuasive.

No, this is a way of being that had come all too easily the longer they continued their relationship. And that had been just part of what he'd been forced to sacrifice, in the end, and it had been for Bhaal.

A small chuff in response, and Enver steps in to claim a kiss now. Long awaited, and there is finally a time where he doesn't have to anymore. Where it is certain and real that this part of the Dark Urge, this part of them, still exists and is not either only to be remembered or waiting to be again. The taste of lips he knew, the shape of them on his own and a body he hadn't felt in too long.

He had been right in that letter. This is all he wanted.

The gentlest of rumbles in the earth. Short but still felt, eggs him to hold on a little tighter. He only gets a minute, and he is going to have it.

When at least he retreats for a breath, his eyes open but he does not pull back any further. "And a promise for the next. Tell me you're coming back."

"I will return to you," comes the low murmur of a promise, as though the air has been softly stolen from his lungs. Truthfully he finds himself caught up in a cresting wave of complicated emotion. He needs to leave but he wants to stay. Staying will seal their fate, though, and so walking away is the only option.

But the kiss is enough for now, all he needs to fully settle into a place still plagued by new longing but tided over by that moment of intimacy.

He holds the smaller man in his arms for a long moment, fingers scrunched into the fabric of his clothes. Breath eventually finding him again and he resumes a steady inhale-exhale.

"I will restore us," he adds, catching the brightness of the new shade Enver's eyes shine with. They have so much to discuss, and he intends to make sure they have time after to share themselves.

"I will leave you in capable hands. These people have been my only source of comfort and companionship since the crash. We will have work to do - reparations to see to - after this is done. But until then, I trust them to keep you safe, and I ask you to trust my judgement if you find yourself unable to trust them."

A very sizeable ask. Considering the state of everything that was his, and where all these people stand as once-obstacles to much of that, he's certain there is no love lost between any of them. But if they trust the Dark Urge, and so does he, then the are going to have to come to some manner of accord.

He has to tell himself there is still something familiar in this, that he has to place faith in. As allies they came together to solve a number of puzzles their shared trajectory wrote for them. But many times, when a task was left to finish or the needs of their respective temples calling them, there was a parting. He sent his chief assassin into the night to seek blood on the promise that he would be there to welcome him afterward -- whether that was a triumph for the alliance or for the Temple of Bhaal.

This is all it is. The Dark Urge has the name of a final target, and he will not fail.

"There is work to be done, and we will celebrate your victory afterward." His words echo ones he has spoken before, like a mantra.

The words - 'your victory' - aren't lost on him. And perhaps that's something he files away for later because he does believe there will be one. There has to be. The complexity of this particular situation, the many threads that are woven together, albeit fraying in places, are going to take time to pick apart again. Difficult as it may be, he welcomes the chance to work through it all and that he may do this with Enver is something he's only just realised is the fundamental basis he wishes to work from.

So he simply nods, holds the other man's gaze for a moment and then feels the need to turn to business proper else he never will.

"To the matter of the brain," he says with a note of finality and pulls away, moving towards the chapel doors and to his companions beyond. He hopes that Enver will follow him, but he understands if he needs a few more moments alone.

Treating this the way he would have any mission from before was the only way for him to control, in his mind, the outcome.

Even if the desire is there to use that solitude, Gortash pushes it down. If he has a plan to follow, if there are things to do, and if he knows how the machine is working, then he can ignore the rest for now. The ways he has changed. How hopeless parts of it feel. How the future is about to be very short or very large and uncharted in a way that does not sit well with him, either way.

So he follows Durge out to join the rest of the group beyond. His part in all of this is pronounced already, but he needs to see all the moving parts. There might still be more he can offer.

Considering his presence does not lead to immediate shouting this time, he feels secure in the idea that he won't be attacked, at least.

In the end, they had needed to call in every ally and favour they had banked, and still the group of them had to fight tooth, nail, claw and tail to make it across the chosen battlefield. The drow half-elf, formerly bhaalspawn, now something else by choice, doesn't hesitate when it comes to the final call.

The brain must be destroyed, there is no other option.

Everything that comes after happens in a haze, time streaks by and they fall from the sky on a netherbrain careening out of control. He thinks briefly about the sweet embrace of death again, remembers how peaceful it was, and then recalls that he's got more to do. More things to achieve. More time to fill. More dawns to do better.

He has Enver, too. He cannot contemplate a world in which the former human did not survive.

He's dripping as he climbs up onto the dock, following his people as they all stumble in from what feels like the wildest storm of an indeterminant time. The city still stands, though parts are looking worse for wear than others. And perhaps they do too, the party that return bloodied and weary but not broken. Not defeated. There will be a time for that but, for now, he closes his eyes and just breathes.

Enough of the end is seen for Gortash to realize that the Dark Urge, in his time since losing his memory, has gathered a veritable army of his own. There are signs of them all over the city as it descends into chaos, attacked from all sides, even the skies, as the Netherbrain's forces emerge with the added force of every Absolutist as their transformations are triggered.

It is a ghastly mirror of what the Plot had been intended to be, and racing through the Lower City, the once-archduke, once-human, once-Baneite understands the weight of seeing what he had helped to bring about and now had very little power to even help undo. But flanked by two of the Dark Urge's companions, he finds himself providing what support is possible. If only because staying put was just waiting to die at this point.

And before he technically "died," he had made an oath to protect this city. He had taken it with his Baneite perspective on what those promises meant at the time. But even then, this was not what he had bargained for.

Armed with his heavy crossbow (that had suspiciously wound up in the camp's spoils), he was not likely to be recognized -- a different race and bereft of his familiar finery. Save of course until they reached a part of the lower city near the remains of a shop he had avoided. There were two mindflayers that very well might have taken any prey that crossed them, but something sparked as recognition to him.

He felt very little about putting his parents down, save that it took a little long -- long enough to attract more enemies -- and the efforts of his two sitters helped significantly.

Through it all they kept a weather eye where they could on the brain, where they were certain their companions were doing battle, trying to make their way around to where it was, but never quite near enough to make the climb themselves. More called to them on the ground to take care of.

Including the odd Baneite. The first of whom did not recognize him until the instant before an arrow caught him in the eye. And the rest from then on were easily identified.

They were not the best at moving in shadows. Not while the shadows themselves had teeth and tentacles right now.

Somewhere in all of this, while he could chalk the boost in stamina up to adrenaline, what he took in almost immediately was that moving around felt easier. He ran with greater ease. The odd cut or scrape that he suffered, while hardly instant, had begun to close normally by the time potions were administered.

As it was, by the time the nautiloids fell from the sky, and the brain with them, Enver Gortash was not dead, nor even black and blue. The brain was defeated, and gods -- if they were up there he had no idea if they had the means to safely come down. But they made haste for the docks.

The Harper's voice behind him. "That was Astarion -- the others must be close!"

He does not even take notice of who ran past, but with a swallow he picks up speed, coming to a skidding stop when there are people, and prickles of recognition strike him.

The sunrise casts light upon the water, deepened the shadows of smoke and rubble in the remains of the city that form a crescent around the bay. He can hear nothing but his own heartbeat for a moment, his eyes tracing a familiar black shape against the coming light.

Clear, perfect. Alive. And at last their eyes meet.

It was over. They are here. Finally.

The blur of battle had seemed to slow into a lengthy descent as the brain had sailed straight into the sea off the coast. Being plunged into water for the second time in short order had been the thought his mind had fastened on to, as though the enormity of everything else was just a fraction above what he had left to spare. A humorous notion despite the very grave prospect of drowning.

When his gaze locks on to Enver's, he feels whatever scraps of resolve he has left melt almost instantly. The man is standing perfectly in tact, as though the city behind him isn't aflame and crumbling. As though there hasn't just been an assault on life as they all knew it.

He'd promised he would return and this moment, fully realising he has delivered on that promise, steals from him the last of his exhausted-many-times-over strength. He doesn't dare take another step, not with how close his knees feel to buckling. Soon enough somebody will come along with some healing magic, or will press a potion into his hand, but right now he just stands and stares. Congealed blood clinging to him. Bruised and battered and... smiling.

He's got enough for that. Always enough for that, he thinks, as his lips curve upwards and he starts to laugh, cheeks surprisingly wet with more than just sea water.

Enver knows enough of what he is seeing, what it is to be on one's last legs -- and given the Dark Urge stopped the world from ending and walked away to tell of it, he has plenty of reasons to. So even as he sees that smile -- genuine and happy in a way that feels rare and special, a look he'd catch in quiet, private moments, just before duty called them back in -- his feet are moving of their own accord.

This isn't like those remembered instances, because it's more, and there are no more duties, plagued instead with a strange blessed silence in his mind and bones that threatens to leave cold in that emptiness. And in that place, all the once-human can see is the Dark Urge. Who came back from death and pulled him from the brink of it and worse.

His hands found his face, tracing the line of his jaw as he drew a little energy. It's not powerful magic -- the sort of thing artificers learn to do in their early tutelage. Enough to cover a dire mistake. It'll get you away from that thresh hold just enough to get to a healer that can draw you the rest of the way.

Nothing like the second wind the boons of the Black Hand could have once given him. But with no potions it's just enough. It's all he can do.

It's also something he would never have been permitted to do before.

"You're here," he gasps, the thought somehow hitting him now in a way he hadn't fully allowed it to until this very moment. Because he had been gone or so very close to being so again.

It may be Enver's swooping in to aid him that keeps him on his feet, not least the fact that he's so much bigger than the man propping him up. It feels supremely unfair to simply collapse upon the man and force him to engineer some kind of way to drag him to wherever they're going next. And he doesn't know where that might be.

For the first time in a long time he doesn't know what the next step is. Nobody is here to tell him, he has nobody in particular he needs to answer to. He can do what he pleases, and whatever he chooses to do will be his to own and take responsibility for.

It's terrifying and exciting all at once.

Fingers grip at Enver's shoulders, then loosen again as though he's remembered something important and it's bad.

"...when we did this before, I remember you... bruised."

Probably another thing notable, based on that: it could be attributed to whatever potions or spells his companions threw at him, but he's not black and blue.

Truthfully, Enver hadn't thought of it until this exact moment. And he's taken several falls. He's been grabbed, punched, and far worse tonight. Some of those might show evidence of their passing later if he doesn't drink a potion, but not yet. He shakes his head, uncertain what to make of it, but seeing his own hand against the Dark Urge's is another once-again reminder that he has indeed changed.

"It's all right." He would let him do it, even if he could have felt the marks coming already. Reminders. "I'm --" He's not, all right. None of this is, save that it's over. "I've been watched over well."

It's not a lie. His borrowed companions are heroes of legend; it would be stupid to think they could not pull their weight. To the point of getting in the way at times, when it comes to the broad side of a barn that was the larger one.

"And you were."

They all seemed to make it back, which should not have surprised him seeing as how even when this group had just been made up of whispers and rumors, word that any of them fell never came with. But that is still a powerful despair to be fighting back against, and the former archduke could only fear the worst in spite of himself. Pain he wasn't allowed to feel, now present because it could only be put away before, now mingled with fear that it would ambush him a third time, and now there was nothing to hold it back.

Gortash felt it coming upon him and did the only thing he could, which was fall into him and hide once it had hold of him. It was the wrong time to him. This wasn't a safe or private place to fall apart, but there was nothing left to keep it bolstered. All he can do his close his eyes against the man's chest and let it release itself.

So words and thought fail him for a span of forever, every sound forces its way out of him with staggering force, fear and anguish and relief all together and too-long locked away somewhere within, refusing to be denied.

Edited 2024-09-03 22:34 (UTC)

"Enver," comes the murmured reply and it contains so much that, at first, it might be hard to discern what the overriding emotion might be. Even he isn't sure, the mix of emotions a crescendo bouncing off the inside of his skull and aching in his chest. His physical reaction is immediate otherwise and it is wildly different to what it would have been before.

The desire to comfort is almost intrinsic having spent even just a short amount of time with his companions, and that blossoms in the way he wraps his arms around the smaller man and holds him. His mouth presses into his hair, his own eyes closing as they share this moment without a care for who may or may not still be watching.

Their time for reparations has only just begun, but for this moment nobody thinks to rob them of this reunion. Not when they have all just overcome so much. He'd be surprised if any of them were thinking of sleeping for less than a tenday, if not more.

"I have you."

There is no greater agony than grief, and it is one that Baneites are not permitted to afford themselves -- never should they become attached to anyone or anything, beyond themselves, that the loss of it could do so much harm to them. Enver Gortash had been committing a grave sin to allow such a thing to dig its claws in and never completely excise it.

And if the Plot had continued forward as it had been envisioned, especially with him standing alone at the end of it (worse still, if Orin and Ketheric were both still there), this weight would have found no release, following him for eternity, burrowing in the pit of him until they both festered.

So even if there is fear of being seen in a way that is ghastly to what he used to be and in some ways still is despite himself, even if the pain is vibrant and real, it is a comfort to let go of it and hold onto this at long last, to feel the Dark Urge's arms around him, his lips and his breath in his hair.

It would have been enough. It is. And he has it. His hands grasp feebly at the front of his armor, one at last slipping around his waist.

For a moment after the storm, he is quiet, just breathing, warm, existing. When at last he allows himself a second to dry his face, look up, and his eyes are searching for and remembering every line and feature.

The privacy they may have been granted in the quiet retreat of Enver's office - as private as any Chosen of a deity could be afforded - it's surprising how much they also have here on the dock. Surrounded by his companions, each of them is still trying to make sense of their own reality now. For some that's easier than others. Eventually his attention is captured by Astarion who yells, is suddenly racing to find some kind of shade from the sunlight.

It's enough to remind him that he has so many people in his life now that he gives himself to in a way he had never been able to in the past. And he wants to share all of it with Enver, no matter how much concern he may also hold over how different things are now.

There is time now to explore it all, and more. Time to take stock and understand how they move forward together. Though first a quick check-in with his friends, and then on to find the two of them somewhere to retire to together.

Eventually that takes the form of a pitched tent on the outskirts of the city. Up high and overlooking the Gate provides quite a different picture than it had been only recently. He's set everything up and is taking in the view, and reminding himself of how much reparation he will need to do, when he senses he isn't on his own anymore. Glancing over his shoulder, his mouth curves up into a warm smile.

"I know this is different to what you have been used to lately."

Somewhere far away has given him more time to think and breathe, and feel less paranoid that he is going to be arrested at any moment. Despite that few even recognized him.

Even Ravenguard seemed amenable to allowing the Dark Urge to move forward with his intentions. And there were hardly words between them once the party had gone. But it was accepted, tightly, with forewarning, that Enver Gortash had died in the city the previous day.

All things considered, for a dead man, he would have to expect a lot of things to be different, no?

It's just been a very long time since he felt like he was starting over on anything, and getting out of the city makes it far less overwhelming. Being alone, but not. That part was new.

Everything even in the shadows feels colorful and defined and alive. As are they. The brighter lights despite their vividness do not sting. The skyline is now changed in a way he had never seen before. But bathed in a glow dimmed by smoke rising up from down below, the Dark Urge is there -- part of the man he knew and also wholly someone else, but he looks at him like that and he feels safe.

"I can handle different. Give me time."

Brooking no argument is far easier when he's just saved Baldur's Gate, and so when they are given leave to slip out of the city and make for the edges, he's relieved. He's tired in a way that a night of sleep won't fix, but he'll eventually get back to his baseline, and he's grateful he doesn't have to waste more energy arguing.

When he catches Enver's gaze, it's a reminder that the man may need help finding his new baseline. It's still shocking, bizarre even. But if the former human is able to find a way forward, he'll be loyally beside him every step.

"Would you like to join me here?"

He's at the edge of the wall, taking in the view as he finds it, but has enough wherewithal to understand that perhaps this close might not be comfortable. He's not sure where they stand, in fact, but the pressure of having to rush through everything else up to this point simply isn't to be found anymore. They have time.

"...Do you want me to?"

The answer comes after a small pause but still perhaps too quickly. Enver understands there is this space of time when they were last together and then...everything that quickly transpired once they were again. In quick succession. In spite of all that, it is powerful, how immediate the desire is there. To have that same closeness as before.

But again, there is that gap, and he's uncertain how much of that can or should be ignored.

Once upon a time the plan had been that at some point, when the work was done and the plot had been fully realized, they would be together. With duties to follow as they always would. But far less. There would be spoils to enjoy. A new life in its own right.

And in a way, that has been realized through a very different lens. Everything is much more uncertain.

Except for how this feels. And that's something for him to contend with like he always has: with care. Mindfulness.

"I do," he affirms, his expression not remotely careful in comparison to Enver's. Perhaps it's that he doesn't need to school his features into anything for fear of who might see. Given his skill with control - and how little he feels the need to prove that these days - maybe it becomes clear that he doesn't care to hide his feelings beneath his expression. An upshot of their newfound situation, and something he just feels strongly enough about to let the inquisitive curiosity bubble to the surface.

He wants Enver to step in closer and join him, and without a full set of memories to contend with, he's also inviting the man to set the pace and tone. It seems only right that they remain as respectful of each other's boundaries as they must have been in the past.

"I would like to introduce myself properly," he adds after a few moments, turning around from the still smoking vista ahead of them to fully face the other man.

There is something about that affirmation that feels unreal to him. Because it is what he wants to hear, and even knowing everything that had to happen to lead up to it, why does all that feel like not enough? Like there is more owed for it?

The two had once been masters of self-control in their own ways, and differently free in ways the other was not. But a few times something in the Dark Urge had unbuckled when they were alone. Rare moments of penetrating, intense sincerity, and it had been Bane's once-Chosen's duty to respond in kind. To prove it was a secret he would hold for him, say and do what he must to help him right himself, and send him back to his temple unsullied. But also to cherish that something had passed between them that was worth protecting.

To see that same thing, completely unfettered, in the open air and realized, feels like a cruel trick because it is too much of something good. He does venture nearer, just shy of reaching for him.

I would like to introduce myself properly.

It draws his focus, gives him something definite to expect, and he feels a little less at the mercy of the wind.

"Please, do."

The height difference between them isn't as pronounced as it is with others, so his gaze isn't slanted too far down as the man steps closer. There's a moment of confusion that bubbles to the surface, a strange feeling of wondering why they aren't already sharing the same breath. But it's as unfamiliar to him as so much else he doesn't remember, even without a film of amnesia over it.

Even the memories he has back now aren't sharp. Not the way they would be if they had never been disturbed or carved from his brain. The hand he offers is steady, less murderous than it has been for a long time. He holds it out, palm up, waiting to see if the other man feels comfortable or not setting his own into it.

"Memories are returned to me sometimes without prompting. Sometimes with a trigger of the senses. I... could not recall my name, before, could I?"

There is something...not quite what was before, the hand offered. There was a moment that felt similar. An evening after recovering from a public function. Perhaps too public. Showing him the bruises still striping his hips. A promise made and then echoed in kind. A touching of foreheads, something that felt just as intimate as a kiss before the bhaalist had a taste for it.

It still feels like that. Welcome, missed. Enver places his hand in the Dark Urge's with no hesitation.

The question takes him a little. Does that mean he does now? "...No. I imagine if you would have told anyone, it would have been me."

The hand in his own feels like contentedness. Physical but not in a way he may have struggled with before Orin and confronting Bhaal. Rejecting him. Purged of unholy blood and left for dead.

Whatever whispers of violence he still hears are from decades of scars on his psyche, but they're far easier to breathe through. All of it has brought him to this point where he just... feels Enver's hand in his own. Feels the warmth and weight of it and doesn't have to wade through the visceral urge to maim or kill.

He takes a moment to just enjoy it, eyes dropping to look at their hands together before they return to Enver's face.

"My name is Kael." It's what he had surrendered when he had joined the cult, and it had been taken from him gladly. Perhaps it was Bhaal taking back what darkness he had imbued in him that uncovered that memory.

Kael. A small tilt of Enver's head as he takes that in. Perhaps realizing he had heard people in the camp say that name and he had not been sure who they were referring to.

Such a small thing, and something he had never asked about. It still surprised him back then, to hear he had even been born or partially raised anywhere outside the temple. There had been mention of fleeting memories, and he left the door open to eventually explore them further, if he wished.

In the once-human's mind, they would have time for all that. Once the plan was finished.

In a way neither had expected, perhaps he was right.

But a name had never been among those things discussed.

(And he had considered. Fleetingly. Somewhat jokingly. Asking what he would prefer he call him. Since The Dark Urge wasn't exactly easy to call out in bed. He so rarely referred to him; when they were speaking it was so clear that he was talking to him. But every time the man used his own given name, it did something to him, felt unfair not to be able to give that back.)

"It suits you." The beginnings of a smile touch his lips. "Kael."

It's a momentarily momentous feeling for his name - the one he remembered had been given to him by his parents - to be cushioned so neatly upon Enver's tongue. Noteworthy in how his mind seems to latch on to a feeling not too dissimilar from the other man's. Fleeting memories of his opposite number's name on his own lips. To have his own spoken aloud now by somebody he thinks he would have shared it with first, had they been together, feels briefly rapturous.

"I enjoy the way it sounds when you say it," he confesses easily, not all too interested in trying to play anything as reserved or not as affected as he is. Very simply, he does not imagine a moment where he wouldn't want to share his delight in this.

It feels like there is so much to catch up on, but he can barely contain his need to step in closer and do away with the last remaining moonlight between them.

"Enver, I..."

It's not so much hesitation as a pause as he feels a wave of emotion start to crest inside him. How close to devastation they had skirted in more than just a plan now aborted. Beyond that. He can hardly keep the significance of this moment to a manageable level.

He should ask - he knows that - but the moment calls for nothing less than the way he lifts his free hand and curls it around the back of the shorter man's neck. Stepping in, he presses his forehead to Enver's and, if he's allowed, dips down just enough to seal their mouths together in a chaste kiss.

Toppling from Cauldron to Blaze

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