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Enver, the now Archduke of Baldur’s Gate, sat upon his throne, surrounded by a room filled with politicians, nobles, and guards.
It had been an uneventful session for the most part, that was until an unexpected, searing pain erupted from the palm of Enver’s hand; his confusion mounting as he had not been doing anything at the time. His trembling hand, beyond his control, filled him with dread as he inspected the source of the pain: a scar, a symbol of a profound connection. Their scar.
His stomach dropped.
"Everyone, leave," Enver's voice cut through the air, his eyes never wavering from the scar on his palm.
"But, Archduke, we still need to go over the funding for th—"
"I said everyone, leave!" Enver's shout echoed with an intensity that disregarded political decorum and potential damage to his relationships.
Chairs scraped across the floor as the room quickly emptied, the last guard closing the doors behind them. Throughout this chaotic retreat, Enver's gaze remained locked on the scar, an enigma that tugged at him.
The scar felt like it was pulling in on itself, twisting, though there were no visible changes to his flesh. The pain intensified, and then, as abruptly as it began, it ceased. His wide eyes witnessed a red mist emanate from the scar before vanishing into the air. He could smell the unmistakable metallic hint of blood.
Enver's eyes stung as the implications weighed heavily on him. Lisbeth had been connected to him through an oath sealed in blood, but that connection had now been severed. She was gone, and a profound sorrow gripped his soul.
She was gone.
A pain clutched at his throat, his chest, as grief flooded through him. He'd only just seen her again, three days ago, after months a part where he had thought her mind lost.
He'd arranged to have her and her companions watched, for her safety and that of their plan, so he knew today she had gone to fight Orin. And she had lost. He never expected her to lose. Not again.
"Damn it!" Enver's gauntlet-clad fist struck the arm of his throne, the pain cutting through his numbness.
He did it again.
And again.
And again until he could barely feel his hand anymore.
He pushed himself to his feet, but his strength failed him, and he collapsed to his knees, overwhelmed. His injured hand fell limply to his side.
Enver's chest shook as the tears finally flowed and he let the grief take him. His anguished moans echoed through the hall, and he cared not who might hear. At that moment he didn't care for anything at all.
When the sun set and the darkness of the night enveloped him Enver finally rose from the ground, his body drained. His throat was raw, his limbs heavy as stone, as he dragged himself to his quarters.
His journey to his quarters felt like a dream, his head a mix of fog and pain; light and heavy at the same time. Somehow he found the presence of mind to pick up a bottle of wine with his one good hand as he left the throne room, fully intending to drown his sorrows.
Opening the door to his private chambers was another struggle, and thankfully one of the guards took pity on him, wordlessly allowing him entry and securing the door behind him.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim room, he spotted a figure standing by his bed. It couldn't be—Lisbeth. But she was supposed to be gone. The thought of Orin's cruelty flared within him.
Orin. He knew she was cruel but this. This was just unfathomable.
"How dare you!" Enver's voice was filled with scorn as he hurled the bottle of wine toward the figure. Lisbeth, or the devil who appeared to be her, deftly evaded the projectile, her eyes wide and hands outstretched.
"Leave before I rip your spine out through your throat" His threat empty as he wouldn’t be able to manage that in his current state. His gauntlet-clad hand still hanging limply, useless, at his side.
"Enver, it's me!" The imposter’s plea sounded genuine. She reached for him; her palms open in surrender.
"Orin, stop it with this sick charade." he retorted, though he hesitated to call the guards. Maybe it was hope; a glimmer of hope that perhaps Orin was there to end him too.
His eyes fixated on the scar, identical to his own, on the figure's palm. "I felt her die" he said, each word dripping with bitterness however his throat was still raw from earlier and he couldn't stop the crack at the end that betrayed his vulnerability.
"You felt..." the figure began to speak, her demeanour shifting to one of sadness and… empathy? Enver had never seen such emotions from Orin. It gave him pause.
If this was a ruse of Orin's she was going above and fucking beyond. He took a careful step forward. His eyes searched over her, frantically for any tell.
"It is me, Enver. But you did feel me die." Her words didn't make sense. Part of what she said gave him hope again. But that last part pulled him back down again.
He moved closer, seeking any signs that this was truly Lisbeth. "Are you real?" he asked in a hushed tone, now devoid of anger. The room didn't reek of decay, and her eyes held more emotion than he had ever witnessed in Orin's presence. Could this actually be Lisbeth?
Lisbeth nodded, prompting Enver to reach out and touch her for confirmation, forgetting his earlier outburst and injury. He gasped as the pain shot through his arm and pulsed through his knuckles and fingers.
"Enver, what happened?" Concern laced Lisbeth's voice as she closed the distance between them to examine his injured hand. She gently placed her hand on his shoulder, leaning down to inspect the damage beneath the blood-splattered gauntlet. Though her touch was gentle he felt the full weight of her hand, she was real.
There had been a lot of blood, some of his wounds still weeping while the others had dried to a crust. A switch went off in Lisbeth's mind, ushering him to sit down at his desk as she took control of the situation.
He watched in a daze as she moved around the bedroom, collecting the supplies she needed. If he was still doubting Lisbeth's authenticity it would have been validated right then. She knew where everything was without the need to ask.
With arms balancing vials and salves Lisbeth returned to his side, placing her gathered supplies on the desk in front of him. Selecting a blue vial first, she removed the stopper before holding it up for him to take. "First things first, for the pain. Drink," she explained, watching him expectantly as she waited for him to follow instructions.
Reaching up with his only functioning hand he took the vial from hers, intentionally his fingers brushed over her own, still wanting to confirm again she was real. Her face softened at the brief touch, reading him all too well, and he forced himself to look away.
Raising the vial to his lips Enver felt the potion start to work instantly, a light buzzing sensation of warmth moving through his system, along his extremities until it reached the tips of his fingers and toes.
"Next, we are going to have to remove... This" she gestured at the gauntlet, almost hesitantly. While Enver had allowed himself previously to remove the gauntlet in her presence he had never allowed anyone to remove it for him.
Placing the empty vial on the table Enver went about releasing the clasps of his gauntlet in place. This would have been a lot quicker with help, yes, but Lisbeth respected his apprehension and patiently waited while he removed it. He certainly appreciated the pain relief as there was no way he would have been able to remove the gauntlet himself without its aid.
Opening the draw beside him he placed the gauntlet inside, locking it with a seal.
It turned out Lisbeth was not paying any attention to his actions in sealing the gauntlet away, too distracted and concerned at the utter mess he'd made of his hand.
She tutted, eyebrows knitted together in concern as she fussed over him. His knuckles were split open, flesh mangled, fractured splinters of bone peaking out.
"I would hate to see the other guy." She murmured under her breath as she set about doing her best to repair what he had done to himself. Not that she knew it was self inflicted.
For somebody so proficient at taking lives, Lisbeth had become a formidable healer in her own right, having spent so much time unravelling the intricacies of the mortal form.
He allowed himself to study her in that moment, and if the faint blush of her cheeks was any indication she was well aware of his focus.
Her hair was a lot shorter now, shorter than his, a result of Orin’s torture. He knew this because Orin had announced her new status as Chosen of Bhaal by gifting him a long lock of Lisbeth’s braided platinum hair.
Lisbeth’s face held scars as well, the most noticeable travelling across her now blind right eye; her previously lavender iris now void of colour.
And that only the changes he could see. He knew there would be a lot more, hidden, both mental and physical scars.
Silently, they sat as Lisbeth mended his injuries, cleansing the wounds, resetting the bones, and providing vials to heal him. As the magic took effect, Enver moved his fingers, feeling the strength and flexibility return.
"How does it feel?" Lisbeth asked, breaking the silence.
Enver raised his now-healed hand, flexing it once more. "Good. Um... Thank you," he replied, feeling an unexpected awkwardness in her presence. Perhaps he was ashamed of his earlier outburst or because he was sitting across from the woman he loved, who barely remembered him.
"I think I'm ready to explain if you would like to hear?" Lisbeth's voice wavered slightly, matching his unease.
Still not completely trusting his voice Enver simply nodded, signalling his readiness to listen.
"To give you the summary, Orin is dead. I killed her," Lisbeth revealed, her eyes showing a trace of regret. Despite their differences, she still saw Orin like a sister. However, she knew the rivalry between them was fuelled and continuously stoked by Bhaal's influence and it would have always ended with one of them dead.
With Orin gone, Lisbeth had assumed the mantle of Bhaal's Chosen. But it wasn't that simple, there was still more to the story.
Enver waited patiently as Lisbeth searched for her words. He had never seen her so vulnerable. He knew it wasn't grief but a feeling of loss for what her relationship with Orin could have been.
"I was ready to be crowned his Chosen again, ready to lead his followers as I had done once before. To claim my birthright," Lisbeth confessed.
"Bhaal declared me once more his Chosen. And I... I said no."
She looked up at him then, eyes wide and full of fear. The revelation shook Enver to his core. She had rejected Bhaal, the God of Murder himself. The Bhaalspawn had rejected Bhaal. A mortal had spurned a god.
"Shit..." Enver leaned back in his chair, at a loss for words. He had never expected this turn of events.
Lisbeth let out a sad chuckle at his reaction. "Shit is right." Also leaning back in her chair, taking a deep breath before continuing.
"I rejected Bhaal so he rejected me from his life. From life itself. He took back the blood he had given me, and I died.”
That explained the pain he had felt in their scar. They had made their promise in blood and when her life was taken by Bhaal it was taken from him too.
"How are you here?" He gestured at her with his now-healed hand. Leaning forward in his seat slightly. He still had so many questions, and this was all a lot to take in.
"This is going to sound ridiculous so bear with me on this, ok?" She paused, taking a breath before recounting her story of how Wither’s has brought her back. She was right. It did sound ridiculous, but Enver had no doubt in her words.
"I'm pretty sure he's Jergal but he's vague as all hell about everything and has yet to confirm or deny that himself"
"Ok. You certainly have made yourself some strange allies over the last few months. But can I ask, what made you decide to reject your fa-Bhaal?"
It was an unspoken question, until now, that he knew she had been avoiding adressing, he assumed to allow herself to process.
"I rejected Bhaal because I realized, as I stood there with Orin's blood on my hands, that over the last few months, I fought through mindflayer afflictions, amnesia, the Underdark, shadow curses, and more—all on my own.” Lisbeth had had help of course, in her valued companions she had gathered along the way, but the point stood that Bhaal didn’t help her at all. If anything he hindered her recovery; filling her head with cryptic visions of death and blood when her mind was a mess and driving her to question her own sanity.
She was standing now so filled with passion, "I did all of that. Me." She patted herself on the chest and her eyes began to well up with tears as she paced on the spot.
"Bhaal didn't do shit for me when my brain was turned to mush and my mind was in turmoil. Didn't do shit when Orin ruined me, disfigured me, even though I begged him to. He did nothing. He rewarded her." She spoke with venom now, lip curled in disgust as she spoke of her former master.
“For months, he did nothing for me. He never really did anything for me. He just gave me life and bound me to serve him. And for what? What's my reward for all that? He abandoned me first," she said with despair, tears streaming down her cheeks as she hugged herself.
"Enver, the only thing I've ever had for myself was you, and he... Orin... took that from me too. I just wanted one thing for myself," Her whole frame was trembling as she sobbed, turning away from him.
In a split second, Enver was up from his chair, rounding the desk and pulling Lisbeth into his arms. She froze for only a moment before sinking into the comfort of his chest. Her knees gave out as she surrendered herself completely to his embrace and he gently guided them both to the floor.
Leaning back, he rested against the side of his desk as he pulled her into his lap and cradled her as she clutched to his coat and buried her face in his shirt. Lisbeth seemed smaller than he had ever seen her, and his heart ached that he couldn't help her more. He had no words, only comfort to offer.
Time seemed to blur as Lisbeth's sobs gradually subsided, replaced by the slow, rhythmic cadence of her breath as sleep claimed her. Still holding her, he carried her to the bed, placing her on the blankets. He joined her there, pulling her close to his chest, his chin resting on her head.
This wasn't the Lisbeth he had known before. In the short time they had been separated she had grown, changed. She was her own person now, free of her father’s influence.
He didn't know what they were or what the future held for them but he had hope.
Hope that this new Lisbeth would still choose him.
Four Month’s earlier…
In the heart of Wyrm Rock Fortress, hidden away from the world's prying eyes, Lord Enver Gortash and the Bhaalspawn Lisbeth, two lovers bound by destiny, decided to consecrate their affections in a clandestine and profound ceremony. Their love had weathered many storms, yet it had grown resilient, transcending every obstacle that came their way.
Within their dimly lit chamber, Enver and Lisbeth took a small dagger, each making a delicate cut on their palms, mingling a few drops of their blood to symbolize their unity. As they pressed their wounded hands together, they whispered vows of devotion that only the age-old stones could hear. The slight pain from their bleeding palms paled in comparison to the ecstasy that filled their hearts. They bound their hands together with a gold length of cord, a potent emblem of their unwavering connection.
In the hushed intimacy of their room, Enver and Lisbeth pledged eternal love and commitment to one another. Their secret union was a testament to the profoundness of their love, a love so formidable that it defied their deity masters and united their spirits in a manner nothing else could.