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The Dark Urge was, once again, agitated.
He'd randomly ran into Gortash not in one of their usual meeting places, but in the middle of the Lower City streets in the dead of night. It would have been most troubling to the average person, what a Lord was doing at such a time and place, but Urge knew better. He was well aware of the less than ethical business the tyrant carried out, especially under the cover of darkness, so that wasn't all that curious; The intense scent of blood that clung to him like a talon digging into skin, however, was.
The dragonborn had had a successful night so far, scoring two random passer-bys for the temple's monthly murder-at-
large competition, where members were encouraged to kill as many souls as they could. He'd killed them brutally, one with the twist of a dagger so far into his chest it came out the other side, and the other by pulling open his jaws until his brains decorated his hands, somewhat satiating his never-ending bloodthrist while giving two more souls over to his Father. All in all, a rather uneventful night. So when the metallic smell of blood graced his nostrils as he creeped the streets, he found himself intrigued. Another victim? He licked his needle-sharp teeth at the thought, quietly yet quickly making his way towards the future corpse only to turn the corner and find a most familiar Lord.
"Gortash?"
The man seemed shocked for a split second, visibly relaxing once he saw the voice came from his favourite assassin. Still, his shoulders seemed tense in a way they never were around him. He was wearing the collar of his black coat up against his cheeks to cover against the chill in the air, or to hide his identity, and his breathing seemed particularly unstable. He was holding a large stick, leaning into it tactfully.
"It's just you, good. Out for a kill?"
"Not anymore." The Urge answered truthfully, though as he approached the man, the scent only grew. Just standing a foot away, he noticed the small trail of crimson that decorated the stones behind the tyrant and led to him like breadcrumps. He glared curiously down at the man, connecting dots. "How bad is it?"
Gortash scoffed, annoyed. "It is none of your concern; and it's not that bad, thank you." He made to move, inhaling sharply and holding said breath as he put the stick in front of him, then his left leg, and finally dragging his right leg behind him like dead weight with a muffled sound of pain. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on.
"I'm carrying you." The Urge announced, grabbing Gortash's waist with the full intent of pulling him up like a sack of potatoes.
"Hey, hey!" The man protested, pushing the Urge back as much as he could using only one hand. "I can do fine by myself!"
"No, you can't. And unless you hide that trail, stop the bleeding and cease reeking of gore, my siblings will soon be upon you. It's a night of hunt." He explained with a stern expression that meant he was not messing around.
Gortash seemed to be thoughtful for a moment, considering his options. He seemed to even push his weight in between his legs, as if testing the extend of his strength. At last, he gave in.
"Fine."
The Urge easily lifted the human, an easy feat for one of his build, beginning on the way back to the Upper City. Gortash threw away the walking stick and hummed thoughtfully while he allowed to be carried bridal-style, as if the two were a happy couple returning home from a beautiful wedding.
"I assume you'll need my thanks in some way. How much gold will suffice?"
"I'll need to get back to you on that. I have work to do tonight." The Urge replied, a tad surprised the man hadn't offered his body as thanks, something they'd performed with ease countless times before. Maybe he wasn't feeling up to it tonight. "Besides, I'm much more interested in hearing what happened."
Gortash made a sound of disapproval and rolled his eyes, his head moving dramatically with them.
"There is absolutely nothing to tell that should concern you, dearest. You are aware you can trust me to tell you nothing but the truth, but only when it's required, yes? This is not one of those moments."
"You do know I can throw you in the sea at any second, correct?"
"Oh, please." Gortash smiled playfully. "You couldn't possibly live without me."
The Dark Urge flared a smile in turn at the banter, but.. The idea was enticing. It would be all too easy to kill Enver, right then and there. Bend down and grab a bite of flesh right out of the exposed of his neck; Dead, in an instant. Would he even understand what had happened? He looked down at the lordling's face, really looked, as if searching for answers. All he found was the warmth that spread through his chest each time Enver really smiled, not the sly, diplomatic stunt he'd pull at everyone else, but the honest joy that seemed to come about only when the two of them were together. The thought of losing it seemed like an impossibility he'd fight to the death for, in that moment. All the more reason he needed to worry about his lover's strange injury.
The rest of the walk continued in comfortable silence and, soon, the pair had managed to get themselves inside Gortash's property without waking any of the staff. They made their way to the second floor, inside his study, just as he instructed. Gortash was placed on his desk chair carefully, like relocating a baby bird.
"Thank you. You can go now, please, enjoy your hunt. That dangerous look is back in your eyes and I'd hate to be its target tonight." Gortash did not want to have to end up begging, but he would, in that moment, if it meant having to spare himself this awkward conversation. Urge was, unfortunately, not one to back away easily.
"First, tell me how bad it is." He insisted with a cross of his arms, towering above the other.
"Please, dear, it's late." Enver rubbed his eyes as if to emphasise his point, leaning back into his lavish chair. "I promise you it's not bad at all."
"Then show it to me."
"Will it stop you from pestering me about it further?"
"Perhaps."
"Very well." Gortash groaned in response, bending down with effort to pull his right pant leg up past the boot, up to the thigh. He slightly twisted it so that the back of his knee was ever so visible. "Satisfied?"
The wound was deep and looked pretty fresh. There were a couple ragged horizontal slashes right in between the end of the calf and beginning of the thigh. They were red and angry, flesh splitting the bursa open to reveal delicate skin right down to the ligament, overpowered by a long stream of blood, some of it dried, but most of it new. The Urge had to use everything in his power not to dive in and take a bigger chunk off with his teeth. Instead, he focused on his words.
"That needs attention."
"I know."
"The blade reached bone, it seems they twisted it as well - Who did this?" Urge felt a faint worry grow inside him.
"Nobody important."
"Who did this, Enver?"
"I said nobody important!" Gortash hissed out with a slam of his hand at the desk next to him. They glared at each other.
Rage was evident on Enver's face, mixed with pain as he gritted his teeth to no doubt try to drown it. He stared daggers up at the white dragonborn while he simply looked back completely unfazed by his tantrum. A moment passed. Then another.
"Curses." Gortash muttered under his breath, relenting as he turned the chair around. His breathing was getting heavy. "Leave, I beg of you. You will not get your answers, not now, not ever."
"I can have them killed. Tonight, even."
"I know. Trust me, I know that." Gortash sighed in a strange way, not turning to face the other man. "If I needed them dead, I would tell you. I just need my peace. Please."
The Dark Urge hesitated. This seemed to be a sensitive issue if he were to judge from the unusual pleas, for a reason he would not hear from the lordling. He could ask around; Terrify his associates and political enemies into coughing up any kind of secret or scheme they may have had, trace his steps back from earlier in the night and search for any kind of answer, but the result would be the same. If he was not to learn it by Gortash's mouth, he would not learn it at all unless called to. That was the very foundation of trust, after all.
"As you wish."
Just like that, Gortash was alone.
He let out a sheaky breath he didn't know he was holding, fingers digging into the wood of the desk. It hurt - but that was the very point, wasn't it? To be redeemed for his sins through the holy medium of pain? He closed his eyes as he thought back to the ceremony he'd performed just a couple hours before.
The Temple of Bane, his second home, stood just as grand as the God it was named after. It was well-hidden from the public eye, a beautiful wonder that was only meant for the gaze of the few and faithful. While he usually went to perform sermons and sacrifices with the group of followers that varied in size, growing by the day, this time he went alone. The ones that were already there, giving offerings, prayers and parts of themselves, were quickly ushered away with no explanation - who would dare demand one from the Chosen?
Gortash stood before the main altar, a black statue of their God standing proud and tall, as it should. The lord knew well why he was here, guilt eating away at his brain, constant, insistent. Knowing the Twelve Admonitions by heart, he'd already settled on which one he'd perform tonight in order to alleviate the weight on his soul.
He prepared, with intent, determined to be clean. He shed his cloak, revealing his feelings of culpability for the thoughts of indulgence he'd been having. He removed his golden gauntlets, letting a decade's worth of scars, burnt and broken and abused tissue, show. There was nothing to hide; not here, not in front of his master.
With care, he approached the two golden porringers that stood symmetrically in front of the statue. His right palm was dipped in the left one, pure olive oil, then into the next, black charcoal ash that painted it a similar, holy colour. That same hand grabbed the ritualistic dagger from its place next to the bowls, laid out on a crimson fabric, fingers grasping the rich, green jewels that adorned its hilt. He, then, took a few steps back to face up at his God, swallowing down his fear as he knelt on his right knee. With a shaky breath, he begun speaking, voice echoing against the tall, dark walls.
"Leniency has become of my mind that which is to return to its correct form,
So I ask the propitiation to earn and bring forth,
Let the poison be emptied from thine servant,
Let thine servant be rid of unbecoming influence,
Let thine influence fall sure and dawn with thine hand of black,
Let thine hand guide, punish and absolve
for I give what my form may
thus in turn, by hope, be cleansed,
Lest you strike down the unbelieving parts and claim what is rightfully thine,
Atone for it and not its will it shall be, pass and true,
Let my pain be heard,
For the edict of strife,
Black hand guide me."
He shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, preparing for the pain ahead; It still caught him by surprise.
His blackened hand came down with force, driving the dagger into the meat right behind his knee. He screamed once, then even more when he slowly pulled it out with a disgusting wet sound, driving it back in with the same force. He hunched forward with a gasp, gritting teeth and contorting his face. Flashes of his time with The Dark Urge rushed to the front of his head, reminding him of why he was doing this. The guilt he felt as his chest swirled with warmth was motivator enough to repeat the process a third time, twisting the dagger at the end until he found resistance in bone before pulling it out completely and collapsing on the ground.
He shook, he sweat, the pain burning up his whole body to the point of near unconsciousness as a small pool of blood gathered beneath his legs. It was some time before he dared move since even breathing wrong had been enough to send ripples of pain through him. It was a challenge to sit up, much less stand and put weight on his legs; the very reason he'd brought a walking stick with him that was just a bit too short. The handcrafted, elaborate, gold-and-black cane sitting in his office would have to wait to see use, as Gortash saw it fit to force himself to walk home while the wound was still fresh and each pang of pain could remind him of his misdeed yet. A similar reasoning would be used to explain why he wasn't planning on healing the wound with any magic, but rather letting it form back naturally, even if it meant he'd be crippling himself for the rest of his life.
Perhaps this would be punishment enough to get him to turn away from the thoughts of care he had whenever he was in the presence of one particular dragonborn. Perhaps now his God would grace him with the inability to feel such weak ideas, help him overcome this obstacle just as he had a myriad of others already. Perhaps he could be worthy of the title of Chosen once more.
Those thoughts gave him the hope he needed to get past the sheering white pain, even as he saw stars with each step he took. Yes, from this, he would grow. He would become better, stronger.
But then, he came across the very object of his sins randomly on the streets, as a cruel joke of fate, and Gortash, in that moment, felt no greater humiliation as he stared down the Urge's face with wide eyes.
His heart skipped a beat, swelling instantly with love.