Chapter Text
Sarevok was felled for the final time not by a spell or a song, but a blade. Kyne screamed in key with his sword’s shriek as it cleaved into the former Chosen’s neck, letting the spray of blood coat his face and wet his tongue. Sarevok’s body hit the ground with a weighty clang. The sword stilled at Kyne’s side and sang its diminuendo, its magic fading to a sub-acoustic vibration. For a moment, all fell silent.
But Kyne feared he’d never know silence again.
Inside him, the Urge roared. His vision swam in crimson; his heart pounded a furious rhythm against its cage. Every fibre of his being felt alight with unholy purpose. For what was a Bhaalspawn, if not a family annihilator? They were made to consume one another in their desperate scramble upwards, clawing for their father’s fickle favour. This was always his destiny. The blood seeping into the stone was his calling.
Even as he rebuked it, he would never be free.
It was too much. The electric energy swirling at his fingertips; the cacophony inside him begging for carnage. More, more, more... Never ending rivers of red, moating a castle of bone and sinew he alone could rule; a thousand, no, a million death rattles carried on the wind to his screaming ears; a symphony of murder and him, its cursed conductor — gods below, would he never know peace?!
He screamed again, in rage or grief, he couldn't tell the difference any more. Sarevok's throne shattered in the face of the magic rolling off Kyne's body.
“Alright, soldier?” Karlach, behind him, voice low and steady. “It’s over now.”
“No,” he spat. “It’s not. Not ‘til Orin’s dead. Not ‘til Lae’zel is free.”
He flicked his swords at his side, spattering more of Sarevok’s wretched blood on the floor and trying to suppress the tremor of sick glee that climbed his spine. Judging by the way Shadowheart stilled across the room, he didn’t quite manage.
He sucked in a steadying breath through his teeth, tasted iron. The sound of metal scraping on stone alerted him to Astarion at his feet, already dismantling the dead Bhaalspawn’s armour.
That was a stupid place for him to be. Kyne staggered a half-step backward.
Astarion caught him with a look. The vampire’s face was carefully blank save for an arched brow: an unvoiced question, their silent check-in that had grown routine.
He returned it with a small shake of the head. Astarion’s lips pressed into a hard line as his hands quickened, opting to slice a few straps on the cuirass rather than fuss with buckles.
“There’s a keyhole over here,” Shadowheart called. “Astarion?”
“He’s got a key you can try,” he replied, brandishing the thing over his head.
Karlach took it and left the two lovers alone with the cooling corpse.
Kyne realized he was still brandishing his swords; he sheathed them. Lae’zel would have given him hell for leaving them bloody like this, but she wasn’t there.
Days, now, he’d spent every free moment wracking his wretched brain for clues. A memory, a path, anything — but it was a haze of ash and meat interrupted only by flickers of unyielding stone and blooded plinths. Useless. Utterly useless.
And Lae’zel suffered all the more for it.
“This looks important,” Astarion hummed. Kyne stared very hard at the broken throne, trying to ignore the sting of ozone in his nostrils. “And this looks like a map.”
That caught his attention. “Let me see.”
Astarion passed him the worn slip of paper. Crude as the illustration was, it charted a path through the sewers to what looked like — maybe, just maybe — the Bhaal temple. A single rope of tension uncoiled in Kyne’s shoulders.
“Good. This is good.”
Astarion rose, cradling Sarevok’s helmet in both hands. “This is quite a prize, too, darling. Might fuck with Orin’s head if you show up wearing it.”
A dark chuckle bubbled out of him. “It’s a bit over the top, no?”
“Because you have such restrained taste.”
“Fair point.”
They were interrupted by the echoes of an incensed, trumpeting voice from the newly-revealed room. Astarion’s smirk fell; Kyne’s blood pressure spiked.
“Oh for fuck’s sake — is that the gods-damned Investigator?!” Kyne heard his own stomping more than he felt it. The air crackled in anticipation. “If I’d have known she was the ‘sacrifice,’ I’d have —”
Karlach was halfway to meeting him when Astarion stepped into his field of view. “Now, now, darling. Why don’t we have a look around that corner, hmm? Make our sticky fingers useful.” His crimson eyes, wide and imploring. Inviting like the blood streaking his pale face, like fresh-cut flesh, like — “Before you do something you might regret.”
“I — yes. Fine.” Kyne nodded to Karlach. “Get her out.”
He let Astarion lead him down the unexplored hallway. Cells. Lovely. At least they were empty; Kyne wasn’t sure he could handle an innocent at the moment, and as suave as Astarion could be, he’d never been good at comforting strangers. He continued to follow Astarion like a well-heeled dog, drifting in and out of attention. When did they end up in an office? It was bizarrely bureaucratic, with curling papers scattered haphazardly across a grand desk weighted down by stoppered inkwells. Well, there were a few human skulls in the way of decor — but otherwise, it looked straight out of the Counting House.
Astarion pulled out the chair and gestured for Kyne to sit. “Why don’t you have a root around the desk there, and I’ll open these chests.”
Removed from the carnage, Kyne’s fury was rapidly ebbing to a pounding headache. He slumped into the chair with a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face, sending flecks of dried blood raining into his lap.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed.
“Oh, you needn't to apologize for your bloodlust to me of all people, my dear. I just thought you might like a moment to collect yourself.”
“I... Thank you.”
Astarion gave him a noncommittal hum. Kyne focused on the click-click-click of the rogue’s lockpicking as he massaged his temple, each prod sending a lance of pressure through his skull that was equal parts pain and relief. Heaving another sigh, he elected to scan the contents of the desk at last.
Lists of names, locations. Ravings on the worship of Bhaal through blood. The decorative skull had several gold teeth — might’ve been worth something, but he’d learned that teeth were hard to move without questions. Maybe Ninefingers would take ‘em, but they probably weren’t worth the trip. One of the clear inkwells looked a bit odd, its dark rust-brown contents congealing on the glass in an unattractive crust. Against his better judgement, he opened it, gave it a sniff and — yep, blood. Stale and rotted as all get-out.
He gulped back the bile in his throat and started in on the drawers.
“Anything useful?” Astarion, evidently finished with his hunting, came to join him.
“Just more insane bullshit. Bhaalshit. Ha. Haha.” The second laugh, teetering between sarcasm and mania, left his eardrum throbbing. He clutched his head with a hiss. Astarion gave his shoulders a squeeze.
“Takes a madman to know one, I suppose. Let me have a look.”
No use arguing. Kyne could feel himself slipping back into utter uselessness, so he allowed Astarion to take over again while he nursed his head and felt sorry for himself.
The vampire rummaged through the drawers with practiced efficiency. “Nothing, nothing, nothing — oh, hello. Some personal papers with Orin’s name.”
Kyne opened his eyes to see Astarion scanning a document with a growing expression of disgust.
“Hells. I’ve done some debauched things in my time, but this is just...”
“What?” Kyne snatched the paper from Astarion’s willowy hand, gaze stuttering over the words and — “Gods. I think I’m going to be sick.”
Astarion took the paper back as Kyne wretched over the arm of the chair. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Of all the atrocities committed by Sarevok alone, incest was hardly the worst. Hells, it even explained some things about Orin. But the implication that Bhaal had endorsed the union of father and daughter, that his followers would do something so fundamentally wrong in the interest of keeping his cursed bloodline pure, well. It raised questions about Kyne’s past life as Chosen that he’d rather not think about, was all. Particularly in light of Sarevok’s ranting about his being the ‘purest Bhaalspawn ever created.’ What had he endorsed? What had he done?
Shadowheart’s exasperated voice pierced through his spiraling. “Valeria’s gone, so that’s sorted — oh.”
“I’m fine,” he growled, stifling a gag. He wiped his mouth and tried again. “I’m fine.” There. That sounded clearer.
Shadowheart, and Karlach beside her, both frowned back at him.
“Er. Just give me a moment. We can rest here, then set out to deal with Orin once and for all.”
Shadowheart stalked toward him as he rose, looming over the desk. “Have you actually lost your mind? We’re in no shape.”
As soon as she’d healed Kyne, Sarevok had marked Shadowheart as a target. She’d gone down twice in that fight.
He scraped the loose hair off his face. “That’s fine. We can stop at the Elfsong and swap out.”
“Soldier, you aren’t looking so hot either.”
That rankled him. He cast his eyes at the ceiling to avoid leveling his anger squarely at Karlach. “Right, and I’m sure Lae’zel has no problem with us tucking in for the night now that we know where she is and how to get there.”
“She would have a problem with us sending you into mortal combat at half your strength,” Shadowheart hissed.
Kyne cursed through his teeth. “If Orin finds out about this before we get to her...”
“She’ll keep Lae’zel alive.”
Kyne whirled on Astarion to find the elf with a hand rested on his chin and a thoughtful expression on his face.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m not, of course, but Orin is obsessed with you. It’s obvious that she craves your attention more than anything else, and this is just a sign that she’s got it. She’ll be angry, but she’ll see it as proof that you are playing your part in this little theatre she’s orchestrated. The antagonist to her tortured artist autobiography.”
“You’re giving her too much credit. She’s a homicidal maniac; we can’t predict her actions.”
“Maybe. But she was cunning enough to bide her time until she could take you out, wasn’t she?”
Kyne felt the sparking magic build in his forearms and soothed it with another sharp curse. “The Netherstone is her leverage; she doesn’t need anything else.”
Astarion arched a brow. “Evidently.”
A beat passed where Kyne leaned into the rushing of blood in his ears. Fuck, fuck, fuck...
“Kyne.” Shadowheart risked a ginger touch on his arm, fingers trembling. He shot her a glance over his shoulder; her silver hair hung slick and heavy in her eyes. “We need rest. You need rest.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’ll just keep killing.”
“She’ll kill you if we’re not careful.”
“That’s the least of my worries,” he grumbled back.
Astarion rounded on him, face a mask of sudden, seething fury. “Now hold on just a moment—”
Kyne threw his hands up. “Fine. Fuck, fine!” His left hand took on a pleading gesture as he locked eyes with Astarion, who looked like he was building to a spectacular lecture. “Not now. Please.”
Astarion flexed his jaw, but heeded the warning. Small mercies.
Shadowheart was right. At the moment, everything was adrift in blood and bile, which is exactly how Orin wanted it. It would be better, wiser, saner to confront her on his terms.
Well, as much as he was able. A secret temple with a hostage was hardly tactically favourable.
But he owed it to Lae’zel to give it his best. Fuck, he owed it to Baldur’s Gate to bring an end to the spree killings, and he could only do that if he actually took care of the cult. It wasn’t enough to die trying. There was no hero’s welcome waiting for him in death.
With his luck, Bhaal would bind his spirit to eternal servitude just like he’d done with the Tribunal. What became of Bhaal’s delinquent children? Perhaps another question for Jaheira to go unanswered. Joy.
“Darling?” Astarion hedged.
“Sorry — Yes. Let’s get out of here.”
Kyne crawled out from under the veil of sleep (and bedsheets) like emerging from a tar pit, limbs heavy and sweat soaked. Halsin’s tonic, effective as it was, never did much to suppress the sick haze of red that dominated Kyne’s dreams. It wasn’t for lack of trying; the druid had “added enough essence of ether to addle a rothé.” But while its paralytic properties kept him down for a solid few hours, his nightmares had proven stubbornly resistant.
Astarion never liked it. He liked tying Kyne up even less, though, so he’d stopped complaining not long after they’d implemented the treatment.
His headache had faded to a dull throb. About the best it ever got since arriving at the Gate; had he lived like this, before, or was it all a result of Orin’s sabotage?
Agh — questions hurt. None of those, then. Gods, but his tongue felt like sandpaper. He considered rising, prodded at the pins and needles in his thighs, and thought better of it.
“Astarion,” he called, voice hoarse.
It wasn’t Astarion that pulled open the curtain, letting late evening light flood in from the windows, but Shadowheart. Sweet, floral notes wafted to him from her freshly washed hair, loose about her shoulders like a silver mantle.
“Sorry to disappoint. Here,” she said, passing him a cool glass of water. She continued speaking as he sipped. “He’s out with Gale and Halsin on another trip to Sorcerous Sundries. Karlach and Wyll are with her friend — Fytz, I believe?” Kyne nodded, only mostly sure himself. “Jaheira is out too, gods only know where. Not parenting, that much is for sure.” Her lips curved in a wicked smirk.
He choked. “Come now, Shadow. Cruelty does not become you.”
“Perhaps not, but it did make me.”
“Aye, fair enough, I suppose.”
She perched on the edge of the bed beside him, face growing serious. “They’ll be back before nightfall. Always are.”
When had he become so easily read?
“Yeah.”
“How are you feeling?”
His fingers worried at the edge of the glass in his lap. Whether the others took his fidgeting as a good sign or not, he could never tell. In fairness, he wasn’t sure how to take it either.
“Better than earlier. Worse than yesterday.” Before she could respond, he chanced a glance at her. “You look well.”
“Thank you. Halsin patched me up.” She stretched her arms out in front of her as proof. New scars, faint but present, gleamed over old ones.
Something terrible wriggled in Kyne’s mind and it wasn’t the parasite. Would the new tissue give easier under a blade? What were the limits of Halsin’s healing? How many times could you 'patch someone up' until the flesh refused to knit together so neatly?
He stifled a gag with a heavy swallow.
“I’m sorry about Sarevok,” he said, instead of acknowledging the way his shoulders had gone tight as a bowstring. “That fight was a disaster. I shouldn’t have let him get in my head like that. I should’ve protected you.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Her pale hand clasped one of his. “Danger is part of the deal. We’ve all got our monsters to confront, and they’ve all got teeth.”
“Seems we’ve only been dealing with mine,” he sighed. “I didn’t want it to be this way. I wanted to kill Cazador, find your parents, fix Karlach’s heart, all before I...” Horrifyingly enough, his throat cracked. “But Orin took Lae’zel, and it’s because of me, and I can’t just—”
“Hey. Stop that.” Shadowheart took the empty cup from him, placing it on the floor so she could hold both his hands in hers. “We’re with you. Lae’zel is one of us, much as it pains me to admit.” Judging from her expression, the low huff that left Kyne was exactly what she was looking for. “We’ll get her back. You’re going to defeat Orin.”
Dread sank in his gut like lead. “Yeah, probably.”
He found himself unable to quite look at her wide, green eyes.
“What is it?”
“It’s just... Look, say I do kill Orin. What then? Do you think Bhaal is going to let me go? ‘Thanks very much for your years of service, son, be on your way, no hard feelings?’ If even the recent past is any indication, my father doesn’t take too kindly to insolence.”
“Kyne...”
He found her face a mask of dawning horror. A sick relief settled over him at having unburdened himself, at no longer being this fear’s sole custodian.
“He might kill me outright. He might drive me mad; possess me, body and mind. Force my friends to cut me down as a mercy.” A laugh escaped him, bitter as coal in his mouth. “It’s what I deserve. The butcher of Baldur’s Gate, culled like a rabid dog at long last.”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not—”
“—Not possible? I’d go as far as calling it probable.”
“There must be something we can do.”
“Perhaps after I’m gone. For now, it’s not like we have time to spare,” he said with a shrug. Then, steeling himself, he met her eyes in earnest. “If you’re willing, there’s something I’d ask of you. Should the worst happen.”
Shadowheart looked briefly, madly, ready to argue; but her mouth set into a grim line instead. “Of course. Anything.”
“It’s Astarion. If I... If he...”
“We’re killing Cazador,” she interrupted. Her expression was solid stone. “With or without you, Astarion will have his vengeance, I’ll see to that.”
Another laugh took him, more genuine this time. Light with affection. What had he done in his miserable, wretched life to deserve such friends?
“Forgive me,” he forged on, “but I’d already assumed as much. No, I meant that... Well. I worry for him. I... hm. I worry that he will choose fear, if I’m not there with him.”
“... This is about the ritual.”
That damned ritual. The Rite of Profane Ascension. It seemed to consume Astarion more each day, and it had Kyne avoiding the topic of Cazador and Astarion’s spawn siblings even more than usual.
Clearly taking his silence as confirmation, Shadowheart squeezed his hands where they still rested in hers. “Speaking from experience, it’s hard to let go of lessons that’ve been beaten into you.”
Kyne winced.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s true. And you’re right. That’s exactly why I worry: Cazador thinks his stupid Rite is the answer to all his woes — I worry that Astarion has come to believe the same. But he’s so much more than what that waste of flesh made him into. He can be better. Be real, you know?”
“I know.” She flashed him a sad, hopeless half smile. “But what are you asking me to do? Stop him if he tries to go through with it? I don’t think that would go well for either one of us.”
“No, that’s — Gods,” he whined. “I’m not asking you to stop him. That would be asking you to fight him, and the last thing I want is for my two closest friends to come to blows over my dying wish. And what monster would I be to demand he refuse something he wants so badly? Like my hands are clean?”
Shadowheart eased back to study him. He blew out an unsteady breath as a pang reverberated through his temple. He was running out of time to get this even semi-coherent.
“I just... I suppose I’d hoped that when the time comes — if I’m not around — you’d offer him good counsel, at least. He listens to you.”
Mirth flashed in her eyes.
He huffed a laugh. “Okay, he doesn’t listen to any of us. But he trusts you.”
She was smirking properly now. “He probably shouldn’t, but I’ll take that. Whatever I can do to help him, I will do it. You have my word, Kyne. And not just because you asked, either.”
“Oh, but I asked so nicely!”
“Once you found the words, yes.”
The laugh they shared lifted a weight in his chest, let him take a full breath with an ease he hadn’t felt in days. Whatever happened next, Astarion was surrounded by the same friends that made facing the Urge within him feel possible. Kyne had to believe his love would be alright. He had to.
Kyne woke again to the sensation of a cool hand on his fevered brow. He peeled open his leaden eyelids to find Astarion gazing down at him.
“Hello, darling.”
Kyne tried to respond but only managed an inscrutable mumble. Astarion stroked through his hair.
“I trust you’re feeling better?”
Before Kyne could attempt another pathetic approximation of speech, he felt a prodding sensation in his mind. He groaned, but admitted Astarion entrance; there was no point trying to hide anything from each other anymore.
He was feeling better — little as it seemed to comfort the vampire. His thoughts were mostly coherent, even with the paralytic stymying his movement and speech. But the tadpoles communicated more than just surface thoughts. Surely, Astarion was feeling the churning red, red, red, too.
He cursed his chopped up brain. His mad sister. His dread father.
“Hmm,” Astarion hummed, crawling into bed and folding himself around Kyne’s prone body. “At least you’re getting some rest.”
For all the good it’ll do, Kyne grumbled.
“Shh. Sleep, beautiful.”
Astarion was so cold. Where others might have found it off-putting, Kyne found it a balm against his so-often burning skin. He wondered idly if this was how Karlach felt about others’ touch; was Astarion like ice to her in comparison?
He realised he had yet to sever the connection between them when Astarion made a curious noise. A memory hit him then — not his own, but through Astarion’s eyes — of Karlach jumping in surprise when the rogue held her back from triggering a trap in Shar’s temple. Astarion had assumed it was because she was used to being untouchable; he wondered now if her startling had a more visceral cause.
She was just surprised, Kyne thought at him. I like your temperature.
Astarion’s voice was velvet in his ear. “Your opinion is the only one that matters to me, my dear.”
Kyne shivered. Astarion's chuckle was all self-satisfaction and charm.
Are you hungry? You can feed on me, if you’d like.
“And get a mouthful of that druid’s vile poison? Perhaps in the morning. Now rest — properly. I’ll be here with you when you wake.”
Promise?
“I promise.”
Kyne spent the last of his conscious energy on sending Astarion a haze of affection. Soft, fuzzy feelings to drown out the sea of bloodlust that haunted them both; something neither of them felt ready to truly name, but knew by the shape of it regardless.
As far as possible last nights alive went, there were certainly worse ways to spend one.