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His pocket watch is neatly tucked in his breast pocket. He assembled all the fragile metal parts, all the little cogs inside them, himself. Yet they keep betraying him over and over, again and again, by ticking a time away a bit too fast for his liking. He thought he had more time. He always thinks he has more time and no matter if it is true or not, he also always needs more time. Sometimes he is willing to cheat and buy it through any accessible means. Yet he is always surprised when the hour to pay the price arrives.
Gortash does not remember falling unconscious. He was working late, even later into the night than he usually does. There are so many changes he needs to make as the newest Director of Foundry and it is always so hard to find people who are not only loyal but also at least a bit competent. At one point he was doing the last revision of the newest instructions for Bane’s faithful – servants to himself as much as to their Dark Lord – and the next one he finds himself in a dream-like hastened state. He is still vaguely aware of everything happening around him but the reality seems to be several layers of thick fog away. It would be so easy to fully forget of it, if it had not been for the familiar voice cutting right through like a dagger through flesh.
“Has someone finally managed to kill you or has the tyrant forgotten again that a body requires sleep?” The Dark Urge chuckles, tone filled with playful teasing reserved just for their Banite ally. They appear to stand right behind his chair. Gortash has not heard any steps nor doors or windows being opened. But even in a much more awake or straight out vigilant state it is almost impossible to notice them before they themselves wish to be noticed.
“For someone who criticised where I can fall asleep, your choices do not seem to be that much more comfortable…”
You can hardly compare falling asleep on the desk to taking naps in piles of viscera or freshly dug graves . Gortash attempts to scoff at them and slowly rise so he can with no doubt see them baring their deadly sharp teeth in amusement. But he cannot.
His limbs feel so heavy. Unmoving. No matter how hard he tries or how much he wills for them to raise up or at least twitch, his body is refusing to respond. Gone on a strike for the mistreatment he has put it through. No matter the effort he puts into it, no coherent sound comes out of his mouth. His tongue does not feel like part of his body right now, it is just a dead slug lying in his mouth uselessly.
“Enver…?” they do not let any sign of worry slip into their voice but the fact that they called him by his first name is proof enough of their concern on its own. As much as Gortash has a bit of complicated feelings towards his first name he enjoys the way they roll it on their tongue. But his mind is as slowed down as the rest of the body and he struggles to put his thoughts together properly, draw some conclusion from their worry, his name on their lips and how he is feeling about it.
Gortash senses them moving closer. The Dark Urge places their fingers on his neck to the side of his windpipe to check his pulse over his carotid artery. The deadly claws, so often covered in blood, so used to ripping throats, touch him gently and linger over him much longer than they need to. Gortash fails again trying to turn his head, wondering what expression might be on their face right now. What is going through their head?
“Hmph, this thing again,” the clinging sound of empty glass bottles meeting each other lets him know they have noticed the used-up speed potions. “You should be more careful with this stuff. It is not good for you,” they lecture him because they can never understand, they refuse to consider that sometimes his work cannot be postponed and he needs to push through to finish what he is doing. So sometimes he needs a little boost of energy.
The Dark Urge leans to his ear. He can feel the tingle of their icy cold breath – a feature of his dragonborn heritage. Their tongue must be almost licking his earlobe as he speaks.
“You would be so easy to kill like this,” morbid flirtation sneaks into their tone as their hand is placed on his throat again in suggestion of a longitudinal cut through his trachea. One movement, easy and natural for their sharp claws to make, and he would be dead.
That would not be very satisfying though, would it? To kill me like this? Gortash does not answer as he still cannot force his tongue to work. At this point even he recognizes he maybe should feel a sparkle of fear, being so helpless in the presence of a predator, but all his senses are too numb. Besides he knows them well enough to be able to tell when they mean their threats.
“What should I do with you like this, Enver?” they sigh and Gortash is not quite certain what they mean. This is their cue to leave. Maybe laugh at him for it later during their next meeting, start another pointless discussion about his habits and that he should be more careful about his substance abuse. To which he will point out that no one but them can sneak up on him unharmed by all his various traps and that he really did not intend to fall hastened and this is a really rare one-time occurrence which they unfortunately get to witness.
But they stay. He feels their arms wrapping around his body in an embrace and he does not realise what they are planning to do till he feels himself being picked up. He is not a lightest man and his muscles and limbs are uncooperative. Dead weight. Yet they do not seem to struggle at slightless in handling him. It should have not come as a surprise. They must have enough of experience in carrying unresponsive bodies around.
He instinctively tries to protest against being manhandled but there is nothing he can do nor say to stop them. Completely at the mercy of a bloodthirsty killer. They can choose to do with him whatever they desire.
And what they seem to desire to do is to carry him and put him in bed. He feels the silken sheets of his bedding welcome his immobile limbs as the Dark Urge lays him down. There is a pause and Gortash starts to suspect they are done with him, that maybe they left and his mind starts slipping to a proper darkness before he feels their hands on his body yet again. Tugging at his shoes, slipping a coat of his shoulder, rolling him around and undressing him before they wrap him under covers.
Maybe he should feel embarrassed over his ally seeing him like this. Helpless. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Weak. But only emotion embracing him and filling his mind is satisfaction, a strange pride because who else can say to have a murder incarnate tugging him gently in a bed.
“Your work will not run away from you, unlike mine,” they chuckle and Gortash would like to object. So what if the victim they set their mind to kill slips through their claws one evening. The Dark Urge could just get them the next one. There is no place in Baldur’s Gate to hide away from them. They do not really have to worry about work running from them. Gortash, on the other hand, is the one who needs to be always alert, every time he blinks there is a chance he missed some fleeing chance to further his goals.
Of course he says none of those things as he still cannot speak nor move and in the end there would be no point to saying any of this even if he could. Because he can imagine them being just as amused by his worry. They would argue that he is doing well enough , his achievement and their speed is impressive enough . Yes, he knows he is doing well but he could still be doing better . He has no time for their foolish suggestions that he should take more breaks from time to time. That it might even do him good.
“Get some rest for that brilliant mind of yours,” the Dark Urge brushes his hair off his face, their voice uncharacteristically gentle, filled with a suggestion of fondness he cannot properly decipher for now. “Sleep well, my tyrant,” their claw lingers on his face longer than necessary with gentleness that he did not believe they might be capable of. It feels right, and as crazy as such a thought must be, it feels safe. Something in Gortash yearns to reach for it, reach for them and pull them closer.
Luckily, he is still trapped in hastened state and so no matter how much he longs for their touch, how much he desires embrace of the deadliest assassin, his hands will not move and his mouth will not speak and even his eyelids remain shut.
He wonders if they are aware he can still hear them or if they think they are talking just to themselves. It already feels like a dream. He wonders how much of their action will he remember in his conscious state in the morning and how trustworthy he will find his own mind and memory.
Gortash hears them no more and that is as good indicator as any that they are probably gone for good. He has a lot of things to think about now but it is still as if he has forgotten even how to think. He needs to hold this feeling while it is still lingering in the room before it disappears with morning light. He needs to analyse and draw conclusions and make use of it. But the more he is trying to get his brain matter to work the quicker the final threads of consciousness seem to be slipping away from him. Till at last it all goes to black and he is embraced by peaceful darkness of dreamless sleep bringing him much needed rest.