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What was there before her own conscious thoughts? What filled the void before he came into her life? What did she enjoy doing as a kid, when the knife was not there?
She is staring down at a corpse she is straddling. Sometimes, Bhaal simply takes over. Sceleritas had not warned her. The first time it happened, she was young. She did not know the people she butchered.
The second time it was her adopted parents.
She must have stabbed the man a few times, rather cleanly. Still, there was blood on her hands, her own blood. She tries scrubbing it off.
There are two more corpses nearby. Her markings. Bhaal’s markings. She starts walking away, picks up the pace.
Were they anyone of importance? Were they marked as sacrifices or simply just passersby?
She hates losing control.
Somehow, she ends up at the estate that belongs to Gortash. She is not ready to face anyone in her Temple. The guards stationed on the balcony are unaware – but it would be foolish to hurt them. She reveals her face and they silently assume that her blood-streaked features are the main reason for not knocking on the front door. One of the guards leaves to fetch the master of the house as she waits. No matter how much she rubs, she cannot get the blood off her hands.
“What in the hells are you doing here?” Gortash greets her crisply. He is dressed in a comfortable attire, but his voice reveals distress at the sight of her. “I don’t recall us agreeing to meet tonight, assassin.”
Try as hard as she can, she is speechless. He notices that something is off in an instant.
“No matter. Come in. And you I expect to be more vigilant next time,” he scolds the two guards before ushering the Urge inside the room.
He instructs her to an armchair next to the open fireplace. She plops down without an ounce of grace. Enver inspects her flame-lit face from a distance.
“Are you hurt?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
“I asked if you’re hurt,” he repeats, slower, and she notices some concern shining through his stern features. “I cannot imagine you got jumped. Are you in shock?”
“I–n-no,” she presses one palm to her temple, a sudden headache splitting it open. She barely holds back a cry of pain.
She does not realise that he is squatting at her side. He touches her shoulder and she recoils, like a wild animal.
“Easy there. You don’t look too well.”
He leaves for seconds, minutes, hours maybe, she has no recollection of time. Her thoughts are fighting back a fire. She is sated by the kill, yes, but her body is burning up in response to her own self being temporarily pushed back and then returning to fill this mind, these limbs.
She feels Gortash return. He moves his own chair up.
“Allow me,” he reaches out, but she does not react. “I will clean the blood.”
He takes her silence for a yes and catches her left hand. Again, she pulls back, gooseflesh running down her entire arm, looks him in the eye. He is tired, but calm. He makes the same motion, just slower.
“Is it yours?” he asks and she nods.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
He dabs the cuts and bruises with a damp cloth. His hands are marked by rough calluses and long-healed scars. They are not the hands of nobility. But his skin is electrifyingly warm. She has never been tended to like this.
“Now that cynicism sounds more like you, Child of Bhaal. Ritualistic sacrifice and all, I bet. Perhaps it just went awry.”
“No. They are dead,” she is surprised by her own enthusiasm to clarify.
“As expected. Give me your other hand.”
She complies. Enver removes the blood carefully, gently circulating around her knuckles, then wiping her fingers and fingernails. She feels numb and aflame at once.
Nobody from her church would dare hold her hand like this. In a friendly manner.
“You will surely be happy to hear that the preparations on my side are going well. My Lord’s reach is spreading, strengthening. There has never been a riper time.”
He keeps talking, describing the recent activities of his Banites, but the Urge is so deep in thought she barely registers his words. She almost wants the dirt off her hands never to come off. Gortash says something about the resurgence of the church of Bhaal, possibly testing her attention or perhaps again fishing for the location of the Temple.
“As long as you’re not claiming my believers,” she retorts, making him chuckle.
“Dead or alive? Fortunately, we are allies, and my Lord has an eye for a slightly different set of skills from those that please yours. There,” their hands drift apart, as he crumples up the piece of cloth. She blinks quickly. “Now be honest with me. Why are you here?”
She owes him at least some honesty for the act of goodwill. Or so she thinks.
“You were right. Something did go wrong and then I just, I couldn’t—I did not know where else to go.”
“So you came to my house.”
“Correct.”
He swipes at a smudge of blood on her cheek and almost immediately withdraws his hand as if burnt.
“I’m sorry. I forget myself.” Gortash stands up and fixes his gaze on the fireplace. “I will have a room prepared for you. Stay as long as you need to regain composure. I won’t ask any more questions until you are feeling well enough to engage in conversation as normal.”
She can only muster a small thank you. He clears his throat and walks over to the door. A servant picks her up soon after, leading her to a similar room down the hallway.
When she finishes checking her temporary lodgings for traps, she dresses down to her undergarments, and lies down in the soft, luxurious sheets. Only then does she allow herself to contemplate.
What filled the void before he came into her life?
She does not yet know that this is merely the first of many nights she will spend in this lavishly-decorated house; that she will be welcomed, expected, awaited. That she will not have to face herself in this half-empty room again and that every time sleeplessness torments her, she will be looking at the ceiling in the master bedroom.
That the rough but warm hands will tend, caress, graze, prick, restrain, hurt. That she will allow them.
But above all, she has no way of knowing that the memory of this touch will stay with her.