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“What comes after?”
Enver turns his face to her, startled by her question cutting through silence like a well-sharpened knife.
“When, my beautiful?”
The Urge keeps her eyes fixed on the ceiling. When she does not immediately answer, he trails his fingers across her collarbone and down between her breasts to her stomach.
“After we have taken over the Gate.”
“We go on to conquer Elturgard. Then Amn. Waterdeep. Neverwinter. After we have established the cult of the Absolute along the entire Sword Coast, you can pick whatever you like.”
“I too have studied the maps,” she snarks and slaps away his hand, dangerously encroaching onto her lap. There is no getting out of this conversation. “I meant to say, what will become of your Banites. Of Ketheric and his men. Of us.”
“You are demanding answers, but let me try my best to picture how I see it, if you’ll allow.”
She nods, so he continues:
“First. My Banites will no longer be needed, as you know. They have followed in my Lord’s teachings well enough to understand when one becomes dispensable. For publicity, however, I shall keep a few Iron Consuls alive.
Then, Ketheric and his men. Our poor, guilt-ridden general and his long-forgotten vassals. I think you and I are in accord here.”
The Urge turns her head on the pillow.
“Ketheric dies.”
“Ketheric dies. He is but a means to an end. He hands over his Stone, willingly or not, and returns into Myrkul’s cold embrace.
Lastly, us. You and I rule as gods. I am certainly not planning to stop at the Sword Coast, my assassin. I believe we have everything, almost everything now, to let our ambitions take us to the wider stretches of Faêrun, perhaps beyond. An ever-powerful army. Resolve. A commanding voice which cannot be refused. Each other.”
He pauses dramatically and she glances over at him again. Words she did not dare utter. No, the truth. Truth they are both holding onto, not just in his bed, but in their daily lives and in all that they do.
But Gortash notices. She does not mention her cursed father as often. He wonders what of Bhaal, if Bhaal only demands the world from his daughter. They both know that making space for his wants is a puzzle. Gortash thinks that as long as the Urge can be sated, nothing much will change. The Urge is unsure.
Enver can give the world to Bhaal’s daughter. But what then?
“There is nothing else I want as much as this,” he throws one arm into the air and clenches his fist. “Truly. This is everything I have worked towards. Unity. Power. Dominion.”
In this room, he bares everything his soul feels. Every need. His lifelong dream. Before the one that was given to him to build that very dream with him. The one that Bane in all his unrighteousness should be admonishing, and yet is fully supportive of. Enver has asked many times and never received a straightforward answer.
“I know,” her pensive voice brings him back. Is it doubt? Her fingers caress his and he slowly unclenches his hand. “It is your masterwork. It is grandiose.”
“Our masterwork,” he corrects her. “It will be grandiose. That I promise you now and every day and night to come.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” she smiles and he follows suit, interlacing their fingers together.
“Oh, and I will need an heir.”
That too is true. It is not even about Bane anymore. It is about Gortash.
She hesitates. For her, it would mean bringing a competitor into the world. Something she must ponder. Just conceiving a potential heir or heiress solely of his name is not any real commodity to her, he personally understands that.
At the same time, he wants it passionately. And whenever he wants something, he gets it.
“There is a line of people queuing up in front of your manor, ready to bear your children, Enver.”
“I’m not interested,” he scoffs. “The one that I want is already in my bed.”
He rolls over to hang over her and smiles gratuitously.
“What a coincidence.”
“Indeed. Why waste time? Or do you need to ask daddy dearest first?”
He is lucky she is in a good mood. Making fun of Bhaal is pushing it far.
“I want to see you drowning the Gate in blood first.”
“You and Ketheric are drowning the city, my beautiful,” he laughs. “I will clean it. Then, we carve the rest of our future together.”