Work Text:
Blood came as naturally as the wind.
It had direction, intention. It changed constantly. Thickened, weakened, dwindled, grew strong again.
And when you were born of blood, and made for the explicit purpose as to harvest it, then blood is like the wind to you.
What a complex thought.
You pondered to yourself. You’d been having more of these lately. Father never built you for complexity. Perhaps this was a result of people, or the ones you had been exposed to. Outside of the worshippers of his domain, your interactions with Enver Gortash had been enlightening to say the least.
Ketheric Thorm was not as entertaining as you hoped. He was simply sad.
And Orin? Well she hated your bloody guts, and refused to hide it.
That was fine. You hated her too.
Gortash had said last night that you were friends. Another interesting concept.
If circumstances were different, Gortash would be dead. Considering his life, his upbringing, his entire existence up to this point of becoming one of the chosen, he should be dead. And at one point in time, you might have been the one to kill him.
Sometimes you have visions of it. Of how he would bleed. How the wind would blow his soul out of his body as the life left his eyes. Would he bleed red? Would it be slow? Would it spray out, coating your fingers and skin?
Options a plenty, it seemed.
But what alarmed you more was this friendship he believed you had. You were not made for friends. You were made for death and mayhem. You were made for red moons and conquest and murder. Unlike everyone else on this miserable world, you knew your purpose right from the beginning, though it took some to awaken to it. Your feeble, childlike mind didn’t know your true potential. And now you have it.
He asked you to meet him in the cemeteries of Baldur’s Gate. He chose that specifically, and you know it. You liked the quiet, and being surrounded by the dead. You liked to fantasise about how they lived, then how they died. Death, as natural as the wind. It was cold and it was quiet and that somehow made your heart continue to beat.
Which was nice.
Another complex thought.
Living was quintessential. It was endearing in a way. You had mastered the urge woven into your existence. So living, actually living, became a casual pastime rather than a desperate obligation. You knew what waited you beyond. You knew how it all ended.
That was beautiful.
This, right now?
Cute, at best.
Gortash was already there when you arrived, waiting by a pretty statue. It was a woman with this loving tender look on her face. Motherly, kind. An image flashed in your mind. Someone looked at you like that once, that was a long time ago.
“You took your time.” Gortash said, crossing his arms. He was dressed all in black, though the linings of his clothes had gold etched into them. He was obsessed with finery, that much you had observed. Compensating for something he would forever lack.
“You are not the chosen of time, are you? Unless you have abandoned Bane entirely.”
“I would never, but I have been waiting for over an hour,” he argued back, giving them a sneer. It was almost a smile, and a charming one at that. “Care to explain why you left me waiting?”
You leaned against the statue, beginning to pick at some of the dirt under your nails. “I was meandering through the streets. Enjoying the atmosphere, listening to the pretty sounds people make.”
“Pretty?” he scoffed at you. “You considering thievery, drunkards and the sound of vomit pretty?”
“I want to remember them. So that I can remember what Bhaal takes away.”
Gortash paused. “I forgot how insane you are.”
“You admire it, you told me as much,” you pulled out the crumpled up piece of paper from your sleeve and held it between two of your fingers. “I got your note. So this diabolist can get us to the Crown?”
“For the right price, absolutely.”
“And then we can dominate this Elder Brain?”
“Precisely.”
When Gortash first concocted this idea of his, many would have deemed it as absolute insanity. But your Father saw the potential. The world could die, and bleed. You had the power to take over when the time was right. All could lay to waste at your hand. It would be a beautiful massacre. It would all wilt and die by your hand, and all that is left would be the wind.
“I have arranged a meeting for us. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” you stared at him. “I have plans.”
“What could you possibly be doing that is more important than this?”
You shrugged, chuckling. “I don’t know, but I feel that you have now disrupted my evening.”
Gortash laughed heartily. His laugh was rich. Nice to listen to. It came from his chest, fresh from his lungs. It was a good laugh. Full of living.
“And this is why we are friends.”
“Are we friends?” you asked, giving him a look.
The question had plagued you. More so than you even cared to admit. About what it meant to connect with somebody. To be more than flesh and bone and blood that could be broken and taken and left. What else was there to this? All of this?
More complex thoughts.
“I like to think so. Though we began merely as allies, Chosen by our Gods, we are aligned in many ways. I like you. You are interesting, more so than Orin will ever be.”
“You tolerate Orin. But she listens to me.”
“You also tolerate Orin.” he said with a smirk, which made you laugh. “Come now, admit it, you like me too.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling with your teeth. “Perhaps I do.”
“Then that makes us friends! It is just so, for we will be the true victors come the end. Orin and Ketheric mean very little.”
You leaned back further, the cold stone of the statue pressing against your back. You thought for a moment, slipping the letter back up your sleeve. Then you looked at Gortash. Your friend.
“If we are truly friends… then I wish for you to make me one promise.”
“For you, anything.” he declared, placing a hand on his chest.
You smiled wickedly. A familiar comfort washed over you. What you knew well, what you would always know.
“When you die, it will be by my hand.”
Gortash blinked, absorbing the request you asked of him.
You thought it was quite the simple one.
He chuckled again, and his smile made you feel warm. Keeping his hand on his chest, he bowed deeply. “My friend, it would be an honour to be killed by you.”
As he rose back up and held out his hand to you, something washed over you.
A flash of something. An idea. Another complex thought.
About how if this existence of yours was different, what you and Gortash could be.
If all was erased, and you began again knowing nothing of what would come and what would be, could you change? Would he change too, if not chosen? What would your lives be? Separated or together. Never meeting or never wanting to be apart. If he was not embellished gold and you not dark urges whispered in your dreams. If you were not made for this, and neither was he. Never knowing of tyranny or murder or death. Never seeking power. How would you have looked at each other? And would those looks have even happened?
But you would never know that. That was not a complex thought, it was a foolish one.
You were born for this, and he was made for this.
There would be no other questions to ask.
This is your life. It would be your death. Ending in blood and wind.
Gloriously so.
You reached up and took Gortash’s hand. As he gently wrapped his fingers around yours, he even spun you around, making you laugh giddily at the sudden movement of it.
He beamed. It was a smile you knew well. The sinister one that meant those little gears in his head were turning. “Now, friend. Shall we go to hell?”