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Meetings.
What a bureaucratic waste of time, what could be resolved within minutes if someone simply did it themselves, they would decide to make it everyone else's problem, too. The drivel would go on for hours then, discussing pre-established procedure, ethics, it wasn't a stretch to say even the lowest-ranked person there certainly had better things to be doing with their time.
Gortash figured he'd be able to take on whatever problem a given meeting revolved around and would have an actionable plan within an hour.
It was all just one big game of carrier-pigeon.
This one was no different.
Ten people, himself included, sitting around a large round table. Schematics and small piles of parchment littered the healthily-lacquered rich wood - notes on what to say (and what not to) to the papers, what was allowed out, existing policies relevant to the dilemma at hand and messages and notes that'd trickled down from the top and vice versa.
You see, this was such a fun arrangement.
The council of four had their team of advisors. And the team that communicated with those advisors needed their own team to gauge the pulse of the city and help them curate their opinion. As much muck was spoken about the lowest on the totem pole, at least they knew the reality of Baldur's Gate and knew what was truly (or, almost) going on in their own city.
It was a mind-numbing place to be in.
But it was an important one.
Over time, Gortash had graciously shared pieces of his knowledge with his fellow "team" members - although, how could it really be a team when he felt he was the only one worthy of being here? he still didn't know - and they'd come to defer to him and his judgement when it came to sending off any final words to the team above theirs. Especially so after Gortash had solved the impossible problem of diseased produce being imported and the council's team had actually given them his idea.
Just.. prohibit any ships from docking with produce on board from the affected area?
Which was the perfect position to be in when trying to facilitate black market trade and be the first to know of any sting operations. It allowed Gortash to become familiar with many key players. Lawmakers, fellow advisors, chief guards, even a few counsellors.
Florrick was the least enjoyable to mingle with.
Though being where he was, it allowed him to rub elbows with the people who really mattered. Who could, if given the chance, elevate him to higher status. Who could vouch for him, provide recommendations. Who had to, if they didn't want Gortash to expose the bribes they'd all taken from his proxy on his own behalf. The only way to consistently end up on top is if you play both sides.
Counsellor Enver Gortash.
It was only a matter of time before he was in a position of true power. One fault Gortash took note of in many people was their blatant disregard for the direct impact one could have in an indirect position. From the backend, Gortash found it easiest to pull strings to get an edge and claw his way up to-
Gortash's coughing fit sliced through the familiar symphony of a discussion going in circles. It always started as a tickle in his chest, one he could ignore at first, then would demand attention not only from himself but everyone else in a given room, too. Lovely, wasn't it? It would turn into a radiating ache the more he coughed, and he thought he felt someone's hand on his shoulder. He coughed more than he was breathing so the floaty feeling in his body made it hard to tell.
They'd been in this gods damned room for. hours.
Gortash's hand shot out for the glass of water before him, left untouched the whole day until this moment. In his reverie he'd neglected to catch this fit coming on. Over the past few months since it's started he's gotten pretty good at spotting and suppressing this sort of behavior. He would cough and cough, and deep within - he didn't know, but his body knew, something was trying to get out.
People were talking to him. People, his so-called fucking peers were looking at him with a worried brow, curve in their lips, he didn't want pity. Didn't need to be seen as weak, for Enver Gortash was not a weak man. Surely they were looking at him and thinking he was lesser than. A man he might be, he would not deny that, but he was anything but weak. He didn't need their help either.
Who was it.. something something Frielia, Firelia? Whatever her name was he couldn't bother thinking of it in this moment, the lady next to him spoke gently, standing up as everyone else ogled at him. Gortash was filtering her drivel out, but the next thing he knew, he was being escorted out of the stuffy discussion room and out onto the balcony. Gortash still couldn't catch his breath, the itchy, tight feeling inside his chest blooming into sharp, thorny pains.
"There, there," the lady cooed, hand on Gortash's back as he leaned against the railing. Saliva slipped from his mouth while his mouth hung open, hacking coughs feeling like they split open his insides. She left him for a moment to retrieve his water. The sky was almost a soft purple, clouds diffusing any blue left in the sky to make an almost lavender color.
Gortash wasn't sure how long they were there for, just standing and coughing. Hunched over like a big dying bug, skin taking a paler hue with a disgusting sheen of sweat just on his face alone. Gortash was tired - not the melancholic one in your bones, nor what sleep would fix - for he was not tired. No, Gortash did not tire.
His body did.
His flesh, his literal bone, it couldn't keep up with him. Gortash's chest felt as if it would crumble under some unknowable weight, it was too tired to continue to cough, to breathe and yet he'd swallow all of it down and command it to go on. Gortash could not afford to slow down, to relent.
Sharp, polished silver claws dug into the stone of the railing. Get a grip.
The stone crumbled and cracked just a little as Gortash commanded his body to stop whatever this nonsense was. And while Gortash kept coughing-
He'd hold his breath. Swallow it, as his eyes watered. It made him sick, but Gortash could stand up straight now. The exhaustion faded into the background once more.
Lady whats-her-face tilted her head as Gortash turned around. "What was that about?" She started, taking a few, slow steps toward him, soft greens of her gown flowing slightly as she moved. "Are you alright, may I take you to a docto-"
"Doctor?" Gortash scoffed. "I'm well, I don't know what you're talking about," he said, even as he could feel something start to try and come up again. Down. The itchy feeling went away again.
She stared at him, or was it through? Her eyes searched him up and down, taking note of his twitching fingers, pin-straight posture even as his chest stuttered through every exhale. "You're not well." She said simply, leaning against the railing herself, now, crossing her arms over her chest and pushing it up just slightly. "Mister Gortash, I think it'd be best if you stayed with me for a night." She smiled at him. "The meeting's been postponed for today anyway. I would like to watch your condition."
Even now Gortash figured she'd be playing a more involved role than simply watching.
Regardless, Gortash didn't need her pity. He thought he was fine, Gortash felt fine, therefore, he was fine. He decided that long ago. "That simply isn't necessary," Gortash said with an out of place smile. "Though it is appreciated, your concern. Perhaps I'll take a rain check though on your offer?" He held his breath as he began to stride back inside, but as he passed her, he winked so as to keep his options open with her.
She swooned as Gortash collected his files, unused up to the point when he'd been dragged away from it all - Gortash hadn't had a good in to share what he knew, to control the narrative. Not his fault they hadn't even begun discussing the important part. He rolled his parchments up and stuffed them in his pocket in a rush.
Gortash hurried out of the decision hall, making himself scarce as he decided to take the long way back to his home. His chest still radiated discomfort throughout his core, still ached something fierce - but it was better to endure this than to allow anyone else see him like this.
The back way's cobblestone was shaded with towering trees, their pale orange leaves threatening to fall at any moment, but still stubbornly clinging to healthy brown branches. Gortash swayed much like they did in the wind. Those he did pass, they did not make note of him, and their interactions with him were as deep as two ghost ships passing eachother in the night. He noticed a mother trying to hurry along somewhere with her children, someone holding a crate, a tall, cloaked man, and another man, far more muscular, holding a tied goat over his shoulder with one hand and waving to the disgruntled advisor with another.
Gortash was on autopilot, hardly even registering he was home until he was in bed. Past the neat garden he paid someone to maintain, past his kitchen with pots strategically hung on the wall, and past the boxes and piles of work, work, work to be done in his bedroom.
He tried to close his eyes, to rest - tomorrow was an especially early day after all, not even taking into account yet that meeting that he'd cut short. Though Gortash's mind would race. All the details before him, situations to comb through, all the possibilities - Gortash would absorb the information but found it hard to extract anything significant from it.
Gortash winced as another sharp pain rang through him.
He wasn't sure why he made that sound, or why he felt the way he has been. Gortash could go as far as he wanted to, as far as he needed, for he did not tire. He was not weak, he did not feel pain, fear- that's what power got you in this world. That's what control could do for you. Disgust twisted his face into something ugly, as ugly as his body. He detested how it was weak. How its power would wane, how often it needed to recharge.
How pathetically finite it was. Gortash wouldn't yield to another's control, nor to something else's whims. The grumble of hunger, burn of thirst, it was all irrelevant to him. Wasn't Gortash above all of it? Wasn't even it above feeling these pains, for no reason? His disgust, it would turn into anger most often times.
No, rage. And with that rage, he would punish it, but it would retaliate and give him back the very same pain, only amplified. How dare it try to punish Gortash for attempting to so graciously teach it to be better? Flesh had limits, it was rife with imperfections, with uncertainty and unpredictability, but control- power, was not.
No matter, though. No matter lingering on something that refused to see sense, to be saved. It would just have to bare the consequences of its own choices.
It was going to be a long night. Again. Gortash twisted in his bed as he felt as though lightning was striking inside his lungs - his dust-coated blankets tangling with his legs.
And the worst part was that tomorrow, he'd have to see the rest of that stupid meeting to its end.