Archive of Our Own

Blood. Bone. Visera. Screaming. A tiny child’s headless corpse in their massive, clawed hands. The taste of raw flesh on their tongue. Red everywhere. All they see is red. Hunger. Hatred. Emptiness clawing at their mind, soul, and stomach. Kill to fill it. Stop the ache; fulfill the need; stop the screaming in his head. 

It has to stop somehow. He needs to feed. He needs the blood to soak into his skin and muscle and bones; to reach his soul and drown the gaping maw of nothingness until it is full. Then Father will love him. Then Father will let him rest. Father will see his dedication and adoration. 

Enver Gortash’s smiling face looks up at him; bloodspatter and gore around but not on him. Unmarked by what he has tasked his favorite assassin to do. His weapons had not been raised. Had not been held in his capable hands. He had stood aside as the Slayer consumed all in his path. 

‘Well done, my dear.’ He says, fearlessly reaching towards his teeth and claws; approving, unafraid. He takes a clawed hand in his, one of four that should tear him limb from limb, and presses his lips to the palm; a sensation of trembling joy stronger than the thrill of murder suffusing the Slayer’s body. 

He returns to his body, the weaker, more familiar form of the tiefling he called Zealir. The zealot of Bhaal. His devoted son. Flesh of Bhaal himself. Enver Gortash smiles at him all the same. His touch quells the roaring storm of violence; the leash of the pact unbreakable until the Black Hand betrays him. 

The human’s hands wipe blood from his mouth, unflinching, unbothered by the child’s essence on his hands. Both men have killed far more children than this single victim. Zealir has fed most of them to his followers. 

‘Feeling better, dear?’ 

Solace shouts; they feel it in their throat before they hear it; pained and broken; horrified at the memories. Sickened and sorrowful. They were a monster. They always had been. There is no escaping it. They will never be rid of the guilt and shame and barbarity. When the brain is dead they should die with it. Rid the world of their sins utterly and completely. It is the only way to-

Warm hands cradle them tenderly and the thoughts cease. Peace of mind and body spreads from the palms of the man who holds them. His touch reduces their understanding to pure sensation. Their mind is silent; the tempest of hunger-shame-fear-anger… it is gone the moment Enver Gortash’s hands touch them. Calm. Safe. They know this. He is safe. 

The familiar scent of a stranger. Paper, ink, and engine oil. The pull of his hands on their hips. His fingers in their hair. His voice smooth as silk and calming as he murmurs into their skin. Their mind is startled; like a frightened cat trembling in fear of a hand raised to strike or soothe. This feels immediately, both correct and wrong. They should not, certainly do not want this man to touch them. 

Or do they? His arms feel secure; his chest warm and broad; his chin rests between their horns as he cradles them like they are treasured. This is… good. Familiar. Yet there is a knot in their stomach and a building scream in the back of their mind; something of the shame-fear-anger telling them this is wrong. That he is dangerous. Their hands cling to his coat; nails digging into pristine leather, fingers trembling. Their head aches with a building pressure they don’t know how to release. 

“There now, Zealir. The worst part is over. The ghost of your past cannot harm you if you do not allow it.” 

Blood. Blood. Blood. Endless. A sea of red and bobbing corpses. His Their hands stainedsulliedsoiled. Golden claw grasping their perversepollutedputrid corpus. Comfort. Safety. Understanding. Useful. Worthy. His grip unyielding; unbothered by slick crimson. His claws catch but it is kindness; it is security. He will not let him them go. He will not let them slip away. 

“My head…” They croak, throat thick with horror and pain. They feel unbalanced, as if they are teetering on the edge of the abyss, one moment from falling. Warm lips on their brow; a gentle lover’s guidance back from the edge. His presence is sure; certain. He is unafraid. Gortash, Enver , gently sets a goblet against their lips, offering them water; the cool liquid soothing a suddenly parched throat. 

“How do you feel? Do you need a potion? A moment of rest?” Soft, kind, gentle; he should not be like this. The tyrant should not be warm and safe and secure. A bubble of regret and fear and sorrow wells in their chest; unbidden and unstoppable; mangling his name as they say it. 

“G-give me a moment, Enver.”

The man freezes; a single moment as long as a lifetime of regret and agonizing service only partially recalled. The tyrant’s voice speaks next; choked with joy and unleashed hope. 

“It has been so long since I have heard my name from your lips. I have missed you, my dearest Zealir. Welcome home.”

That’s not my name. I think. 

Their mind feels sluggish, like trying to wake up from a dream. Their hands cling to the man before them; seeking stability as their body starts to tremble. They cannot lose control now. There is a reason they came here. The memories change nothing. He still needs to… Enver needs to… 

“I have missed you so much, my Zealir. I cannot believe you survived. I am elated you even partially remember me. Us.” Hot lips on theirs; desperate, possessive, adoring. His hands on either side of their face; holding, restraining, keeping them still as if they may slip away. Their tail lashes behind them; excited and afraid. He is so familiar and he is not who they want to touch them. The man’s hands are a trap closed around them.

There is someone else I want to… Astarion. Cold and careful. His hands do not keep me still when I want to leave. 

“The tenets of Bane are strict, but he sees the power you wield. The drive you hold. He respects you as he always did, Zealir. We can rule together as our Lord demands. We can bring this city, this world, to glory, dearest.” They haven’t even responded to anything he’s said. He just assumes they will join him. 

Isn’t that why we’re here? Isn’t that why Astarion is with us? We… should join him, shouldn’t we? It would be safer… 

Their eyes open, staring past the tyrant’s shoulder. The thrumming Steel Watcher stands passive as its master restrains them against him. A shimmering, semi translucent dark armored shape stands rigid across the room; the vampire’s expression unreadable in the distance. 

Astarion is here. I am safe. I'm not alone.

A warm, pleasant thought quickly replaced by fear and shame as they are guided backwards until they are pressed against a stone column. Enver’s hands touch their sides, their chest, their back; everything he can reach. His touch trembling; overwhelmed and elated by their body being against his. This too, is familiar, as is the feeling of his soft, silky hair through their fingers. 

When did I start touching him?  

They can feel their heart racing in their chest, unsure if it is excitement or fear. They can’t truly say they can tell the difference at this point. Their body wants his touch and yet they feel sick. There is craving for more and a building scream in their chest; a desire to run; to fly from this man and into the cool embrace of Astarion. 

Lips, hot and hungry mark their jaw, chin, and lips. His hands squeeze their rear and thighs, his breath heavy and excited. His leg between theirs, their hips pressed nearly flush to his; a distracting warmth and bulge against their thigh. They swallow, uncomfortable and unsure how to avoid the man’s arousal. Their head still spins and throbs with the memories. The half recalled fantastical dreams of the man who calmed the monster within them. 

Warm fingers play with the loving braids Astarion had fixed this morning. The blue and white flowers tumbling to the cold stone floor of the tyrant’s office. Enver’s breath slows, the man seeming to come back to himself; or master his compulsions at least. 

“Look at me, impatient as a teenager. Your effect on me remains as strong as ever, dearest. But. You must still be reeling. Even a man as strong as you would need a moment. Come. Sit. Tell me what you remember.” Gentle but firm hands on their shoulders, frayed, loose braids in their eyes. He guides them to a soft, comfortable couch, cushions as red as the blood they spilled for him. 

He called me… a man. Is… am I a man? Was I a man? 

He looks so happy. His eyes, dark and warm with affection and desire. His hands holding their trembling fingers, certain and unbreaking. He does not sit beside them; setting their hands on their thighs as he collects a pitcher of water and a goblet. The metal presses insistently to their lips, the man demanding without a word that they do as he bids them. Shaking hands hold the goblet as they drink; both refreshed and incensed at the patronization. Nevertheless, they hand it back to him; his expression unashamedly proud and adoring. 

The tyrant sets a chair across from them, reaching for their hands once more. He kisses their knuckles, a thrill of heat and discomfort spiking their heartbeat. Their tail twitches, their throat thick with fear until they swallow and force it down. 

“Zealir, how do you feel? Tell me, my dear man. You have been gone so long. What memories can I clear up for you?”

Solace. My name is Solace. 

“It’s… a lot to process.” They breathe, a flash of pain crawling inside their skull, a trickle of blood from their nose. Enver smiles and leans forward; handkerchief in hand as he wipes clean their face. He is utterly at ease, safe in his home and happy to care for them. 

Gentle hands washing blood from their back. Warm kisses on their shoulders. A whisper of appreciation and pride as he washes their long hair. 

A tear forms at their eye as they recall his kindness. The vulnerable bhaalspawn they had been and the man who cared for them. The human looks surprised as they wipe away the evidence of pain and regret. 

We came here for a reason. The Steel Watch. 

“Gods, Enver. There is so much noise in my head. Orin stole so much of our time together. I… want to know how you built everything. I want to understand the brilliant man I remember caring for. Please. Humor me.” 

“How could I deny my favorite assassin the information he seeks?” The artificer smiles; leaning forward again; pressing his lips to theirs. Sly, warm, demanding. Calling them his assassin. Once more calling him a man. Their eyes land on his chin and the scar it bears. 

Anger. He disrespects Father. Dares to question the creed. A blade faster than shadow. Skin split and dripping crimson. Heat in their belly at the sight. He should wear blood more often. 

Their hand is on his face. His grip on their wrist almost tight enough to hurt. He is grinning; exhilarated, excited to witness aggression. It feels right; holding his face in a sharp nailed hand. They want to see him bleed again. They want to hear him grunt and groan in pain. 

“I gave this to you.” Hunger in their voice. Their soul. This man insulted them. Insulted their father and creed. 

“You did. Do you remember why?” Challenge me, his tone says. Fight me. Show me what you are afraid to show anyone else. Their nails dig into his skin, their mouth open to show their fangs. They want to taste. To bite. To devour. He is over them; his body above them; his knee between their legs. He tries to corner a predator. 

“You frustrated me. You spoke against Bhaal’s creed. My blade struck your chin; a burst of blood. A reminder of your mortality. You kissed me for the first time. Your blood in my mouth.” 

Tang of salt and iron. Heat and sharp teeth. Cracked lips and sweat from the fires of the forge. He took the first kiss from them and they bit the lips of the thief. 

“Your kisses were more teeth than lips. The barbarity of your god. Your father. You were glorious. Violent. Delicious.” His voice reverent, praising them. Worshiping them. Glorified in their brutality and barbarity. 

He was the only one who loved him. The only one who could.

Their hands and legs wrap around the man; coiling him into their embrace, seeking all he wished to offer. All he would fight to give them. 

Astarion is… He shouldn't watch this. I don't... This isn't right.

Enver reverently, quietly, moans the wrong name. 

Instinct. Pure animalistic barbarity has their teeth sunk into this lower lip. Iron. Salt. He rears back from them, cursing and chuckling. His breath heaving. Still excited even in pain. Perhaps moreso. 

“You didn’t ask. ” They hiss, shoving him away, sharp nails trying to claw into his chest. The coat and shirt stop them; the man amused by their actions. They stand, straight backed and defiant; sneering at the cocky tyrant unbothered by the blood on his lips. They wipe his essence from them with the back of their hand, eyes narrowed. 

“You are correct.” Infuriatingly smug. Speaking as though he already owns them. As though their return to his side is set in the bloody steel and stone of the keep they stand in. 

“Come now, Zealir. A man can only deny his appetites for so long, as you well know. That elf can’t have given you what you need. He’s so… delicate.” 

How dare he-

Sharp nails in the man’s tanned skin. His heartbeat singing the song of his inevitable demise. A steady beat to play to. A death march of his own composition. The audacity of the man who would enslave them and the elf they love. His death will be the last one they savor. 

But he did love me once. Why can’t we give him the same chance as Astarion? 

The grimace they force themselves to wear speaks of determination and irritation. Their tail lashes behind them, seeming to be an expression of distaste and unfulfillment. They had a part to play. 

“Be that as it is, Enver, we have business to do before pleasure. If I’m gone too long my followers will start to worry, Karlach most of all. We can get reintroduced when the brain is back under our control. Until then, entice me with how you built the metal monstrosities that walk the streets.” 

He trusts me. He trusts. He wants me back. Maybe… maybe he can be reasoned with. Maybe he will listen. Maybe we can give him the chance to be better. 

Enver Gortash shows them how the Steel Watch was made. The extraction of brains from living victims and undead. The enslavement of the Gondian artificers and hostages in The Iron Throne. Duke Ravengard is there. Details of torture and experiments. A loyal Baneite sent for absolvement and penance. Systematic dismemberment and child torture. 

He will never take the chance. 

He is so calm. So steady. Unbothered by anything at all in the pages and pages and pages of horror and atrocity they uncover. He gleefully explains the efficiency of torment and subjugation. The dangling of a poison carrot and the beating of a barbed stick. 

His excitement and pride for the design of the submersible to the Iron Throne is almost infectious. His appreciation for mechanics removed from magic makes them wish to ask him for aid regarding Karlach. But neither would be willing. They don’t doubt that at all. Yet. 

His mind is beautiful. His genius for mechanics unlike anything I can imagine. Why must it be like this?

They have what they came for. And so much more. Too much. Memories of terrible things. Acts they cannot undo. Corpses never given burial save the waste water into the Chionthar. They feel sick as their mouth waters for the fresh roast meat of a dwarf. He had mentioned it was their favorite. He offered to have some procured. 

Dinner table set with candles aglow. Venison, pork, steak; luxurious and more than two men can eat. He sits across from the Black Hand of Bane, watching his hands grip forks and knives for their intended use. His hands attempt to mimic the holds, muscles uncooperative. He hears a quiet, amused chuckle and the quiet slide of a chair. Embarrassment blooms over his face as callused hands take his; shifting his fingers to long forgotten positions. His mothers had tried to teach him, but he had struggled to adapt. 

‘I suppose the temple of Bhaal is not concerned with table manners. Fret not, Zealir. I am a patient man and willing to teach.’ He says, a new platter brought to the table, the delectable aroma of his favorite dish wafting into his nose. He hears Enver chuckle again, warm and happy. 

‘I had heard you had a preference. I am glad the rumors were true.’

It is time to leave. They have to leave. They want to run. To hide. To throw themselves from the keep. He was kind. He was kind to them. He cared and he is going to die. He is going to die.  

They are going to murder him.  

“I thought I had lost you forever, Zealir. I will never let you go when this is over. My husband, my dearest husband. Whatever your previous involvement with that pale elf, I forgive it. I would never hold your appetites against you. I would be a fool to hold a man such as you responsible for finding entertainment in my absence. Particularly when your past was stolen from you.” 

Husband. Husband. We were… 

His voice is so soft. Utterly authentic. He missed them. He would keep them safe at the cost of everything. He wants them at his side. 

“How gracious, Enver. He’ll be heartbroken, but… well. If there is one of my followers it will be easy to trade up for, it’s him.”

Lies, my love. My darling Astarion. My darling. My darling. I love you. Solace loves you. I am Solace. I am Solace and I love you. 

“I need to get back to them. It’s been long enough they might start to worry. Now. Something I’ve been thinking about since your coronation.” 

Why does this not feel like poison and bile. 

Their lips on his; warm and alive, cracked from refusing to drink water when needed. He never did keep himself well without aid. His heart beats happily under their hand on his chest, at ease and relaxed with the kind touch they offer. He doesn’t know they run their fingers through his hair and over his ears to deafen him to the magical wards going off. Astarion stands safe, ready to accompany them home. He sighs as they part; reluctant to lose them. 

“Don’t be long, Zealir. I have missed enough time with you.” His voice is both warm and dominant at the same time. They face away from him and display their discomfort to the vampire they love. They love Astarion. They remember loving Enver. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, Enver.”

Before you know it, you’ll be dead. You will not let me save you. Why won’t you let me save you. I want to save you. I can save you if you let me. I can if you would only let me. 

They nearly sprint to the tavern. To safety. To Solace. Away from Him. Away from Zealir. Away from the man that they know to hate. They should. They should hate him. Why isn’t it easy to hate him. 

Warm kisses on bloody hands. Murmurs of appreciation and calm when the slaughter is done. Strong, careful fingers in ankle long white hair; pulling gore and bone and knots from it. 

Laughter at a dumb joke. A gentle hand in his after Enver beats a man to death. A knowing glance during a society party. An eye roll at his glamored appearance; the elf he had strangled with his own intestines a week ago. 

Long nights discussing the details of machines and spells. Plans for the Absolute and finally killing Orin and Sarevok. A long, unknowingly final night before they meet Ketheric and take Moonrise and use the bloody Crown of Karsus. 

‘None of this would be possible without you, Zealir. Not in this timeframe, at least.’ He knows. They both know. He is lying and speaking the truth. Without him, there would have been no success in Mephistar. Enver would have been trapped in that vault. Without Zealir, Enver fails his god. Neither will ever say it aloud. 

He is in the colony. He feels proud. He feels… shame. He knows… he knows she is here. She is waiting. He just… needs to let her. 

That’s it. That is all there is to it. 

Let his guard down. Let her near. 

He’s already wandered away. 

He sees the tadpoles. 

He sees her. 

He closes his eyes. 

He will not kill Enver. 

Tears stream from their eyes. Their limbs shake. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.  

“He didn’t want to kill him. Zealir died to save him and it meant nothing. ”