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Red. Silver. Black.
They do not know if their eyes are open. They do not know if they have eyes. They do not know if they exist. The concept seems so… absurd. A person. An individual. Hilarious.
But they must exist. Because something that does not exist cannot be in pain.
And they are always in pain.
Their brother makes certain of it. He is gleeful in it. Vindictive and proud of what he does to their… body? Do they have a body? Do you need a body to be in pain? Surely a body would make it easier to be in agony, but they remember dying. They remember their body being… different than this.
This seems less permanent. This seems fluid and changeable. Something their brother had used against them many times when they still believed they could escape with it.
Whatever not-body they have, their brother enjoys hurting it. He enjoys tearing it apart and putting it back together wrong. He enjoys using it. Those times are worse than the others. Their brother is cruel. They do not pity him when he takes Father’s lash.
It is Orin they feel sorry for. The tiny little not-girl hiding behind anything she can find. She cries a lot when her father finds her. Her father. Their brother. His not-hands are mostly knives. He still grabs for Orin as though she will embrace him; knives and all. Sometimes she does, hoping it will hurt less. It does not. It seems to hurt more, and hurt differently.
Father Bhaal is mad at them. They don’t really know why. They must have done something wrong. No one will tell them what it is. Maybe it was so bad that they are punished by never knowing. They hate it. They want to know what they did. They want to know why Father Bhaal and Brother Sarevok hurt their not-body so much.
One time they demanded to know and their brother cut out their not-tongue and used it on them. They didn’t ask again. The tongue pleasure was worse than the pain.
Sometimes they are left alone. These times are not better than the pain. They hate being alone. They hate being ignored. They hate the nothing of the red and black and silver not-sky.
Orin says there is no silver in the not-sky. She says they’re a liar and trying to tell her to hope. They don’t know what that word means.
Hope. It sounds wrong. Maybe that’s why she never says it without flinching.
One time, though, a strand of silver almost touched them when they were alone. It almost touched their chest. But Orin said Hope like it was a bad thing, and they flinched away. The red and black strangled it and Father came in raging like the eternal red storm of home.
Maybe that’s why Hope is bad. It makes Father angry.
Sarevok says they betrayed Father. He says they refused to do what he said. They refused his gifts. His love. They don’t know what that means either. Every time Sarevok says the word love, they feel like crying. They feel like they’re missing something and it’s not something Father can give them.
One time they do cry. They scream and weep and Orin hugs them. Her tiny not-body holds theirs and they cry and scream. They don’t know why they are like this and it scares them. It hurts to feel like this and they want to be better. They want to be good. They want Father to love them like Sarevok says he loves him. Father only sometimes punishes Sarevok. And Father always punishes them with their brother’s gleeful pain.
Sarevok says love is the absence of pain. He says that Father loves him best because he was loyal in life. He says Orin is loved next best because she is foolish and never knew better than to believe them when they talked. They apologize to Orin and she says they didn’t do anything wrong. She doesn’t know why Sarevok hates them.
The eternal red storm rages and so does Father. He says they failed him and now he has to wait for another time. Another Chosen. He hates them. He tells them this as Sarevok hurts them. They know he hates them. They don’t know if they know anything better than how much he hates them.
They don’t even remember their name. Maybe they never had any.
They will not be told what they were called. Father calls them Failure and so that is what their name is.
Failure.
One day, if there are days in Father’s realm, the black, red and not-silver not-sky opens. Sarevok is gone. The pain stops. The red winds do not tear at them. Orin gasps from behind something. She looks scared. There is a creature, a being, an entity bigger than Father in the realm of endless red, and it looks down at their not-body and the wounds it bears, and it frowns.
This thing, thin grey cloak and robes unmoving in the storm that rages around them, kneels and its huge, oddly kind, weathered, skin covered skull studies them for a moment. A single moment longer than a lifetime, where they feel their not-body move and shield Orin from their gaze. The face of this creature creases in a form of a smile, and they feel… Hope.
The creature, the smiling skeleton, with a hand bigger than Father’s, gently reaches towards them, as if to grab and take them. They back away, hand on Orin’s shoulder, refusing to let her be taken from them. If it wants Orin, they will fight it.
“Do you fear for the one you killed?” The skeleton speaks, loud as whispered thunder. The storm of red is deafening, but this is louder. This voice in such a voiceless place is unacceptable. Their not-body wants to flinch. They will not allow it. They will not let Orin be hurt. Even if they did kill her. She said they had. They said they were sorry. She believed them.
They don’t know if they have a voice. No one else but Father and this creature seemed to. Their not-body didn’t seem to have one. Sarevok said it was to keep them from hurting Orin. They still talked. They don’t know how they did. But they did.
So they try to tell the skeleton. The creature. The visitor. They try to tell it that they won’t let Orin be hurt. They hurt her enough. They won’t let her be harmed if they can stop it.
The creature smiles again, and it is warm and kind, and it hurts. Their not-body does flinch and Orin cowers behind them. Her tiny not-hands in theirs. They do not know where either not-form begins and ends and it doesn’t matter.
“I have come to return you to your proper place, Child. You are needed. I would have you no longer feel this pain.”
Something about that sounds good. And bad. It sounds like the pain would stop. They don’t know who they are without the pain. What if Failure is all they are? What if they fail even further by not feeling Father’s hatred?
The brows of the creature knit together as if it knows what they consider. Maybe they had said it in the way they speak without words. Father and Sarevok always seem to know what they think.
“Do you truly wish to stay? To never be more than this failing reflection?”
They don’t know. They don’t know at all. What they do know is that Orin would be alone.
The visitor’s head cocks to the side, golden cage crown gleaming in strange light. Its eyes glow an intense blue and they find themselves drawn to it. They drift closer until the small hand of Orin tries to pull them back. They stop. They don’t want to leave her here.
“You cannot save everyone. Nor can you undo the act of murder you last committed. She is dead and her soul is her fathers. Yours is cast adrift among an infinite sea, held in place by barbarity and blood. You mayest yet find a home.”
But Orin would be alone.
“She hast made her choice. If thou wishest, thou may stay and beest her guardian. But beest warned: thou wilt forever beest her shield and never be free of thine father and brother’s hatred.” Grave words. True words.
They feel her shaking hand in theirs. They have never felt so… distinct. Whole. Physical. What if the pain gets worse for this? What if they cannot take it?
Father wants to break them. He has been getting closer.
Orin still cries when Sarevok touches her. She still hides from Father’s eyes.
They step back to their sister. They do not let her go. They will not let her go.
The skeleton’s hand closes around them both. Orin screams as they feel her being pulled away. They hold tight. One hand. Now two. A blue, bladed tail wrapped around a pale, oddly amorphous child’s wrist. She is slipping away.
I’m not leaving her. I won’t leave her. I won’t let them have her. I love her. I won’t abandon my sister.
They hold tight as the black robes of the stranger swirl around and seem to strike at their grasping hands. It is painful. It is as if they are being flayed by their brother again. As he did when they first arrived. They remember that. They had a body. Sarevok had ruined it. They had a mouth. He had sewed it shut. They had eyes. He had gouged them out. They had hands; he had boiled them before eating them. They had a heart.
They had a heart. They had. Father had ruined it. When they had defied him in his home. After they had killed Orin.
Orin, who clings to their hands and still screams for help.
They could let go. She wanted to be with Father and Sarevok. Or she had.
If they let go, the pain stops. If they let go, the skeleton takes them away.
They step towards the little girl and fold her into their chest. They press her shifting shape into their body and shield her from the whirling robes of the visitor and biting winds of Father’s rage.
“I’m here, Orin. I’m not leaving. I’m here.” They speak with their voice and Orin nods into their chest; even the odd hole in their chest is not enough to deter her from curling into them.
For an eternity, they shield their sister from their father. From the stranger’s lashings. She is a child. She doesn’t deserve it. So they will protect her. Until they cannot.
If the pain ended, they are unsure when it did. For all of time and memory, they wrapped themself around their sister and held her close. She never stopped crying. Neither did they. They were here to hold her. She was here to be held. She is a child. She must be terrified.
“There now, child. Far from your father’s wrath.” The skeleton soothes, a smile in its voice. Still, they do not move from their sister.
“What happens now?” Their voice. Theirs. Sarevok had stolen it. Their voice is once more theirs. Orin shakes in their hold.
“What doth thou wish to happen?”
They want Orin to be safe. Away from Father and Sarevok.
“All comes with a cost, child. Should you wish for the girl to be free of her god, an equal price must be paid. There must be balance in such things.”
Maybe the cost will be worth it. She never had a chance. She never had anyone to help her see. If someone had cared, if she had been allowed, maybe she would have wanted to break free like they did.
“There is little use in such wonderings, child. She did not, and for it, she was embraced by her god. Should you wish for her to rest entirely, you would forgo your own earned rest. You would never find eternal peace. Doomed to wander the fugue plan for eternity until all is unmade and life and death and undeath are quelled.”
Orin looks up at them; scared and confused. She doesn’t understand. If they make this choice, she never will. She will either return to face Father and his hatred, or she will be allowed to escape and rest.
They kiss her forehead. Her hands in theirs.
She was not given a chance to be better. She was a child and she was abused. Perhaps it is unfair to her victims, to give her a soft afterlife. But they killed her, and they saw and felt what awaits her in Father’s clutches.
No. She does not deserve that.
The skeleton sighs, a smile in the sound. They wonder if they made him proud. They wonder if this was a test.
“And in so doing, two fates are sealed. Go, child of Bhaal, and know your fate was changed by one who loves you.” A great and terrible rushing surrounds the scared child and they hear a peal of happy laughter as their sister is whisked away. They feel empty and alone. A thin hand rests on their shoulder, and they look up to the smiling face of Withers.
“Precious few have done as you have done. Defied Bhaal twice. You alone stand as one who hast done so thrice. To sacrifice your earned rest for one who was never given a chance… Curious. Tell me. What doth thou wishest now?”
They don’t know. They know they don’t want to be alone.
“There are those for whomst thou gavest their life. Wouldst thou wishest to return to them?”
Oh. Would they want them back? The thought is warm and yet sits in their belly as a stone.
“There ist only one way to discover that.” The skeleton holds out a hand to them, now about equal size to them. They smile, nervous and uncertain.
“What if they don’t… what if I’m different than they remember?”
“Is that what thou wishest? To be different?” The question may not be a trap but it feels like one.
“...I want to be free. If that makes me… different… yes.”
Withers smiles and they take his hand. He cradles them gently in his skeletal palm, a strange, paternal warmth in his touch as he carries their unformed soul in a gentle grip. They think they hear the soft voice of a woman; she says her daughter will be happy to see them again. She says she is proud and will not abandon them. They do not know when this happens. Perhaps it never did. But it is nice to hear.
They feel their memories start to… fade. It becomes a struggle to remember the sound of Sarevoks laughter. The sound of Orin crying. The sight of their father’s eyes. It feels… nice. They don’t want to remember what they felt. But they hope they know that Orin is safe. They want to remember that.
They are in incredible pain. They cannot breathe, for their body will not unlock the muscles needed to do so. Their mind shudders and shivers and they will themselves to inhale, the cold, cold air stinging their throat and lungs. A moment later, their breath leaves them in a strangled scream. Everything hurts. The top of their head to the tip of their tail screams that every inch of them has been brutalized just before the point of death.
Nothing, however, compares to the blinding pain of the heart steadily beating in their chest. They whimper and hope the pain will cease.
They force open their eyes: for a moment seeing only bright, bright blue. Their mouth opens as their body spasms, a scream wanting to escape but their body refusing to make the sound. They understand they are laying down. They do not want to lay down. They want to know where they are. They need to sit up. Even if it hurts.
And oh gods does it hurt. Every muscle in them screams at the movement, but they force themselves up, something light falling from their chest and shoulders to gather around their waist. Something sits over their eyebrow. Their hands fly to their chest as their heart beats; a painful, steady beat that they know they shouldn’t complain about. They hear their breaths, raspy and rough. They know their eyes are open but everything is so dark and blurry. All they see are odd blue and silver lights.
Two cold hands cradle their face and the relief is instant. It feels so nice to have something cold on their skin. They lean into the touch and try to focus on the pale, sharp angled face that studies them. They know this face.
His voice is tremulous as he says their name. A prayer of a thing; their name on his lips. He is terrified by something. Astarion is terrified of everything, but not of them. He is afraid for them.
“Solace?” A question. A fear. He had lost them and he is so very afraid they came back not knowing him. He doesn’t want to make them uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to make demands. He loves them too much for that.
Tears fall from their eyes as they know he is so scared they don’t know him. They know of only one way to make him believe they are the same.
“C- can I k-kiss you?” Their throat hurts. Everything hurts. But the vampire looks elated. His lips crash into theirs; cold and careful, his keen hearing likely allowing him to know how their breath is ragged and how often they wince. All the same, he kisses them like he has never done before. He wants to show them how terribly he missed them, how he will never let them go again if they let him. They can’t fight the smile on their lips as he tells them what they already know.
“I love you.” Breathless, spoken into their lips. He says it as a confession even if everyone already knew it.
“Solace, I love you. I love you. I love you.”
They want to cry. Everything hurts and he says this the moment life enters their lungs again.
“You don’t say.” Maybe the joke is too soon. Maybe the rasp of a recently revived corpse makes it more sad than funny, but Astarion pulls them against his chest and weeps.