MEA IRA DIVINA EST

I wasn’t certain if the eye was still there. The ache whispered it was nothing more than a glass-filled hole.

Right. The bastard had slashed it. He must have been somewhere close.

Still, I lay motionless. Stalling, hoping I would fall asleep again. That I wouldn’t see him. That I wouldn’t hear the mire.

But there was no mercy.

Slowly, I turned my head left. Didn’t realize how close he was all this time. So close I could’ve felt his breath. But there was none.

Lorroakan was dead. Eyes covered with a swamp-green tint. Eyes of a dry fish, looking at me. Features contorted, making his face look like a bloodied egg smashed against rocks.

Knowing he was as terrified as I brought solace. At least he was lucky enough to expire. Expire. A perfect word for Lorroakan’s miserable condition. I could only imagine how putrid my own mug looked.

Had he realized he was doomed once I pierced him? He must have. I aimed straight at the heart.

I remembered then how heavy the first hit was. Wielding a dagger was so inefficient compared to weaving spells. Yet, I couldn’t risk him counterspelling. I needed him dead, permanently.

After the first hit, the dagger stuck in him. I thought my whole hand went inside his chest. Revolting. His muscles spasming, warm blood soaking my skin. I could’ve sworn his innards wrapped around my wrist, holding me in place. And Lorroakan yelled. Screamed so loudly I thought he’d melt my teeth.

Once it got out, I hit him again.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I’d pierced him another thousand times if it meant he’d finally shut up.

Then - all a blur of motion, limbs tangled, blood spattering, screams echoing. An eternity and a half shattered as we wrestled on the floor until he accepted it.

I kept staring into his bulging eyes, wondering: how did it feel? To be the embodiment of an arcane power, yet die with no purpose. His body would rot, and so would mine. Years would pass, but the Tower would still be standing, regarded as the wonder of the realm, no matter who the Master. Lorroakan’s existence was pointless, just as mine. All this time, we were equal.

And then, I saw it.

A fly, crawling up his cheek. To feast on that damned fish eye. Why was it there so soon? Did it know what would happen here? Or was it summoned by the mire? Did it come for me?

It rubbed and rubbed its stick joints, gauging at the corpse as if it owned it. I knew I was full of its maggots. Under my skin, inside my organs, in the back of my eyes. Crawling, swarming, poisoning me. Feasting on the decay I’ve been cultivating for so long. Singing praises to the rot so vehemently that it deafened my shrieks.

I screamed for them to stop, trying to scratch them out of my body. Begging them to go into Lorroakan’s gaping hole of a chest instead. They only laughed and chewed.

It would’ve been better if he cut out both my eyes.

I should have died with him.

Staring at Lorroakan was no longer bearable. Turning away was impossible. Something, someone was in the room with us. I’d rather let the maggots eat me for another ten years than learn who it was.

The mire wouldn’t stand for it.

As if by command, the fly had flown into Lorroakan’s mouth.

I turned.

The maggots didn’t matter anymore. I was struck by dread only a worshiper of a hundred deities can experience.

Cal and Lia watched me from the corner of the room. Petrified. Crying. Yelling something horrifying in the language of mutes. I didn’t need to hear to know.

I howled back at them, begging for forgiveness, imploring them to understand. Their faces only grew more contorted and despairing. They couldn’t accept it.

Amidst the crying and pleading, I heard a voice at the back of my mind. It pounded, and pounded, and pounded, cutting me from the inside. Out of sheer desperation, I ignored it, as I didn’t know what was worse. To let Cal and Lia see what I’ve become. Or to remember that it was impossible for them witness it. That Cal and Lia were long gone.

I chose delusion, crawling to reach them. The pitch black of the Tower couldn’t hide the early signs of decomposition on their bodies. Their utter disdain for me.

It was all in vain. They were nothing but ghosts conjured by my shuttered consciousness.

I couldn’t bear it. I wanted every sense and feeling left in my body to cease. Yet, I refused. Not until my purpose came to fruition. Not until I rectified the injustice dealt to my family. If it meant I’d have to live with this sorrow engraved in me, I was ready.

The mire sensed it, descending upon me. The only being that pitied the foulest creature, answering my cries for salvation. I knew it would demand tenfold from me in return. Caution betrayed me at that point, abandoning my remaining moral boundaries.

I let it in. I embraced it.

The noise faded away. So did the thoughts. The heart thudding. The regrets, the guilt, and the pain. All cocooned under a thick layer of warm bog.

I can still feel and breathe that bog, even as I write it.

Now, I can finally laugh alongside maggots.

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The entry ended abruptly. Zevlor turned the page in search of more, but Rolan resumed writing his diary only three days after. Slowly, the Hellrider looked up, reluctant to meet his captor’s gaze.

Rolan sat in front of him, eyes dead-set on the wall. Eyes of a stained ember glass, or a senile dragon that lost its wings. Zevlor could swear he was carved from stone, if not for the wizard’s clawed hand absently scratching his forearm, leaving deep red marks.

“What happened after?” the older tiefling asked quietly.

Upon the question, Rolan’s eyes began moving, as if trying to catch something invisible in the air. His jaw moved side to side, shedding distorted, clicking sounds.

“I don’t remember,” he lied. Something inside him protested against telling Zevlor how he cut Lorroakan’s body into pieces and experimented on it until it rotted beyond recognition. The Hellrider wasn’t ready for it. Yet. “If I don’t write it down, it is as good as perished.”

Zevlor sighed, turning more pages, “Don’t think for a second that what happened that day somehow absolves you from your crimes.”

Rolan laughed, shaking his head as if his former friend just told him a hilarious joke, “You- you think I gave you this so you can pity me? You think I need a warm hug and reassurance from a hypocrite, the Elturel’s Butcher? Please.”

He reached through the bars, retrieving the diary. "You asked when I became the Miresworn. This is your answer."

The Hellrider jolted, looking closely at the wizard. The Miresworn it was. The Rolan he knew indeed died with Lorroakan that day.

“Fair enough,” Zevlor replied, “Yet, I still struggle to understand: what is this mire that compelled you?”

Rolan froze again. In truth, his distorted memories couldn’t give him a comprehensive explanation, “It’s a long story,” he said slowly.

“How lucky that I have plenty of time now,” Zevlor drawled. And he did. The Hellrider intended to understand what broke a good man to the point of no return. Even if it was the last thing fate had prepared for his life’s path.

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Notes: Soooooo... welcome to the Miresworn AU. 😅 This is an introduction to the longfic I am slowly starting to work on. I have been consumed by the idea of writing a dark Rolan fic for a while now. A universe where Cal and Lia die in Shadow-Cursed Lands, and Rolan looks for ways to resurrect them. In his pursuit, he begins using Thay's Necromancy. As it slowly corrupts him, Rolan loses his grasp on reality and allies with Ascended Astarion to control Baldur’s Gate from the shadows and have full access to all its resources. The snippet of the story you’ve read takes place two years after the final battle. The persona of the Miresworn has completely taken over Rolan. Hope I’ve got you intrigued with why he keeps Zevlor captive. :3