#gortashweek

“Careful, it almost sounds like you are threatening me, dearest assassin of mine,” a smile returns on Gortash’s face and for once they find it more annoying than charming. He spins his cane in his hands in nonchalant gesture and steps closer to them, arms open, welcoming. His posture is relaxed, unguarded, as if he has no reason to fear the murder incarnate in front of him. He deserves to be gutted just for his carelessness and all its implications alone.

“Kethric Thorm is dead. Kethric Thorm is dead and you send me this.” The Dark Urge throws to his feet the invitation. His fancy paper, in his fancy envelope, with his fancy seal and fancy signature. Oh, they are well aware how much Enver loves his etiquette and politeness and manners. And usually, under normal circumstances, they tend to be willing to indulge him, play their part in the tyrant’s charade. ‘Usually’ and ‘under normal circumstances’ are the keywords here.

“Where exactly is the problem, my dread heart? Countless invitations to my inauguration to the office of Archduke were sent to all the important people in Baldur's Gate and beyond. How could I have not invited the most important person beside me? Or are you offended I have not handed it to you personally? My deepest apologies, but you are quite hard to reach and unfortunately, we’ve not had much time for each other lately. I was always giving you all important information and I was always clear with you about all my plans-“

“You know that the useless piece of paper is not what I am talking about here, Enver,” they growl, their patience worn thin.

“Do I?” Gortash decides to insult both of their intelligence by choosing to play ignorant a bit longer. Their hand itches. They really wish to stab him right now and not in the tender loving way, but in the brutal and relentless one that would paint his newest rooms in red. They have to be content with piercing their dagger through his already destroyed portrait a few times. He is watching them curiously, patiently waiting for them to get to the point that should not be necessary to be made

“Group of adventurers with that damned prism you could have not shut up about the past few tenthdays killed Ketheric and stole his Netherstone. The Netherstone we need to control the Brain because: what exactly do you think will happen when an army of Absolute’s soldiers with no general arrives in the city?” they are supposed to be the one thrilled at the prospect of slaughter and countless deaths, they are not used to trying to be the voice of reason.

“No need to worry, the prism-bearers will bring the Netherstone directly to me. If my sources are correct, they arrived in Rivington just yesterday’s evening.” Did they now? That much to him ‘always giving them all the important information’. They do not bother to bring it up as he would only answer ‘I am telling you now, am I not?’ They wonder what other things might have their ally forgotten to tell them.

What Gortash really should have sent them instead of this stupid invitation is a letter with their location. The Dark Urge could have gathered their faithful followers, storm their camp at night, and they would have had all the Netherstones again already. If soon-to-Archduke found a moment in his busy schedule of portrait’s getting painted and patriars being flattered, they could have even attacked them with joined forces of Bhaalist and Banites. The Dark Urge would love to fight side by side with their tyrant again. Blood of their enemies always looks so lovely on him. They enjoy witnessing how ruthless he can be when he is not only giving commands but fighting himself, his cunning mind put to action…

No matter. No need to dwell on ‘should have beens’.

“And what about it? Do you think they will simply hand it to you? They should not, they cannot, be underestimated. We need to consider them to be a serious threat.”

“Yes, yes I do consider them that, for a fact,” he puts on a smile, fake one as most of his smiles are these days, “In no doubt, they’ll be travelling to the city. Let’s make sure we give them a Baldurian welcome. I will offer them an alliance. Proposal they cannot refuse. Anything and everything they could wish for… you know how it goes.”

They are tempted to suggest that he sounds like a devil. Gortash would not be amused by such a comparison. That might be only one more reason to make it. Alas that would get their discussion nowhere and so they bite their tongue.

“Why do you assume they will be interested?” they ask him instead.

“Everyone wants something,” he waves his hand dismissively, “Everyone can be bought for the right price.”

That is clearly not true. The Dark Urge should know as their loyalties lay strictly to Bhaal and they cannot be bought by any amount of sweet words and promises. Even though most people seem to be easily corrupted by material things or gold or power or other silly things such as these, they themselves cannot, therefore one must assume some other living beings might be hard to persuade as well. But their tyrant still sees everything just as a transaction to be made and it makes them wonder how well he really understands them.

“You are a fool with too much confidence for someone whose plans have been failing so much recently,” the Dark Urge scoffs, knowing very well how to hit the sore spot. Gortash’s eyes twitch over the accusations, though he refuses to let go of his smile.

“Small hiccups, easy to overlook in the greater scheme of things,” Gortash stands his ground and even though they are standing so close to each other, one reach of arm away, he has never felt so far away from them. They have felt this unease for a while. The itch that something is wrong, that things are not going the way they were supposed to. And it has nothing to do with the fact that their plans are being shaken as much as the entirety of the Gate under the Netherbrain interference. Their alliance has been bleeding dying creature for a while and Kethric’s death feels like the last hit needed to put it out of its misery. They both know it. They both must see it to be a corpse slowly starting to rot and not even the tyrant’s demands can will it back to life.

There used to be perfect balance between them and Myrkul’s Chosen being added to the mix never weakened it. If anything, on the contrary, it used to be an unspoken agreement that when the time for betrayal will come, he will be the first one to be cast aside. But who would have guessed the immortal general can be killed this easily?

“As always we will overcome the struggle and come out stronger from it. Don’t you think?” Gortash crosses the distance between them and places his hand on the side of their face. They cannot help themselves but lean into his touch. Because that is the worst thing. They still crave to be placated. The sin they are hiding in the deepest corner of their rotten heart. They wish to be pulled into the tyrant’s embrace, have him whisper all the sweet lies about his love and adoration, about the world they can rule together, about the unbreakable bond they share.

“I don’t believe you wish to know what is going through my mind right now, dear tyrant,” they sigh and Gortash finally drops the smile of his. He grabs them by their chin and pulls them to a kiss. The movement is too familiar, they do not even think about it and lean in. They press their lips together and just for a second, they can pretend they are back in much simpler times when the schemes and plans they were creating together were manageable.

“Just tell me, I can still trust you. Tell me, I can count on you,” he holds them tenderly and every droplet of their godly blood boils inside them. How dare he be the one demanding assurance; how dare he be the one demanding from them to swear him their loyalty.

Though it might be their own fault, the Dark Urger thinks bitterly. They were indulging him too much. You offer the tyrant a hand and he will put it in cuffs.  Does Gortash really think he can make them do what he wants just because of some poisonous affection they happen to feel for him?

“You can count on me getting the Netherstone you will fail to obtain through your methods, that much I can promise you, Enver. Upon your brilliant mind will then fall the task of figuring out how to split three Netherstones between two Chosens.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, my love, that will be a problem to solve after we reunite them,” he laughs and his words only confirms their worry. Gortash is always miles upfront in his plans in all possible directions. He knows very well what he will do in either of the only two possible outcomes. It is a deliberate choice that he decided not to share it with the Dark Urge. And they might be a bit paranoid, yes, but it is hard not to be cautious when dealing with a man like him.

“As you say,” they decide to not point out the smell of rot in his words, they pretend not to see the dagger he is hiding behind his back, they pretend not to taste the poison in his kisses. And it seems to be good enough for him as he releases them from his hold, a smile, which is still not quite reaching his eyes, on his face again.

“I still hope you will come to my inauguration,” he drops the topic as if nothing happened, as if he has just not dropped the first gravel of soil on the coffin where the remains of their alliance lay in its grave.

You can hardly compare falling asleep on the desk to taking naps in piles of viscera or freshly dug graves. Gortash attempts to scoff at them and slowly rise so he can with no doubt see them baring their deadly sharp teeth in amusement. But he cannot.

His limbs feel so heavy. Unmoving. No matter how hard he tries or how much he wills for them to raise up or at least twitch, his body is refusing to respond. Gone on a strike for the mistreatment he has put it through. No matter the effort he puts into it, no coherent sound comes out of his mouth. His tongue does not feel like part of his body right now, it is just a dead slug lying in his mouth uselessly.

“Enver…?” they do not let any sign of worry slip into their voice but the fact that they called him by his first name is proof enough of their concern on its own. As much as Gortash has a bit of complicated feelings towards his first name he enjoys the way they roll it on their tongue. But his mind is as slowed down as the rest of the body and he struggles to put his thoughts together properly, draw some conclusion from their worry, his name on their lips and how he is feeling about it.

Gortash senses them moving closer. The Dark Urge places their fingers on his neck to the side of his windpipe to check his pulse over his carotid artery. The deadly claws, so often covered in blood, so used to ripping throats, touch him gently and linger over him much longer than they need to. Gortash fails again trying to turn his head, wondering what expression might be on their face right now. What is going through their head?

“Hmph, this thing again,” the clinging sound of empty glass bottles meeting each other lets him know they have noticed the used-up speed potions. “You should be more careful with this stuff. It is not good for you,” they lecture him because they can never understand, they refuse to consider that sometimes his work cannot be postponed and he needs to push through to finish what he is doing. So sometimes he needs a little boost of energy.

The Dark Urge leans to his ear. He can feel the tingle of their icy cold breath – a feature of his dragonborn heritage. Their tongue must be almost licking his earlobe as he speaks.

“You would be so easy to kill like this,” morbid flirtation sneaks into their tone as their hand is placed on his throat again in suggestion of a longitudinal cut through his trachea. One movement, easy and natural for their sharp claws to make, and he would be dead.

That would not be very satisfying though, would it? To kill me like this? Gortash does not answer as he still cannot force his tongue to work. At this point even he recognizes he maybe should feel a sparkle of fear, being so helpless in the presence of a predator, but all his senses are too numb. Besides he knows them well enough to be able to tell when they mean their threats.

“What should I do with you like this, Enver?” they sigh and Gortash is not quite certain what they mean. This is their cue to leave. Maybe laugh at him for it later during their next meeting, start another pointless discussion about his habits and that he should be more careful about his substance abuse. To which he will point out that no one but them can sneak up on him unharmed by all his various traps and that he really did not intend to fall hastened and this is a really rare one-time occurrence which they unfortunately get to witness.

But they stay. He feels their arms wrapping around his body in an embrace and he does not realise what they are planning to do till he feels himself being picked up. He is not a lightest man and his muscles and limbs are uncooperative. Dead weight. Yet they do not seem to struggle at slightless in handling him. It should have not come as a surprise. They must have enough of experience in carrying unresponsive bodies around.

He instinctively tries to protest against being manhandled but there is nothing he can do nor say to stop them. Completely at the mercy of a bloodthirsty killer. They can choose to do with him whatever they desire.

And what they seem to desire to do is to carry him and put him in bed. He feels the silken sheets of his bedding welcome his immobile limbs as the Dark Urge lays him down. There is a pause and Gortash starts to suspect they are done with him, that maybe they left and his mind starts slipping to a proper darkness before he feels their hands on his body yet again. Tugging at his shoes, slipping a coat of his shoulder, rolling him around and undressing him before they wrap him under covers.

Maybe he should feel embarrassed over his ally seeing him like this. Helpless. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Weak. But only emotion embracing him and filling his mind is satisfaction, a strange pride because who else can say to have a murder incarnate tugging him gently in a bed.

“Your work will not run away from you, unlike mine,” they chuckle and Gortash would like to object. So what if the victim they set their mind to kill slips through their claws one evening. The Dark Urge could just get them the next one. There is no place in Baldur’s Gate to hide away from them. They do not really have to worry about work running from them. Gortash, on the other hand, is the one who needs to be always alert, every time he blinks there is a chance he missed some fleeing chance to further his goals.

Of course he says none of those things as he still cannot speak nor move and in the end there would be no point to saying any of this even if he could. Because he can imagine them being just as amused by his worry. They would argue that he is doing well enough, his achievement and their speed is impressive enough. Yes, he knows he is doing well but he could still be doing better. He has no time for their foolish suggestions that he should take more breaks from time to time. That it might even do him good.

“Get some rest for that brilliant mind of yours,” the Dark Urge brushes his hair off his face, their voice uncharacteristically gentle, filled with a suggestion of fondness he cannot properly decipher for now. “Sleep well, my tyrant,” their claw lingers on his face longer than necessary with gentleness that he did not believe they might be capable of. It feels right, and as crazy as such a thought must be, it feels safe. Something in Gortash yearns to reach for it, reach for them and pull them closer.

Luckily, he is still trapped in hastened state and so no matter how much he longs for their touch, how much he desires embrace of the deadliest assassin, his hands will not move and his mouth will not speak and even his eyelids remain shut.

He wonders if they are aware he can still hear them or if they think they are talking just to themselves. It already feels like a dream. He wonders how much of their action will he remember in his conscious state in the morning and how trustworthy he will find his own mind and memory.