I murdered who?

This is the playlist that tells this story

About Ilara

A03

Daises On My Nightstand

The Beach (nsfw)

Alfira

Tiefling Party Pt 1 (suggestive)& Tiefling Party Pt 2 (nsfw)

Chapter 1- Only In My Dreams

Chapter 2 - I said, I love you

Chapter 3 & 4- Heaven and Forgive Me Father

Chapter 5- Hold Me Down

Chapter 6- Innocence

Chapter 7- The Daughter of a God

Chapter 8- The Blood On My Hands

Chapter 9- What You've Done

Chapter 10- Slaughter Kin

Chapter 11- The Archduke of Baldur's Gate

Chapter 12- What You Were Made For

Chapter 13- The Price of Freedom

Chapter 14- The lute and the charcoal

She almost felt pity for him, as she stood silent in the shadows, observing him. He was so calm, collected. The way he was meticulously bent over his desk, scratching away at something she could not see, the flickering candlelight setting shadows across the sharp ridges of his face. Another, like her, in thrall to a cruel god. She wondered if he served his willingly, if he looked on in rapture as the merciless gods commanded their mortal pawns to obey their whim. It did not matter if he did or not. He had drawn too much attention to himself either way. She stepped forward out of the shadows, silently crossing into the middle of the room, the only sound the soft swish of her dagger unsheathing. She watched him closely as he lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting hers.

She found herself stopped momentarily by the apathetic look in his eyes, the way his burning gaze met hers. She was so used to lust. Followed by fear. She didn't know what this look was. She knew how she must appear. Her red eyes deadened to the task at hand, her dark curls soaked in crimson, a violet tinged halo around her head, her clothes stained by the insides of others who she had dragged to the depths earlier that day, her dagger glistening in the candlelight with dried blood. A wild and feral thing, tamed only by the distant promise of the freedom she so desperately wanted back.

She drank in the details of his face, momentarily frozen by this new expression. The way that his mouth was pressed in a firm line, his lips full, the way his dark stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, his piercing eyes staring back at her. Something behind his apathy flickered, and her breath stopped. There. There was the desire she had been looking for, carefully replaced by that smooth mask of apathy. It was him who broke their silence first.

"So, you're here. I expected you to come. Tell me, Bhaal-spawn, why have you come?" His voice was one of the most pleasurable things she had ever heard, a warm caress that asked for both her unwavering attention and submission all at once. He leaned his elbows forward onto his desk, resting his chin upon his fingers. She felt her mouth go dry, his confidence in her faltering step making her mind turn. She was always in control, and right now, she didn't feel that way. She swallowed against the feeling churning in her stomach, her fingers gripping the knife in her hand.

"Your ambition is too great, Banite. You know why I'm here." She was more startled than anything by the smooth curve of his lips, the way his smile seemed to turn her insides into liquid heat. Was he not afraid? She was too tired to play at pretty words, too tired to put on the act of the charming and devastating seductress meant to drag you to your doom. But maybe she should have. Then, at least, he wouldn't be looking at her like that. 

"My ambition," he replied softly, "will do many great things. You would be better off seeing what I will do. Or, doing it with me." She thought she had been caught off guard by him already, but he kept doing that. Throwing her off even more. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the expression on his face. That apathy laced with desire, a mirror of the longing in her own face. She wondered again just how dedicated to his God he was. 

"What do you mean?" She felt a twinge of irritation at her piqued curiosity. 

"I have a plan," he said softly, the smoothness of his voice washing through her, "and I cannot see it to fruition on my own. You are clever. Coordinated. I've watched the way you move through this city since you appeared a year ago, from wherever you came. You are organized, meticulously careful. I could use that, in what I have planned."

He had been watching her. This unnerved her most of all, her eyes narrowing as her fingers gripped painfully around the dagger she still held. Of course she was careful. Even when she had been merciless in her forced worship, she had always been careful to not draw too much attention while sating the basest desires of the task at hand. It would not do to be messy. To get caught. Yet, here was someone admitting he'd been watching her. Closely.

"And what exactly do you have planned, little Banite? What could possibly keep me from killing you where you sit? I would be across this room before you could utter another word." She fell back into the comfort of veiled threats, her annoyance at being watched prickling to the surface. 

"You won't do that." His voice was like melted butter, so full of an absolute conviction that it made soft heat fold itself over in her stomach, the challenge burning away at her.

"And why won't I?" He let the question hang there between them, that smile not leaving his face as he leaned back in his chair, his hands splayed.

"Because we want the same thing, my dear Bhaal-Spawn. Power. Freedom. Is that not what you crave?" She felt the layers of her irritation peeling away, replaced once again by the desire to hear him out. He had said the one thing that could pull her out of herself, the one thing that promised to give her back to herself. Freedom. Her thoughts flickered back to those years in the underdark. To the magic she kept safely hidden. To the people she had been forced to kill when she awoke to his pull on her calling through the night. Free. 

"What do you mean?" She kept the desperation out of her voice, weary of this man who had been observing her, enough to know that she might be useful in his plan. He could be useful to her, too, maybe. Perhaps if his offer was tantalizing enough, it would give her a means of escape. 

"There is a crown, in Avernus. Mephistopheles has hidden it away in his vault. I would like you to come with me to retrieve it." Traveling to Avernus was not new to her, given her deal with Raphael. She was often in The House of Hope, splayed beneath him as she obediently gave herself to him in exchange for the magic humming through her. But she had never been anywhere else in Avernus. Only there. Only his bed, him, Haarlep, the soft warmth of that bath water. She snapped her attention back to him, pulling herself away from those thoughts. 

"That is ridiculous. What could possibly be worth invoking the rage of Mephistopheles?" She couldn't help but be intrigued, her head tilting softly as she stepped towards him. He leaned forward again, his palms flat against his desk. 

"The promise of power. Of control. Of complete and utter freedom to make others bow before you, and never have to bow to anyone again." The honey of his words dripped through the air between them, making her breath hitch in her chest, her raw knees ache at the thought of never having to bow again.

"All you have to do is say yes. We could make a good team, you and me. We could make everyone bow to our desires. We would never have to answer to anyone, man or God. Only ourselves. Doesn't that sound like it would be nice?" She couldn't deny the pull in her chest, the ache to have freedom spilling through her fingers. She took another hesitant step towards him, trying to read the open expression on his face. She was not used to people looking at her that way. With vulnerability. With expectancy. With trust. She wasn't sure in this moment if she preferred the fear.

"And if I don't agree?" She found herself saying. She couldn't help but be skeptical, the fruit of promised freedom having been dangled before her so many times only to be ripped away.

"Then you kill me." His voice was almost softer, a tender caress that held an authority in it that brokered no argument. 

"But if you do that, you will never be free. And that's not what you really want, is it?" She had already given away so much, in her attempts to carve freedom out of her life of servitude. She had already sold a sliver of her very soul to the son of the archdevil he was proposing they steal from, that fraction of her very being the reason why she could still defy Bhaal, the way she couldn't have before. But still, she was not free. She still felt compelled to obey him, to please him, to feel the grit of that temple digging into her skin as she splayed her palms against the floor and promised her undying devotion. Freedom. 

"Fine," she found herself saying. "What do we need to do?" His smile, the look in his eyes, seemed to melt right into her core, a question burning behind them.

"Why don't I explain that, while we get to know each other a little better?"

***

She felt like she was falling, endlessly. Darkness and pain and revulsion and guilt and longing and twisted manic pleasure all churning in her gut. She knew she wasn't awake yet, knew that her body lay deep asleep as she tumbled through the landscape of her haunted past. She tried to focus on the fuzziness of the world around her. Everything looked muted, discolored, sharp. They had all looked this way. She knew, even if she didn't want to, that she was watching her own memories play out,a film of violence and submission threaded through nearly two centuries. She felt herself falling, tumbling into the dark chasm of who she had been, the rising horror at what she had done. Had she wanted to do it? Does it matter? This is who you are. This is what you were made for. This is your destiny.

The voice that whispered through her addled thoughts was so soft, a tender caress against the fever of bloodshed. It spun through her mind, the tantalizing order to destroy, destroy, destroy weighing her down. She had lost count of how many of these fuzzy dreams she had fallen into. Memories. They aren't dreams. She had watched how she came to be, a babe born in divinity, from a gods own flesh. A bright, curious, energetic child growing up with a mother and a father that did not belong to her. A child who had killed her foster parents at eleven. The only parents she had ever known. Because love was not for her, her heart was not hers to give away. That was the first time.

She watched herself figure out how naturally she took to a dagger in her hands, the now ever present blade more normal to her than her own fingers. She watched herself bow in the temple, her knees scraping the stones as her glassy eyed stare promised devotion. She had seen herself lay body after body down in worship, the rot of her compulsion to obey the urge guiding her like a puppet on strings. Had watched herself charm and seduce and slip through the night like a shadow when things didn't go her way, when she would claim her kill anyway. Men and women and children and everyone in-between. Tieflings and elves and dwarves, it did not matter. Everyone fell to her eventually. A carefully executed path of slaughter to avoid too many questions while sating her feral desire to see the life leave someone's eyes. She watched herself giggling, a terrible and cold sound bubbling from some deranged part of her as she reveled in the carnage she had created. She was chaos, she was the soft whisper of a sharp edge slid through ribs and across necks, she was death. She was a monster. She was utterly devoted to the task that had been laid before her, consumed with the desire to make the world fall to its knees and bathe in a crimson tide of their begs for mercy. Mercy that she did not have.

Until the day Bhaal died.

Until the day she saw herself falling to her knees, scrabbling for purchase as for the first time in decades her thoughts were her own, the urge a distant cloud over her, a fuzziness in her mind, her yearn for death no longer a raw, burning mass inside of her. Until the day that her head was silent, lost were the whispers of that dark control. Until the day she was free. Memories that he had not wanted her to have. Memories of when her worship clattered to the ground, her binds broken.

She couldn't help but notice the shift in the color. How everything still seemed fuzzy and out of focus, but brighter. Softer. Warmer. She was watching herself, this panicked and bright eyed phantom as it quickly threw things into a bag, swallowing sobs. A look of deep regrets and loss coloring the features on this echo of herself. She followed this ghost as she left Baldurs Gate behind, running far from her sins and everything she had done, running far from that temple and God who had demanded so much of her. She had thought she could hide, sequestered away in the underdark.

She did, for a time. She stayed with the myconids, comforted by their peaceful quiet, by how they loved life, rejoiced in it, celebrated the very earth from which they had sprung. She had learned to play the lute, thrilled to be bringing something into this world that sounded so beautiful, a sharp contrast to all the ugliness she had brought into being. She had marveled at how they danced and sang and expressed their joy at the smallest thing life had to offer. She had learned to draw, becoming obsessed with capturing the beauty she was now allowed to appreciate. Little things- carving out some semblance of a personality beyond the urges that still crawled their way through her brain. But it didn't matter. She did not have to listen to them. He was gone. She was free.

She watched the memories blur into each other until she was standing in front a familiar face, the one who had sent her here to begin with. Raphael. It had been a few years, and the ever present anxiety that he would return, demanding her allegiance once again, had brought her here. She had seen herself make the deal, knowing that carnal pleasure was nothing in exchange for not being bound to a lifetime of servitude to a cruel god.

She watched herself charm and beg her way into being given that magic. Magic that she took to almost as naturally as she had taken to her weapon of choice, magic that hummed in her fingers and didn't leave darkness swirling in its wake. It wasn't hers, not quite. But it wasn't her father's either. The small piece of her soul she had offered in exchange was worth that much, wasn't it?

She thought she was smarter. That if her god ever did reclaim her, there was part of her he couldn't have. Couldn't take. That maybe if some small sliver of her soul was claimed elsewhere, she would be able to resist. She had grown comfortable, experienced a lightness she had never felt before. For years she hid there, wondering if she had been wrong. That maybe freedom was a word meant not only for others, but for her too.

Until she didn't have to wonder anymore. Until the day he was returned to this plane, his resurrection cracking open the universe and tugging on her chest. How she had woken in the night, his voice whispering to her across Faerun, beckoning her to return to her place. How she had turned her blade on those that had given her solace, her eyes blank and her mouth a cruel line. Until she found herself one night, back in Baldur's Gate with no memory of having returned, the grit of the temple floor digging into her knees. He had called her. And she would obey.

Except when, sometimes, she didn't. She watched as she moved through the motions, watched as she defied him again and again, his ire growing because she had never been this way. She had been so perfect before. Watched while he had given her Scleritas- the devil on her shoulder meant to keep her in line. She obeyed just often enough, a calculated effort that was a mockery of the violence she had so many years ago reveled in.

She broke out of the darkness swirling inside her to sit softly by candlelight and draw faces she had met while her chains were unbound, sketching the bodies she brought to the floor of the temple to lay upon his altar so his cruelties would not touch her. She wanted to remember the sweetness tempered with the weight of her sins, bringing him enough to sate him but never more. Trying to remember through the haze of her bloodlust what it felt like as she had planted flowers in the earth, had been a giver of life instead of one who takes and takes.

She watched herself pluck quietly at the strings of her lute as she wept after a kill, the bubbling laughter a thing of the past, replaced by the haunting melody of her music, a forlorn look in her eyes instead of delight. So that was why he had hated Alfira, why her stomach had writhed in revulsion at the bard's musical joy. She had watched herself standing in the Temple proclaiming her faith to her father again and again, swearing this time she would be good, while clenching her fist behind her back, biding her time.

Until the day she was told to go kill the fist of Bane. One of those calculated orders she chose to obey. She did not care. She did not know him, and owed him no allegiance. If it would please her father, if he would let her be, she would do this.

She stepped into the brothel, her eyes scanning the busy room. She always hated being here. Everyone was so happy, so free. None of them burdened by thoughts of wrapping their fingers around their lovers throats in anything other than ecstasy. She desperately wished that she could be free that way, free to just indulge in carnal pleasure that didn't end in thoughts of her partner in ribbons. She shook her head, silently moving through the bodies until she got to the room she was looking for. He had said he'd be here. She rolled her shoulders trying to ease some of the tension and her ever present headache, reaching forward to push open the door. 

She was not surprised to see him laying there on the bed, seeming to not have a care in the world. He laid languidly, his arms behind his head, the picture of perfectly manicured and put together. The Prince of Hell. She sighed, unsurprised by the words that came out of his mouth.

"Ah, so you must have run out of options, little mouse. Again." She stepped the rest of the way into the room, closing the door behind her. She folded her arms across her chest, narrowing her eyes at him and the implication in his tone.

"You said that last time. You said that I always came to you when I had no options left. Are you going to bother telling me what that meant now or am I here for nothing?"

"Mouthy, mouthy, mouthy," Raphael laughed, sitting up to look at her.

"That mouth gets you in so much trouble, love. Making all sorts of deals you don't remember. You are so much more alluring when you're not using it to talk." God, he was annoying. That stupid smirk. That same knowing look everyone gave her when she admitted she didn't remember anything. 

She thought back to the first time she had seen him, beckoning to her across a bridge as she wandered from her companions, distracted by her thoughts. There had been some part of her that recognized him, a pull in her magic as she walked towards him. How, somehow, they had ended up in The House of Hope, his lavish home in the fires of Avernus. She had looked around in confusion, that ever present ache of familiarness coating her insides. How as they talked, he had made jibe after jibe, suggestive and flirty and toying with her, because she didn't know what he was referring to. She had come to him before? It didn't matter, that wasn't who she was now. She had refused him, saying she didn't need his help. That she wasn't stupid enough to make a deal with a devil. He had laughed and laughed. 

He had said she would be back, that she always came back. He didn't explain. She didn't ask him to. She was tired of asking people to explain and not getting any answers. She was tired of people asking her questions she didn't have answers to. When her companions asked where she had been, she avoided the question. When they had met him again in the Shadowlands, he seemed amused at keeping the secret between them- making looping, poetic comments that made her companions scratch their heads and her stomach twist.

"You used to be so much more fun. You're such a shy mouse now, skirting around what you want. Hardly any fun to play with at all." She snapped out of her thoughts, glaring at him again.

"You know I don't know what you mean." He leaned forward, his eyes burning into hers, that damnable smirk not leaving his face.

"Would you like to?" She tried to understand what he meant, confusion and irritation flickering across her face. He seemed to be amused by her mood, his next words sending cold waves down her spine.

"Do you not wonder where your magic comes from, little mouse? Do you think yourself a sorceress, a wizard maybe? You are naturally inclined to your gifts, that is true. But they are gifts. They are not yours." 

She had. She had wondered, when she woke up on that beach alone, how she knew magic. She had thought about it many times, assuming that whatever she had been before, she must have naturally been inclined to magic. She hadn't put much thought into where it came from, not able to imagine herself studious given the constant barrage of bloodied thoughts that tormented her. She had wondered, but decided maybe it was better not to know. It was useful, as useful as the way she elegantly handled a dagger and seemed to know the most effective and efficient way to kill anything she came across. It was natural, the way drawing or playing her lute was. Echoes of a past life, a her that didn't exist anymore. His teasing, seductive purr broke her out of her thoughts again.

"They're mine, Ilara. Once, as you so eloquently put it, you were 'stupid enough to make a deal with a devil'- several delicious deals, as a matter of fact." She felt frozen in her spot as she processed his words, trying to put together what he meant. 

"I... I made a deal with you before? For my magic?"

"Oh yes, warlock. You most certainly did. I don't know if I've ever seen someone so desperate to carve out freedom in whatever way they can find. And your lovers ire when he found out," his smile widened at some joke she didn't understand, couldn't know. 

"Your magic is mine. Even if your soul is not. But, that's why we're here today, is it?" 

She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, her mouth opening and closing before she finally felt words tumbling out.

"I'm a warlock? You... You... You're my patron?" She felt like the world had split open, like she was falling into the chasm of herself that wanted nothing more than to just remember. Remember why she ever would have done something like that. She knew now, at least, more than she did the last time she had seen Raphael, when he danced around the truth of what they were to each other. She knew now that she was intricately tied to Bhaal- her soul his plaything that he could call upon at will, stopped only now by the tadpole squirming through the muck of her brain. When? When had she gone to Raphael while she was a slave to those murderous desires, a cruel and uncaring wielder of death?

"Do you want to remember?" His words again brought her out of her thoughts, and she felt like all the air had left the room, like he had dragged a hot knife through her stomach. Of course that's what she wanted. It was all she wanted. But there was a cost. There was always a catch, a price, an infernal contract to be signed. What had she promised him already? What had she given him before, promising to him so that he would gift her the magic humming in her blood? What contract of hers did he already hold in his hands?

"What do you want? In exchange?" She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice, the thought of being able to remember anything dangling in front of her making her feel weak. Always, always, weak. His eyes raked up and down her body, lingering everywhere, making her feel exposed, burning into hers as he finally looked back up at her face.

"The same thing I always wanted. You. You come when I call, and when that delicious little soul of yours is fair game, we'll have even more to discuss." 

"Me?" She couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice, glaring at his laughter, at the way her body burned at the way he was looking at her.

"You. You and that delectable little body. If I can't claim your soul, infuriating your god while you whine beneath me will do in the mean time. Not to mention the boy. Oh, he did not like our lovely, indulgent arrangement." Her face flushed at his comment, confusion again crossing her face. 

"The boy-" He put a hand up, the smirk finally disappearing from his face. 

"Wait for that. I asked you a question, god child. Answer me. Do you want to remember? Do we have a deal?" Her mind spun with what he was asking. Could she do that? Just let him use her whenever he called in exchange for the memories she was so desperate to have? Memories where apparently she had already made this deal to begin with? Her mind briefly flickered to Astarion, and she flinched with guilt. Did it even matter? If she said no? She had already made this deal, so if she refused what would that mean?

"Why? Why are you offering me this now and not before?" He stood, crossing the room to come closer to her, leaning forward so that his breath caressed her skin.

"Because now it's fun, little mouse. And I'm growing bored of you skulking and hiding when that's not who you are. You've started to remember. And you can get me something I want, when you remember that you are bound to me. Whatever else comes from those memories and torments that anguished soul of yours will only make it sweeter. Suffering always does." 

"What is it that you want, what can I possibly get you that you don't already have?"

"Something that you are an expert in stealing. Something you've already stolen before. You and the boy. Tsk, tsk. Stealing it again won't be so hard, will it? I want the crown, little mouse. The crown of Karsus. And you're going to bring it to me." 

Her insides writhed as he spoke, a sweat breaking out on her skin. Could she do that? Would it be so bad? If he took that damnable crown and crawled back to Avernus to fight over it like dogs with scraps? Would that be the worst thing? At least it would be gone from here, it's temptation forever leaving Faerun behind. She felt like she was chewing cotton, goosebumps breaking out on her skin. Weak, weak, weak. She needed to know. She needed to remember. Before she could stop herself, she found her mouth opening, saying the words she had sworn she wouldn't say.

"Fine. You have a deal." His laughter was different this time, lower, his hands tightly grasping her waist. The pain in her head suddenly became unbearable, and she gritted her teeth against it as his grip on her only tightened. She felt dizzy, trying to control the onslaught of pain ripping through her skull, finally letting a sob wrench out of her mouth. 

"Explain. Now." Karlach's voice was harsh, harsher than Ilara had ever heard her, and she flinched. She took a deep breath as she looked around her at everyone staring back at her expectantly. Tensions had gotten high as soon as they returned to camp. Astarion demanding to know what Gortash had meant by 'nearest and dearest'. Karlach demanding to know how she had known him. Shadowheart silently watching with an unreadable expression on her face before finally slinking away to tell Gale and the others what had happened. And now, they were here. All of them. Waiting for her to talk. She didn't even know where to begin.

"I am... I am the chosen of Bhaal. A Bhaal-spawn." The words hung in the air between them, nobody saying anything for an uncomfortable amount of time before finally speaking up.

"How long have you known this?" Shadowheart's voice had a sharp edge to it, a note of pain underneath at not being told, making Ilara flinch with guilt.

"Maybe a week?" She replied softly, shrugging her shoulders. That was mostly true, right? She hadn't really known, just had suspicions. Clues. The urges. The dreams and memories of bloodshed and her rapture in it. Scleritas. A goddamn letter. A visit from Orin. Dreams about Gortash. She sighed.

"I think the better question is, what did you do?" She turned sharply at Jaheira's question, her face darkening.

"What do you mean by that?" The old elf scowled, her eyes scanning Ilara's.

"You are older than when you woke up on that ship. You say you do not remember, what you've done. Is that still true? And better yet, do you intend to go back to your father?" Ilara went impossibly more stiff, trying to decide how much of an answer to give.

"I have no intention of remaining a slave to a miserable god who wants to see the world end in bloodshed. As for what I've done, or what I remember... it is perhaps best I don't share, and just say that I was not good, or kind, or caring. I was cold, and ruthless, and always, always covered in blood that was not mine. The memories I do have are not comforting, or useful to us now." There was a long silence before Gale spoke.

"Well, this has been... Enlightening," he said lightly, trying to lift some of the heaviness. She narrowed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose to try and temper her headache.

"You did... You did all of this? Because you were the chosen of Bhaal, wielding death in his name. We all have these tadpoles in our heads because you apparently stole the crown in some heist game with Gortash!" Shadowheart's voice had taken on an even sharper edge as she stared at her friend, and Ilara's eyes went wide.

"I. DON'T. REMEMBER. I don't remember, and I wasn't... I wasn't me. And for what it's worth, I am trying to fix it- which I was doing before finding out that I was involved in any way."

"You haven't even answered my question! You're hiding this from us, fine. Now we know. I know that's not who you are now. But that's who you were. I remember you." Karlach's voice was like a sharp knife dragging through Ilara, and she went completely still as her gaze slid over to her friend.

"What do you mean by that?" She didn't mean for her voice to catch as she asked the question, and she flinched against her own weakness. Always. Always so weak. Karlach scowled, shaking her head.

"When you found me, I thought you looked familiar. But the small handful of times I had seen you, it was ten years ago, in passing. And you were always... Silent, cold, your eyes so empty. I thought it couldn't possibly be the same person. Until Gortash said otherwise today. Then, I realized I had been right."

She wished she could sink down into the ground, erase the things she had done, the person she had been.

"I don't.. I don't remember," she said instead, shaking her head. She was so tired of that word, so tired of saying it to everyone around her , so tired of failing because her mind was a smooth blank screen of nothingness. Or had been. She at least had the memories of her perverted worship to comfort her, her every thought drenched in blood. She wished more than anything that she could offer some clarity.

"But you did, somehow. I saw it. In your face when you looked at him. We were right there, Soldier. Astarion and Shadowheart and I- we all saw the look on your face." Ilara slowly dragged her hands over her face, staring out at them all through her fingers.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Karlach. I don't remember anything. I'm not who I was. Whoever Gortash remembers, whoever he thinks I am, she isn't there anymore. The tadpole and Orin made sure of that." Her voice held a note of bitterness, a raw anger at what had been done to her. The thought of pulling Orin's entrails out of her as she laughed flickered through her mind, and she clenched her fists. There was a long stretch of silence, the tension seeming to pulse in the air between all of them.

"Will you be able to do it? Take care of him?" Karlach's voice was softer, a note of concern threading through her anger. All the color drained from Ilara's face as she realized what Karlach was asking her, and she clenched her fists even tighter, digging her nails into her palms as she chewed the inside of her cheek. She didn't know. She didn't know if she could do it, but she had to. So she would. It was was she was made to do, be a weapon in the dark against any who should try to usurp power. Wasn't that what he was doing? Didn't he need to be stopped? So why did it feel like sharp blades of ice were digging into her stomach at the thought?

"Yes," she replied, her voice feeling a thousand miles away. "I don't remember him anyways. What's one more death on my neverending list?"

***

She groaned, laying back against the bedroll as she thought about Astarion's question. It had been a long night as they all talked about what had happened. About her. About what to do. As they all had fired question after question at her that she didn't have the memories to answer. Astarion had been silent the entire time, until now, when he had quietly come in asking if they could talk. She finally sighed.

"I don't remember him, no. But yes, I... Had a feeling. There had been some evidence, some things Orin had said this morning and-"

"Orin?" He cut in sharply, trying to keep his voice level. "Ilara, do you tell anyone anything? When did you see Orin again?" She winced at the insult, her chest going tight.

"This morning. When you left to go hunting. It wasn't important."

"Wasn't important? Wasn't important? Darling, how much have you just been keeping to yourself? How much did you know about Gortash before we went to that coronation this morning?" Another low groan came out of her mouth, and she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to stop the pounding in her head.

"I didn't know... Much. I might have had a clue, or two, that we knew each other. Once." A letter. Dreams. The way I felt when we stumbled onto him in those few precious seconds in Moonrise.

"Oh, it was more than that, pet. We all saw the way you looked at him. It was... It was the way you look at me." She went completely still, feeling like all the air had left her body.

"It's not... It's not the same. I don't even remember him. It's just... A feeling. An echo of something that was."

"You love him." The words hung between them, and she wished she could grab them out of the air, erase them from ever being spoken.

"I don't remember him," she whispered back. She clenched her jaw, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts before she sat up quickly, blinking at him. She had an idea, a desperate idea that she usually avoided at all costs. The one person she knew had a vested interest in her, had offered her a way out, had said she would come to him when her desperation had reached it's end.

"I... I have to go. I have to go, I'll be back by morning. I need you to not ask me any questions, not right now. I'll be back. Do you trust me?"

"We are not done with this conversation, little love."

"I know. I'll be back to finish it. There's someone I need to talk to, who I think might be able to help us. The devil who has already offered us help more than once this journey."

She took a deep breath before standing up and grabbing her pack, slinging it over her shoulder.