Noone's favorite person.

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.

--------------------------------------------------------

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.

--------------------------------------------------------

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

Meanwhile, in the deep cells, Kaelis was not left hanging, but was now shackled to a chair of simmering steel, the metal glowing a dull, angry red that seared his skin through his tattered trousers. The wound in his chest Zariel had inflicted with his own blade had been crudely stitched closed, the skin puckered and inflamed around the ugly black thread close to Dis's own brand exposed on his chest–a permanent reminder of his failure and the price of his disobedience in the capture and return of Ekrah. Behind him, a lesser devil worked with a sharp, grimy blade, scraping away his hair in slow and methodical strokes, their face a mask of bored cruelty with each pass of the razor. It felt like a violation, a stripping away of the man he had become, the man Ekrah had curated one tender touch and kiss at a time. The removal was not for sheer humiliation though, it was a preparation, a grooming for the spectacle Zariel had planned. He was being reforged–no longer just as the Chainbound Herald of Dis–but as her creature, her champion, destined to bleed for the entertainment of the Hells in the Crucible of the Fallen. He could feel her intentions in the very air, a feverish, electric anticipation for the moment she would shatter Ekrah's world by forcing him to watch as the man he loved broke in her arena.

Zariel's presence preceded her, a sudden spike in the oppressive heat that made the air itself feel thin and sharp. The scraping stopped as the lesser devil bowed its head upon her entry, while Kaelis lifted his own, his electric blue eyes locking onto her radiant form without flinching. His heart hammered against his ribs, but it was not fear of her that fueled its frantic rhythm. It was for Ekrah.

Was he alive? Was he being treated for the terrible burns that had marred his pale flesh, or was he suffering a fate worse than this?

The thoughts that racked his brain were a sharper torment than the hot steel beneath him, and Zariel watched, the scent of scorching flesh permeating the air as the white fire of her eyes flared with amusement upon the sight of his appearance–shackled, half-shorn, still glaring at her with an unbroken spirit. She tilted her head, watching him with a look of almost fond condescension, the way a master craftsman might admire a particularly stubborn piece of wood before breaking it to their will. "Look at you," she purred, "you're actually quite handsome without all that hair. Almost presentable."

Kaelis's lip curled into a sneer in response, his fingers flexing against the searing metal of his restraints, knuckles turning white as he imagined wrapping them around her throat. The conjured image enough to make the curse Dis had carved into his very bones as a child stir–a nest of hot needles beneath his tongue, a searing punishment for the insubordination he was about to voice. It had been his constant companion, a brutal reminder of his place, but meeting Ekrah had changed something fundamental within him, had ignited a fire in his soul that burned hotter than any infernal curse branded on bone. The fear of that constant punishment had been seared away by an even greater fear now: the fear of losing what he had found beside Ekrah.

"Funny," he rasped, voice raw from disuse but steady with a defiance that felt like his last true possession, "I wish I could say the same thing about your ugly mug." The curse erupted instantly, a searing agony that seized his lungs and throat, his tongue feeling as if it had been dipped in molten iron. Smoke curled from between his lips as he tasted blood, ash, and the bitter remnants of the years of beaten-in conformity that had forged him. Still, he held her gaze, refusing to bow, to blink, to give her the satisfaction of his pain.

Zariel's smile only widened, a predator's delight in the sight of his suffering as she stepped closer, her immense wings unfurling in a slow and predatory stretch that cast him deeper into shadow. "Wretched thing," she murmured, voice dropping to something near conspiratorial as the devil behind him resumed its brutal task, the blade slicing deep enough to draw a thin line of blood that trickled down his scalp. "Hold on to that fire, hound," she whispered as she leaned down, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, a touch that felt deceptively soft against the skin there. "I want the Crucible to see it burn out of you." She straightened then, her form a silhouette of righteous fury against the hellfire glow of the cell.

Kaelis could only clench his jaw in bound indignation as he clung to the one truth she could never touch. The one thought that burned brighter than her flames or Dis's curse: every torment she inflicted, every drop of blood she spilled, only worked to inspire his resolve into something stronger as it drove him back toward the one person who had taught him that freedom was not a lie, and that love was worth every chain, every scar, every scream dragged from the stubborn depths of him. In the darkness of the cell, that single thought became his flicker of hope, his anchor, his prayer whispered into the ash.

Ekrah's eyes shot open, the red ambient glow of the hells shimmering through swaying curtains. Velvet and silk wrapped his body in a warmth his tired mind convinced itself was Kaelis, the soft fabrics against cold skin mimicking loving fingers tracing vast expanses of skin he'd planned to revisit with his lips. But when Ekrah rolled over to meet the breadth of the hound's chest, he was met with emptiness. An unoccupied space at his right, the sheets crumpled from a body previously rested there, now only slightly warmed by hellish air. He sat up slow and ran a hand through his messed curls, opal and carnelian searching the dimly lit room for any familiar shapes. His limbs ached. The flesh at his back stung with lingering claw marks. Yet his memory held no picture of what had transpired the night before.

"You're awake. Good," A voice chimed from across the room, the figure sauntering into view as Ekrah squinted through the lingering sleep that clung to his eyelids. "Get dressed. We've a very special meeting to attend. One you'll certainly not want to miss." Zariel's armor clamored about as she pulled it onto her body, the breastplate catching the red glow pouring in through the window like molten sunlight and refracting it onto the vaulted ceiling above. For a moment, Ekrah simply stared at the smattering of red light, watching as it bounced and danced overhead, taunting him with the prospect of a freedom he was certain he'd never taste again. With a small grin, Zariel approached Ekrah's tired form and grasped his chin in one gloved hand, lifting his face toward her to appraise his features like a fine piece of artwork she'd planned to break. "Here's your first and only chance to prove yourself, pet. Make haste."

The winding halls of Zariel's fortress echoed with footfall and the soft clink of metal on metal, Ekrah's armor absorbing every bit of light that touched it in its pitch blackness while Zariel served as a beacon to follow. It was the armor he served in, the armor that saw him through training and planning and war. It was the armor he died in. The armor his fellow soldier's tore from his corpse and brought back to Zariel to be displayed in the grand hall. And now, it found its way back to him once more, fitting just the same as it always had, suffocating him the way it always had. The wingless cambion tugged the hood of his cloak over his head and followed close at the Archduchess's side, keeping his eyes on the shiny toe box of his boots as they descended various winding staircases toward their meeting place. He didn't ask questions. Didn't ponder the context of the meeting or whom might be involved. He'd simply assumed it was the same meetings he'd always attended at Zariel's side, talk of war and plans of attacks, a round table of soldiers and warlords that all felt the need to puff their chests larger than one another to make a point. It was exhausting to witness. A dick-sucking contest that was more tiresome than exciting.

Iron gates opened one by one to make a path for the pair to descend into the belly of the citadel, leading them toward a locked set of steel doors that sat guarded by two large cambions, swords of pure blue-ish flame nestled at their sides. With a nod, they parted ways for the pair to enter, the massive doors creaking open slow beneath their own weight. Zariel entered first, disappearing into the dark room where the faint clink of chains made Ekrah's ears perk instantly. He followed the sound inside, the heavy steel doors shutting behind him. The stench of old blood and sweat permeated the air in a sour concoction that earned a shuttering breath from the wingless cambion's already burning lungs. Zariel beckoned him closer with the curl of a finger and knelt beside the large shadowed form that darkened the space with its sheer size, one of her gloved hands wrapping tight around a jutting horn to lift the head to expose the face. "*I've a surprise for you, pet. Look.*" He stepped forward, far too trusting of the Archduchess's game, each shuffled step careful and calculated the further he moved into the darkness. Then his eyes adjusted. In an instant, Ekrah's world felt as though it had shattered around him and put itself back together in a single breath, every ache and pain and fear dissipating to ash the moment his vision focused on the shadow.

Before him, chained and battered and shaved, sat Kaelis.