Chapter Text
“What a sight for sore eyes…”
Ralko Thorsin looked up, mouth dripping with blood. His teeth and jaw ached, his whole head buzzing, thrumming with an unbearable heat.
Enver Gortash had just strode into his involuntarily-assigned bedroom.
And Ralko had just killed someone, although he could not remember doing so. He could only guess from the context clues. Mainly, the blood in his mouth, coating his hands, sprayed down his front in a gory spectacle.
He had been disarmed the moment he’d refused Lord Enver Gortash’s request for an alliance earlier that day (or perhaps days ago…how long had it been?). Leapt on by a number of metal automatons, who had the numbers advantage, as well as the edge of being totally unknown to him and his friends. Ralko wasn’t too sure if his compatriots had been captured or escaped. He seemed to be the primary target. He’d been hit first, and the last thing he’d heard was Karlach roaring in outrage, the clatter of steel on steel, Wyll shouting out to his father, Astarion calling his name.
He'd awoken still in Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, but floors above. In a stuffy, opulent bedroom, clearly meant for guests of honor and noble patriars of distinguished bloodlines. Not for him, obviously, but he was here, nonetheless. Ralko had rolled out of the softest bed he had ever slept in...or at least, the softest bed he could remember sleeping in. Which wasn’t saying much, since he could only remember his last month or so with his strange cavalry of allies, and they had been sleeping on sticks and stones for the entire duration. He’d sprung out of bed, stumbling against the stone floor, his head aching, a metallic taste in his mouth, but he was disoriented, not able to stand upright immediately.
He took in the four-poster bed, decorated with ugly, gaudy purple drapes, and the fine, mahogany desk pushed against the nearest window. He had lurched for the window, but it was too small to even consider wiggling through. It also told Ralko that he was near the top of Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, in a tower so high, that only someone with wings would consider leaping out anyway.
He'd immediately tried the door to his left. It was locked. He’d torn through the room, trying to find anything even vaguely sturdy to jam into its key hole, but to no avail. Gortash must’ve known better than to leave anything even remotely weapon or lockpick like in the room. Rather insultingly, the only items he found in the desk and in the wardrobe were gaudy clothes and hats. In a fit of boredom and rage, he’d ripped through most of them. He’d just been about to consider tying them together to make a rope, when the door had opened.
Who had been there?
It hadn’t been Gortash…
Ralko stared dispassionately down at the man on the floor. Must’ve been him, right?
How unfortunate for him, that Ralko had not sated his lust for blood in a long time. Perhaps the drow might feel worse about this indiscriminate killing, if it was not a guard, whom he would’ve gladly sank his teeth in, even without the Urge.
“Just as I remembered you…my favorite little wild Bhaalspawn,” Gortash said, a sickeningly familiar smile on his lips. “Not that…well-groomed, tidy, presentable creature you were in the audience chamber…”
“Why am I here?” Ralko snarled, making his way towards him, of half a mind to leap at his throat too. But Gortash held up his arm, fist tightly clenched. Ralko saw the gauntlet glowing for only a moment, before he felt a great pressure on his chest. A black, shadowy hand, clenched around his torso. He scowled at Gortash, still not convinced that he shouldn’t attack this so-called Lord right now. But the hand squeezed tighter around him, making it hard for him to breathe, much less move.
“I’m glad to see your fire hasn’t been diminished, even after weeks of traveling through muck,” Gortash said. His smarmy, arrogant face was making Ralko want to punch something. But as he could still only just barely breathe, he let out an angry wheeze instead. The hand relinquished its grip, disappearing with a small puff. “You did believe me, didn’t you? When I said you and I devised the Absolute plan together?”
“I believed you,” Ralko said. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” Gortash said, and for a moment, the façade slipped. Ralko could see the mask for what it was. A thin layer of protection. Something softer glimmered in his eyes, but it darted away, quick as a fish downstream. “You must’ve wondered who you used to be…I can tell you…”
“Why should I believe a single word that slides out of your wretched mouth?” Ralko demanded. “You’ve imprisoned me!”
“Must you be so dramatic?” Gortash asked, rolling his eyes, as though the drow was an obstinate charge of his. “I gave you a warm bed for a night. You should be glad. I can’t imagine your back is protesting nearly as much as you.”
Ralko snorted with derision.
“Besides,” the Banite said, his voice softening, unsettling and raspy. “There was a time when you loved my wretched mouth.”
A shiver ran down Ralko’s spine, a spine-chilling tingle, as though a hand as ghostly as the Black Hand of Bane was caressing him. He tried to suppress his reaction to it, but Gortash’s eyes darted far too quickly, scanning him up and down, seeing far more than he should.
“But why I am here? You still haven’t answered me,” Ralko said, his voice steadying. He brushed his white hair back, far too long for him at the moment, but he hadn’t had the time to cut it in a while.
Gortash stared at him evenly. His expression was intense, but inscrutable too, heated and aggravated by him, but Ralko couldn’t be sure what he was thinking, not with a scroll of Detect Thoughts anyway. All he knew was that it was starting to piece itself together in his ruined mind. He could only guess what Gortash wanted. But he had a feeling it did not bode well for him.
“You’re sure you don’t remember anything?” the Archduke asked, taking a few steps forward, getting far too close to the drow. “Nothing at all?”
“No,” Ralko said harshly. “Now let me go.”
Enver Gortash’s scowl deepened, and the drow knew he didn’t believe his lies. For the truth was, that while he had no definite memories of this place, or of this man, there was…something. Not exactly recognition, but something far less defined. The familiar chill of the place. The pretentious atmosphere of the audience hall, the squirm of discomfort and disdain in his belly. The brisk, warm smell of the castle, with its doors wide open, ready to accept the sea breeze and all manner of traveling folk. But now, he smelt something different. Something that smelled pleasant, mesmerizing, and filled him with a grim sort of horror.
The smell of Gortash himself.
He hadn’t smelt it before, in the audience chamber, surrounded by dozens of other warm bodies, but now, with just him and Gortash, and a still fresh corpse, he was forced to inhale it. It sunk into his skin through his nostrils, his face tingling, throat itching. It was like a smell from childhood, bringing back a familiar spark of warmth, the sensation of being safe and home. It did not arouse memories, per se, but pure emotions, raw and unwanted, rising to a boil within his stomach. He had to wonder if that was intentional, getting close to him...hoping his strong nose could smell his scent...
Judging by the leer…
“Would you care for a drink?”
The drow’s eyes narrowed. That was the last thing he’d expected to hear him say. And yet, at the same time, the little tyrant’s leer had eased to more of a careless smirk, his eyes easing from piercing and knowing, to more mischievous. Maybe even curious.
“Is that a joke?” Ralko asked flatly.
“Not a particularly good one,” Gortash said. “You must be thirsty. Hungry. And I expect you haven’t had a good meal since you woke up without your memories.”
Ralko’s eyes flickered to the door, trying to gauge if he could make a run for it. But almost as if he could read his mind, Gortash put on a show of stroking his gauntlet idly. And Ralko could hear the clank of one of the Steel Watchmen, just outside, in the hall. Maybe it was better to bide his time. Try to figure out where his friends were. It wouldn’t hurt him to have dinner with the tyrant.
“Excellent,” Gortash said. Ralko scowled at him, rather irritated that he’d apparently read his mind again. How was he doing that? It couldn’t be magic. But if what he was saying was true, then he knew Ralko quite well. Perhaps he could glean other information about himself from the man.
But if he couldn’t, well. At least he could jam a butterknife into his throat.
Enver Gortash stared down at his hands in disquiet. They were shaking. Why were they shaking? He wasn’t afraid. He couldn’t be. His clothes were charmed to prevent that. In fact, he should be immune to any emotion-altering conditions. Did his useless wizards need to be thrown into the Iron Throne? He clenched his fingers tightly together, trying to ease the rapid beating of his heart. He just couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true. Orin had told him that he was alive, but she had also told him that he was dead. He’d assumed it was one of her tricks. Bane knew, she had tried to trick him far too many times before. But then he’d done it.
Ralko Thorsin had walked up to him in the audience chamber, before all the nobility of Baldur’s Gate, and stood before him, unafraid. And unaware, that they were not merely allies or acquaintances or even friends. They were so much more than that. And they always had been.
The trembling finally eased enough for him to reach for a goblet of wine. Everything was prepared.
Lord Enver Gortash sat in his private dining room, hands steady, eyes calm. It was an elegant setting, if he did say so himself. A table for as many as twelve guests, but he only had one very special, honored guest. It was already laden with the finest meals the kitchen of Wyrm’s Rock Fortress could muster, steaks and roasted pig, puddings and pies, fresh fish and venison, exotic spices and steaming bowls of soup sprinkled with exorbitant seasonings, mushrooms and sausages from as far as Menzobarrenzan, and plump, firm vegetables, cut and sautéed, grown fresh from Baldur’s Gate’s own backyard.
Was it unnecessary? Absolutely. He knew the drow wouldn’t touch most of it, or even any of it, if he was still feeling stubborn. Most of it would be thrown out, or perhaps passed along to the luckier servants. But he didn’t care.
He knew what he had to do. He needed to remind Ralko of what they were, what they had been, together. How great they had once been, how powerful they had made each other. Ralko would thank him. The real Ralko, anyway, hidden somewhere in there, beneath the façade of decency that had so fooled all his friends.
Ralko entered the room rather awkwardly. Mostly because he was being dragged by two or three Banites, who seemed to be quite reluctant to touch him. They kept throwing Gortash worried glances, as though worried he might cut off their hands for daring to touch the Bhaalspawn. Their concerns were not unwarranted. There was a time when he’d had servants lashed for even glancing at the Chosen of Bhaal.
But Ralko wasn’t the same person. Not exactly. Not yet.
With much difficulty, his men managed to force Ralko into the chair, although they almost had to flatten him to do it.
“Don’t make me chain you to that chair,” Gortash called. “It’s rather unbecoming of men of our stature.”
Ralko shoved the Banites away from him, but glared sullenly at the Chosen of Bane, not making a move towards the door, or to seize the nearest knife. The lord chose to see that as a sign of progress, or at least, of some willingness to behave. He had never quite tamed the Bhaalspawn before, but he’d come close. And he was keen on trying again. He had the advantage of knowing Ralko, intimately, inside and out. Ralko was at a disadvantage, with no knowledge of himself or the chosen of Bane. He looked forward to re-educating him.
“Go ahead,” Gortash encouraged, waving his gauntleted hand over the table. “You can have anything you want.”
“Where are my friends?” Ralko asked sharply. “What have you done with them?”
Gortash sighed. “A boring question…I haven’t done anything to them.”
“I would like to see them.”
“Perhaps I will allow you to see them,” Gortash said. “If you behave.”
Ralko’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his fingers edging towards the table. “If I behave…you still haven’t told me what you want with me.”
“I bet you could figure it out, if you thought about it instead of your friends,” the Banite sighed.
“I’m of no use to your political machinations, especially without memories,” Ralko shot. “Although I doubt I was ever a political asset to you, as my current skills suggest I operated beneath laws, not above them. You have no use for my technical knowledge, as yours far outstrips my own. I am of no use to you as an assassin or a thief if I’m trapped in here.”
“And?” Gortash asked pleasantly.
“And you’re a piece of shit,” Ralko said. The Banite had to resist the urge to smile. He couldn’t encourage this kind of behavior, even if it amused him. “You want me to entertain you.”
“In a way,” Gortash said lazily. “Why don’t you take a sip of wine? Ulaver is your favorite, isn’t it?”
Ralko blinked at him, irritation lined in his pretty face. Gortash was glad that his companions were good for one thing, at least. Protecting that long nose, high cheekbones, and snarling mouth, still full of shiny fangs.
“Drink just a sip,” Gortash said, gesturing at his glass. “And I will tell you what became of one of your companions.”
The drow scowled even deeper. But he reached for the glass, and pulled it to his mouth. Gortash watched, mesmerized, as he sniffed at its content, trying to determine if there was anything suspicious mixed in with the wine. “What do you smell?” he asked pleasantly.
Ralko’s eyes darted to him, sharp and focused. “Wine,” he said. “And something else. Something familiar. But I don’t know what.”
“If I wanted to kill you, I would be able to do so without poison,” the lord said.
“There are worse things than death,” Ralko murmured ominously. But Gortash merely sighed, leaning back, imbibing a drink of his own, the same type of wine. Ulaver. Not his favorite, but he had often indulged Ralko in the past, pouring them both glasses from the same bottle. So, still scowling, but accepting that he did not really have a choice in the matter, he took a careful, timid sip.
"You can do better than that," Lord Gortash said, smirking. "Really enjoy yourself, why don't you?"
Ralko made a rude gesture at him. But seeing no (immediate) effects, he drank more of the wine, as Gortash's greedy stare took in the bob of his throat.
"Which one do you want to know about?" he asked as Ralko swallowed, the drow trying to conceal how much he was enjoying the taste of the wine, but to no avail.
"Astarion," he said immediately.
Gortash's smile faded away. How irksome. But not unexpected. He did, after all, have keen, working eyes. He could see the bite marks in his flesh, where undead fangs had marred his throat. Ralko had always had scars on his neck, scars that Gortash admired greatly, had often lavished his attentions upon, with his fingers and teeth and tongue, but the two small, unobtrusive puncture wounds were an affront to him. As frustrated as he was, he could not deny that Ralko had always been easy. With his body, at least. Gortash prided himself on being the first to own his mind, and his soul, and everything else. No matter what the vampire was to him, he would never be the first.
But it was still an aggravation. A crime against him. One he would punish. But later.
"The little vampire spawn was hurt in the...scuffle," Gortash said. Ralko stiffened, eyes blazing with anger and concern. Gortash felt the strong urge to squeeze something fleshy into a pulp. But he restrained himself, merely taking another sip of wine. "But he'll recover."
"What about the others?" Ralko said. "What about Karlach? If you've hurt her, I'll rip out your spine with my bare hands."
"As lovely as that sounds, I cannot tell you what happened to Karlach," the Banite said. "Until you do exactly as I say."
The drow stared at him, his face thunderous, his fingers clenched tightly against the cloth centerpiece of the table. But something was happening to him. His eyes were no longer glaring, but squinting. The angry lines of his face were smoothing, unwrinkling.
Gortash smiled as he stood up slowly, lazing his way towards the drow, who was trembling ever so slightly.
"What...was in it?" he stuttered. And there was an expression that Gortash so rarely saw, even back when they were involved. Uncertainty. Trying to hold it together, but failing, as his shoulders heaved, and his fingers grasped at his own throat.
A hint... of fear.
The tyrant smiled. He made it to the drow's side, and put his hand gently on his shoulder. Ralko flinched, but it was a dull movement, reflexive, but delayed. He tried to pull himself free, but Gortash was firm, and he was too weak.
"Just something to help you remember," Gortash said gently. "Just relax. And enjoy it."
Ralko gasped.
In exhilaration, as Enver Gortash forced a third finger inside of him, jamming itself mercilessly against his tight, quivering walls.
It was the dead of night. Ralko hadn't even gotten the opportunity to bathe yet, or even report his successes to the Chosen of Bane. As soon as he'd entered the dining room, he had been seized and thrust against the wall. He'd opened his mouth, but had no words to say. All he'd done was accept Enver's tongue, jamming itself down his throat, anxious and pent-up, licking at his teeth, sliding against his tongue, slick and wet and warm. He'd grasped at the man's back, tightly twisting the material of his cloak in his fingers, tugging relentlessly at him, trying to pull him closer, as if they could get any closer. He could feel Enver's chest pressed against his, their wicked black hearts beating rapidly together, not quite in sync, but as close as they could be.
Enver's gauntlet dug into the meat of his leg, pulling it up, so that Ralko could wrap it around his hip. The metal pierced his flesh, sending blood trickling down his leg, pooling in the back of his knee.
But he'd liked that.
He'd liked it when Gortash had pulled him away from the wall, and pushed him towards the dining room table, which was laden with exotic foods from all over the world, no longer warm or steaming, but cold and neglected, a waste of material. But Ralko had swept several plates right off the table, clattering against the floor.
Normally, the lord might reprimand him. Chide him for making an unnecessary mess, and forcing him to use valuable manpower on cleaning up after his petty little impulses. But Enver hadn't seen Ralko in over two weeks, since he'd been traveling, forced to follow one of their quarries far out, into the countryside. He didn't care about making a mess.
Ralko had laid against the table on his back, scrambling at his belt, until Enver had slapped his hands away, and done it for him, dragging at his pants and then his underwear, until his lower half was completely bare. The drow had laughed breathlessly as Gortash had run the sharp claws of his gauntlet from his belly to his pubic mound, drawing blood from the soft curve of his skin.
"Try it," Ralko had egged him on breathlessly. But Gortash had shook his head.
"As depraved as we are, dearest, I have no wish to damage you internally," he said.
Ralko had pouted, bucking slightly under that hand, trying to entice him with the wiggle of his hips. But the tyrant had just smiled, slapping his hand against his pussy, and eliciting a slight gasp of surprise and pain.
"I won't damage what is mine," he whispered. "And who knows? Maybe one day your father will bless the creation of another Bhaalspawn. And then, this lovely little hole between your legs will need to be perfect for me."
Ralko had snarled at him, somewhere between furious at the thought of being replaced, and hopelessly aroused at the notion of being stuffed with the Chosen of Bane's unholy seed.
But now, he had put his teeth away, and all he could do was purr.
As Enver jammed those thick fingers into him, the claws of his other hand digging into his inner thigh as he forced his legs open, drawing more blood.
"Did you miss me?" the lord had asked.
Ralko had choked out something unintelligible.
Gortash, eyes glinting with displeasure, withdrew his fingers, to the drow's disappointment. He moved as though to sit up, but he howled, laying back down quickly, as the man slapped his pussy again, fingers slick and wet from his fluids. The Bhaalspawn whimpered as Enver grasped at his folds, fingers rubbing them together punishingly, pulling at the sensitive lips, stretching the delicate skin to its limit.
"Use your words, dearest," Enver commanded.
"I missed you!" Ralko cried. "Please, you piece of shit-!"
But his words became strangled, as his lover let go of his pussy entirely, and merely spread his legs farther apart, analyzing his genitals critically.
"Did you share yourself with any other man while I was gone?" Enver asked. "I wasn't sure, you seemed so open-"
"Kill yourself, Enver Gortash, kill yourself dead-!"
"A more jealous and suspicious man than me might be paranoid...but I know what's been between these filthy legs of yours, dearest."
And then, Ralko let out a strangled yell, an actual scream, and not just a moan or a yelp or a cry, as Enver pushed back into his pussy with all three fingers, invasive and oppressive and unkind.
"It's just those nasty, murderous fingers of yours," Enver said at a normal volume, ignoring the noise Ralko was making, somewhere between a sob and a curse. "Playing with yourself, prying yourself open, and thinking of me every night. Isn't that true?"
" Hrrrnngh- fuck you!"
"Admit it," Enver said. "And then, we can finish this. And then we can start again. And then we can go the rest of the damn night, over and over, until the only word you can remember is my name. Or...I can spend all night keeping you just on the edge...never quite tilting over it...but trembling perilously, right before the fall."
To demonstrate his point, he pulled his fingers free once again.
But Ralko sat up now.
He seized Gortash by the hair, his fingers actually tearing out a few strands in their strength and ferocity.
He yanked the man's head closer to him, forcing him to look him in the eyes.
"If you don't finish me right now," he growled. "I will flay you alive, inch by inch, and tear that measly dick of yours off, and feed it to my gnolls."
Enver smiled, a terrible, nasty, wicked thing.
But he didn't protest as the Dark Urge laid back down, yanking him forward. Didn't fight back, as the drow's grip in his hair tightened, and he forced the man's head between his legs.
He opened his mouth, but rather than speaking with his treacherous tongue, he shoved it in his pussy, nose pressing into his mound, so that all he could smell and taste was the drow that he had been dying to see, since the very hour he'd left, two weeks ago.
Ralko shook as his vision cleared, and he was returned to the present. Suddenly, everything felt too familiar. The food, the room, the table. His skin burned as he stared at that table, as, unbidden, the memory replayed itself, over and over in his mind. His back on the table. His legs wrapped around Gortash's neck, forcing him to-
Ralko's eyes fluttered back up, helpless, to meet Enver Gortash's steady gaze.
"Noblestalk," the drow said numbly. "I knew I recognized that smell. That's what was in the wine."
The tyrant nodded slowly, his eyes bright, intent.
"You saw something, didn't you?" he said softly. "What was it?"
But Ralko had had enough.
He was on his feet, and he lunged at the nearest knife. A steak knife.
He hurled it at Enver Gortash's face.