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Chapter Text

Sharess’ Caress is just a little bit gaudy, the aesthetic something akin to budget opulence.

More pressingly, it’s busy. You need to push past sweaty patrons as you ascend each set of stairs, politely edging past people entirely distracted with drinking and flirting. But Korilla had said that Raphael is waiting for you on the very top floor.

Karlach, Gale, and Astarion follow behind you, just as worn out by the day’s events as you are. 

After finally landing in Baldur’s Gate, your whole party had barely made it over the bridge before you’d been rather commandingly invited to attend the coronation of the new Archduke Gortash. The coronation had been a tough interaction. Between the strange waves of power that seemed to be emanating from the bastard, and keeping Karlach from committing public regicide, it had been overwhelming to try and consider all of the implications of his suggested alliance. 

You’d accepted, of course, but everyone privy to the conversation knew your alliance will be short-lived at best. 

Could Gortash be trusted? No, obviously not. Well, he had sounded genuine when he offered you a shared dominion over the brain, there’s no real reason to distrust his intentions. But perhaps that is precisely why you shouldn’t be dwelling on it. You know what his intentions are, and even if they aren’t true, you can’t imagine he would ever be hiding any plot less evil than what he explicitly promised you.

And so you’d left his coronation and Wyrm’s Rock, knowing that a broken alliance is an eventuality more than it is merely a possibility. It’s not like this introduces any new wrinkles to your plans, your party had always intended to take Gortash down just as you did Ketheric. Just as you plan to do with Orin. 

But somehow, this conclusion feels… regretful.

You’d turned it over and over in your head for the whole trek through the lower city to meet with the rest of your team at The Elfsong. Your gut intuition was roiling, rejecting wholeheartedly the idea of betraying the tyrant duke. But only now that you’ve met him? Taking down antagonists has always been an unfortunate reality - ever since you awoke on that nautiloid - and it is very odd that your instincts are only now beginning to disagree. 

You had hoped to discuss the matter with your party and the emperor once you’d arrived at the Elfsong.

But alas, Raphael’s familiar - the sneaky dwarvish woman you’d seen stalking around Rivington - had delivered you an immediate summons to Sharess’ Caress.

And thus, here you are, fairly certain you’ve followed her directions correctly and found Raphael’s room on the top-most floor. You steal a quick glance to your party members, noticing that each of them looks like they crave a hot meal and a warm bath just as much as you do. And then you knock.

“Come in.” The devil’s voice calls through the wood of the door, and you enter.

Oh. 

Gortash is here. That’s unexpected. Perhaps Raphael has mistimed his meetings.

He looks different in this lighting, Gortash. The soft glow from the fire hits his skin more softly, bringing out the warm tones of his cheeks and lips. Actually, you hadn’t noticed how full his lips were earlier. Maybe it’s just because he’s not mid-tirade. He does look more handsome in this light… or perhaps it was just the mask that he showed his subjugated audience that appeared unattractive. His posture is more relaxed here, shoulders loose, and his eyes are much less guarded as he observes you in turn.

“Oh my,” Raphael sounds delighted.

You become aware of the devil again - and aware of your companions - just as suddenly as if you’d broken the surface after swimming underwater. Like you could suddenly breathe, hear, and see again. 

Observing your surroundings, you find yourself suddenly standing barely two feet apart from Gortash - when did that..? You don’t even remember entering the room, but apparently you’ve met him in the mid-point.

“Well now,” Raphael is grinning wider than you’ve ever seen that sharp grin go. “Isn’t this just delicious?”

“What?” Karlach barks at him, stepping close behind you and posturing with her shoulders back, ever the faithful protector.

“Isn’t this a fascinating development?” Raphael all but coos, stalking closer to you, eyes aflame with interest.

“ISN’T WHAT FASCINATING?” Karlach erupts, clearly having reached her limit for Raphael’s bullshit (mere moments before you yourself were about to).

“The future ‘Hero of the Gate’, and its biggest threat…” Raphael pauses dramatically, grinning gleefully. “Soulmates.”

The room is silent.

What? Thats-

What an odd thing to say.

“What in Toril are you talking about?” You break the silence first, frowning at Raphael. In your periphery, you can see Gortash still staring at you, and you entirely ignore it.

“Why little mouse,” Raphael steps ever-closer, tilting his head to inspect you, and Gortash finally turns to glare at him too. “I thought I'd made myself quite clear. It is truly hilarious that the two of you are soulmates. You may have only just been acquainted, but you can feel it, can’t you? The invisible thread pulling you together. You all but rushed into each other’s arms the moment you entered the room.”

“Soulm-” You cut yourself off, incredulous in the face of whatever kind of trick he’s trying to pull. “You keep saying that like it’s a real thing. That’s a tale for poets, not politicians.”

“Ha!” Raphael laughs, and Karlach seems to be looking angrier by the minute. “Of course soulmates are real . It is merely a truly mind boggling turn of fate that it happened to you.”

You look back at your party members helpless, you mind slipping over every thought it tries to get any sort of traction on. Your eyes land on Gale, pleading - he knows things, right?

“Well, soulmates certainly are real ,” He says, tapping his chin with one finger as he casts his mind back. “They’re mostly observed between the gods though. And the demigods I suppose. Plus I’ve heard tell that it’s very common among djinni. And there have been plenty of - admittedly unconfirmed - stories through history-”

“This one loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?” Raphael gestures to Gale with an impatient eyebrow raised.

“I’ve never heard a more salient example of the cauldron calling the kettle black.” Gortash scowls at Raphael.

“ None of you have a leg to stand on; it took you ten minutes to monologue through your plan for world domination.” You cross your arms at Gortash, and you don’t miss how the corner of his mouth twitches upwards for a fraction of a second.

“Be that as it may,” Raphael huffs “Your fates are intertwined, souls married by the whims of the gods. Congratulations.”

You still haven’t torn your eyes from Gortash’s. They’re cold, pragmatic, calculating, just as they had been at his coronation. But they look so slightly softer in the firelight. You choose to ignore that.

“How does it feel, little mouse,” Raphael smirks “To be threatened with ceremorphosis by none other than your soulmate? I for one would hate to see you turn now. However fate decides to play this out will be much more interesting, I’m sure.”

“Fate or not,” Gortash frowns, his eyes still trained on yours. “It doesn’t change the work that must be done. For any of us.”

You’d forgotten just how close you were to him. Considering each other like this, you’re struck by the fact that he is almost a full head-height taller than you, and the subtle pull in your gut - the one that had gone unnoticed - is now undeniable. 

Undeniable or not, it is ignorable. So you meet his gaze and merely nod.

-

You’d been right, a warm bath and a hot meal has left you feeling so much more humanoid than you’d become accustomed to. Gods bless The Elfsong tavern.

That meeting had drawn on much too long, in your opinion. After Gortash had excused himself, Raphael had offered you access to a weapon that would free Prince Orpheus, and you’ll need to discuss it with the full party later. 

But it’s a good offer. Probably the best option you’ll have. Gods know that once your alliance with Gortash breaks, you’ll need some way to stop the elder brain.

You sigh - something you’ve found yourself doing a lot lately - and ruffle your bath-damp hair as you walk into the spacious, rented tavern room where you’ve all set up camp. Tonight, your party will have to discuss the best course of action regarding the Orphic hammer. And you’ll need to plot out your itineraries for tomorrow - Jaheira says she has some leads on a powerful ally, an old comrade who just needs to be helped out of some trouble. And you can tell that Shadowheart and Astarion are both tense being in a city full of people hunting them, so that all needs to be dealt with swiftly.

But first…

Your eyes find Karlach in her claimed corner of the inn room.

She’s borrowed one of Laezel’s purple-painted training dummies and is boxing with it, fists bare and probably aching. You hope she’ll let you heal her knuckles. You set your mouth in a determined line and go to chat with her.

“Karlach?”

“Tav.” She doesn’t stop boxing. Hearing your name from her - maybe even for the first time - it hurts. She’s supposed to call you ‘solider’.

“Can we talk?” Your voice is almost mournful, barely audible over the sounds of her fists making contact with the dummy. “About what happened today?”

She stops punching and she sighs, her shoulders sagging low as she turns towards you. She’s worked up a fine sheen of sweat, and her expression looks… defeated.

“What is there to talk about.” She doesn’t phrase it like a question, and she doesn’t meet your eye.

“Karlach, this doesn’t change anything.” You say with conviction. And you believe it. “None of our plans are changing because of this!”

She frowns and looks up at you for the first time. 

“Of course it changes things! Fucking Gortash is your…” She pauses, lip curling like she’s disgusted by the words. “Your soulmate.”

You reach for her, slowly, and she lets you take her hand in yours. It’s a dirty trick, a little bit. You know that your dear friend is so touch-starved that a little physical connection will make her soften for you. But, well, you also need the comfort yourself.

“We are already prepared to die to fix this,” You say, carefully, meaningfully. “We agreed to lay our lives on the line to save the sword coast. If we need to kill him… then he needs to die.”

“Soldier…” Your nickname, finally, said reverently, softly. “How does that… how do you feel?”

“Sad,” You answer, honestly. “But only a little. Not because of him specifically, just… what could have been.”

She nods, wordlessly, and squeezes your hand in hers.

“We wouldn’t have been good soulmates anyway,” You smile at her. “After what he did to you, and to those poor refugees out there.”

“What does it feel like? To have a soulmate.” Karlach looks at you intently. You’ve always known that she’s got a lot of joy and love to give, known that she’s a tragic romantic. It makes you smile to see her come back to herself.

“Well, I’d show you through the worm,” You tap at your forehead and give her a crooked grin. “But I fear seeing Gortash in that light would make you lose your lunch.”

“Eugh,” She pulls a face. “You’re definitely right.”

“Can I see?” Shadowheart calls from across the room.

“Oh, me too!” Astarion chimes in.

Chapter Text

You resist the urge to sigh as you settle into your seat before the grand, circular table in the council chambers of Wyrm’s Rock. The room is wide, and every seat is filled with the faces of the new Council of Secretaries. 

The Parliament of Peers - the governance advisory council of patriars - has been temporarily disbanded. After the final attack on the netherbrain led Baldur’s Gate into a post-war rebuild effort, it was decided that perhaps the ultimate authority of the Gate should, for a time, be composed of more specialised talent. And thus began the creation of your Council of Secretaries.

Sitting beside you at what amounts to the head of the table, is Enver Gortash.

Barely over a week ago, when Gortash came to you with his final offer, he had postured. He’d pretended that you were not hours away from storming his keep and slaying him upon his throne in order to take his netherstone. Though you both knew it was a last-ditch plea from a doomed man.

He’d given you his netherstone easily, and lended his remaining forces to your cause against the brain. All he’d asked in return was your political support once the dust began to settle.

And now, beside you in your shared council chambers, is your co-ruler, Archduke Enver Gortash.

He still has sway with both the upper and lower classes of Baldur’s Gate, even without the aid of his illithid infections. You cannot help but think of the Last Light Inn, the crowds of refugees singing his praises and dreaming of a life under his protection. Combine his fabled strategism and capability with your own work as the hero of the Gate - the adventurer who makes allies among everyone you encounter - and the two of you should be unstoppable. 

The fact that you are his soulmate only improves the image.

You dread already the undertaking of ruling, let alone ruling alongside a tyrant. But creating a power vacuum by killing Gortash, or allowing him to govern unchecked… the alternatives were altogether less appealing. You’d only agreed to his terms when he’d conceded to let you appoint more than half of the Council of Secretaries.

In the end, many of the more worrisome patriars were unwilling or unable to join the council regardless - having been injured, killed, or relocated during the final fight with the brain. It made appointing your own council members a zemblanitously easy thing to do.

Around the table sit, among others, your few remaining companions.

Your heart hurts to think of Karlach trapped in hell. But knowing she is there with Wyll, hunting devils and making the underworld a better place is… enough. For now. And besides, your new co-ruler is an artificer, one of the most accomplished practitioners of finer mechanics and spellwork in the realm. And, knife to his throat, he will aid you in fixing Karlach.

Halsin, Lae’zel, and Minthara left, though you knew they would. Lae’zel on her mount with the fiery intention of freeing her people from the bondage of their maleficent ruler. Halsin only this morning left for the forest; you knew he wasn’t suited for the city, and that being here for so long had only depressed him. And besides, now he has a throng of refugee orphans to raise with the grove druids. Minthara has pledged to keep contact with you, at least, as she intends to fight her way through the underdark to take her place as head of her house.

But you are eternally thankful for those who remain, particularly those who are interested in assisting in your governance efforts.

Seated to your right, Shadowheart is an acting cleric of Selune and thriving under the employ of Isobel in the city’s church. She and her parents have taken up residence in some of the temporary accommodations set up in Rivington while the Gate rebuilds. Shar’s agony still haunts her, but with the destruction of the House of Grief, Shar’s followers do not.

Astarion, talked down from his splendorous dreams of ascension, has taken residence in Cazador’s old mansion while his spawn siblings traverse the underdark with the released prisoners. He is unable to travel through daylight these days, but the Gate’s vast network of underground tunnels are perfectly sufficient. He appears to be inspecting his nails as he awaits the inaugural council meeting. As an aside, you must make sure that the old bhaalspawn corpses and victims are cleared from the sewage system.

Gale has pledged to lend his time and expertise to the council as well, though it is clear that his full attention is on scanning the Chionthar. He intends to recover the Crown of Karsus for Mystra. Good luck to him, you suppose, but you know well that you’ll have to keep a close eye on how that project plays out. You know that Gortash certainly is. Gale himself is seated amongst an armful of historical tomes that you know he plans to reference in your meeting.

And finally, beside him, is Jaheira. You’re surprised that she intends to stay in the Gate - for now at least - alongside Minsc. Though you know that the city is in dire need of the harpers after the calamity; it’s the most grievously affected area in the region. And she’s been graceful enough to accept a seat on your council with little hesitation.

The remaining members of the Council of Secretaries are a small number of educated individuals representing noble families (and, where useful, their appointed counsellors). Wyll’s father, Duke Ulder Ravengard affects an air of professionalism, though Councillor Florrick has not stopped eyeing Gortash distrustfully. The other patriars, you’ve been briefed on, or have made the acquaintance of during your travels. 

You’re held in high esteem by more than half of the council, but you know the same is true for Gortash. 

Florrick is the first to stand, and she does not need to refer to her parchments as she briefs the council on the state of the city. The gate has existed in a sense of uneasy calm in the days since the fall of the elder brain. The city and its citizens feel tense. Streets are crowded with fearful homeless - both refugee and citizen alike. Fortunately, the camps in Rivington are getting emptier by the day as refugees’ home towns are made safer with no more threat of Absolutist cults. Regardless, there are plenty of needy people to assist.

Flaming Fist soldiers are overworked and tired on patrol; their numbers are spread thin amidst the unrest and destruction, only made worse with the sudden destruction of the Steel Watch.

The heavy clouds above the city haven’t broken since the brain fell, but they haven’t opened with rain either. You know as well as anyone that bad weather isn’t atypical for the Gate, though… it seems a dour and unfortunate mirror of the turbulent political atmosphere you find yourself navigating.

“The patriars are divided,” Florrick continues. She does not mince her words as she speaks to the table. “Most of them support at least one of the two Archdukes, but they all feel hard done by.”

“The upper city suffered the biggest material cost,” You sigh, remembering the battles that took place in the verdant yards of grand villas. “The past few days, we’ve been prioritising the needs of families like the Irlentrees, patriars with supply connections - especially merchant fleets.”

“And yet,” Gortash adds, his tone full of obvious distaste. “The more useless houses have been the most draining of our time. Lord Caldwell has insisted I meet with him tomorrow morning.”

You rub a finger firmly over your forehead, massaging away the first tingle of a tension headache. The Caldwells, jealous hoarders of fine art and of little worth otherwise.

“And that is a priority, is it?” Lady Ambrose turns up her nose at the notion. Ambrose herself is the matriarch of her house’s finery production. Where her family’s business could lend little to the rebuild effort, the lady is well versed in holding a political office, one of the more effective speakers from the currently-paused Parliament of Peers. You’re not entirely aware of her motives on your council, but you can tell that she is dismissive of Lord Caldwell’s usefulness.

“During wartime, my lady, he contributed as much to the city’s coffers as you did yourself.” Gortash smiles at her diplomatically. Ambrose is one of the few members at the table who is unaware of Gortash’s own role in the war. You happen to know that most of his own appointed members are also in the dark.

“You’d best do a good job at your meeting then.” You speak to Gortash, but Shadowheart stifles a laugh beside you.

“What good is liquid funds at this exact moment?” Lady Ambrose raises a stern eyebrow. “The city has more than enough to maintain the influx of materials, is it really worth owing a debt to a petty hoarder?”

Gortash purses his lips ever so slightly, like he’s tasted something sour, and he looks to you. It is an entirely fair question, you knew there would be resistance to your ideas for rebuilding. This aspect of the strategy had not been met well when you first proposed it to Gortash. It had taken hours of discussions and concessions to even have it included in the dossier for discussion. 

“My lady,” You address her confidently. “It is of importance to our strategy as outlined on page 3 of the dossier.”

“Ah yes,” She grimaces. “The Economic Independence plan. And how exactly are free handouts for the needy supposed to do anything?”

“Consider it economic stimulation,” You’re well-practiced in pitching the concept. “Merchant fleets bringing resources into the city to feed its citizens are of no good if the majority of citizens are unable to afford anything more than the subsidised rations. I’m sure you yourself have noticed a dramatic drop in purchases recently Lady Ambrose; silks and dyes cannot be a booming wartime industry.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully, but the frown doesn’t leave her features.

“By deciding as a democratic collective how to best free-up resources for all of our citizens, we create a stability which historically leads to economic restoration across all socioeconomic classes.” You finish.

“Just see we don’t fall into some socialist society indefinitely.” She concedes, apparently satisfied that her warning is being taken seriously. “You’d lose almost all of your support from the patriars.”

“We can have a discussion about labels and boundaries once our citizens have housing.” You smile at her, and from the corner of your eye, you catch Gortash watching you closely, his expression unreadable.

“We’ve deviated from our scheduled agenda,” Gortash speaks to the room, heralding the incipiency of another discussion topic. “We shall discuss item 4, raised by Lord Ancunín: rumours of a… Banite resurgence.”

The room goes silent for a moment. No attendee is surprised - you all received a copy of the meeting agenda - but you all seem to be uneasy with the concept.

“Thank you, dear Archdukes,” Astarion grins, clearly enjoying his position at the table. Astarion, like Jaheira, is of particular use as an ear to the ground. Blending into the shadows and charismatic to talk his way out of any trouble, Astarion is the person to talk to when it comes to the dwellings of the seedy underbelly of the gate - and much of the lower city these days.

“Perhaps calling it a Banite resurgence is a little hasty,” Astarion unfurls a parchment and slides it across the table. A sketched symbol sits on the page, a bloody handprint, encircled by a broken chain. “These have been appearing in the lower city. Graffiti, carvings. It’s even been branded into the skin of corpses fished from the Chionthar.”

A chill passes through you. As a cleric of Talos, you can feel it in your bones. It’s not fear, so much as a… dissonance. A tremor of spiritual discomfort. 

Gortash remains silent beside you, save for the near-silent tap-tap-tap of his gauntleted fingers against the tabletop. Though much of your current council knows of his personal spiritual leanings, others do not.

“Shadowheart, what do you make of this?” You ask your friend, who appears just as concerned as you feel.

“It does appear to contain the symbol of Bane,” She muses, gesturing to the handprint. “I’m not sure about the chain however. The Absolutist symbol included aspects from Myrkul and Bhaal as well, but this element doesn’t ring any bells of any other gods.”

“What about through the church, have you heard anything?”

“Hmm,” she hums, deliberating. “I’m not sure if it’s related… it’s certainly not Banite in ideology… but I have heard whispers.”

“Whispers?” Gortash prompts, a single eyebrow raised. 

“Some people have been plagued by dreams,” Shadowheart recounts. “They come to us for sanctuary, but we haven’t been able to find anything abnormal about them. And they all report the same troubling dreams: visions of a voice promising liberation through chaos. Freedom without boundaries.”

Another chill passes through you. Dream manipulation is powerful work.

“You’re right, that’s not very Banite in ideology.” You hum.

“Dreams may be manipulated.” Duke Ravengard speaks up, his voice low and deliberate. “If someone is orchestrating collective visions, they’re rallying a fearful and discontented populace. They’re sowing the seeds of rebellion under the guise of liberation.”

You meet the gaze of your confidants and chew nervously on the inside of your cheek. You all know what an uprising could mean for a recovering city, and for your fragile leadership.

“We need to investigate this discretely,” You say, more to Gortash than to the table.

-

The wind blowing over the city wall smells of sea salt and smoke.

Below, Baldur's gate stretches in the golden light, bathed in the muted hues of a cloud-covered sunset. Shadows stretch long over cobbled streets and crooked rooftops and construction scaffolding. The city is scarred, but rebuilding, and its edges look less jagged as the light begins to fade. Echoing up, you can hear the hustle of end-of-day trades, the last few clangs of a smith’s hammer for the day, and behind you, you hear the heavy wooden door to the roof shut.

You know it's him without turning around. You can sense his presence through the pull in your gut, just as you have since that first moment you met. 

He stands beside you, posture relaxed as he leans against the stone battlement. His expression is unreadable. Not impassive, but concealed. You’ve only known him a fortnight at this point, and been by his side for less than half of that. You don’t have the first clue how to interpret his moods.

You take a quiet breath of fresh air. The sea winds stir your cloak and feel bracingly chilled against your cheeks, stirring strands of your hair and tickling your neck.

“I’ve been thinking,” You say, voice low.

“That sounds tiring.” He replies smoothly, eyes still fixed on the horizon. There’s no sharpness in the words, but he sounds tired underneath his humour.

“This supposed Banite activity,” You begin slowly. “This promise of liberation through chaos. Destruction of chains. I keep turning it over in my head and it feels… blasphemous. Anti-gods - any of them.”

He does not fill the silence. You pause and then add, “Is this the work of Banites?”

Gortash turns to you now, his face cast half in the dimming light and half in the shadow of his own features. The corners of his mouth tighten, but he doesn’t frown. Not exactly.

“I’ve asked myself the same, and I don’t have an answer I like.”

You say nothing. He continues, quieter than before.

“If this is a move by the church of Bane, then it’s one I wasn’t consulted about. That alone would be… telling.”

Your eyes widen. “You think you’re being abandoned?”

He scoffs under his breath, bitter and tired, hiding it poorly under a false derision. “I think Bane doesn’t favour weakness. Or hesitation.”

You step closer to him, just slightly. You have to gaze up at him this close, and you brush the back of your hand against his, without his gauntlet. You’ve never touched before, you realise, as a brief spark shoots up through your arm. He doesn’t brush you away, but he doesn’t move closer.

“You haven’t been weak.” You say. It’s a kindness to him.

“No,” he agrees. “But I’m no longer useful to the dog of tyranny unless I re-tighten my grip. Choke the city, crush dissent, burn out this rebellion and all others before they can name themselves. That’s what he wants. What he blesses.”

His gaze shifts downwards, to a distant rooftop, and you follow his eyes to where a line of laundry hangs limp in the breeze.

“And yet,” He grinds his teeth. “I hesitate.”

You cannot help but study him like this; you see the tension in his jaw, the less-than-guarded look in his eyes.

“You still have power,” You whisper, unhappy to imagine yourself abandoned by your god. “Even without his favour.”

He sighs heavily.

“I have order. I built it. I enforce it.” He frowns, straightening his posture. “Whether or not it is divine, I hold order over this city. The chains I forged were once sacred, but it matters not if they’re now just iron.”

You frown at his words, all too aware of your different leadership philosophies. You observe where your hand touches his. There are bruises on his wrist, and old scars striped across his fingers. 

“Do you want peace?” You ask, slowly, seekingly. “For the gate?”

He finally looks at you, his eyes wordlessly searching yours.

“You want order, you chose order, instilled order to the gate.” You prompt. “You wanted to quash unrest and anarchy, yes?”

He simply nods.

“Then we both work towards peace and prosperity, whether you want to call it that or not.” You hold his gaze. “And we can fight about our methodology when it becomes relevant.”

He looks at you, and for a long time, he says nothing.

You speak next. “If Bane withdraws his favour from you…”

Gortash removes his hand from your touch and steps back, and neither of you say any more. The light behind the clouds lessens, the last light gleaming across his hair, the curve of his cheek. Together, you watch the light bleed out of the sky, standing on the edge of dusk.

Chapter Text

The weight of dusk has long since passed, and with it, whatever moment you shared with your supposed soulmate.

Now, you sit in your desk chair in your office. You’ve been living at the keep in Wyrm’s Rock since your old home was destroyed in battle, and it has not made for healthy work hours. Frustratingly, your mind keeps wandering. Not to the cult or the shifting alliances, but to the way Gortash had looked at you on the wall. Vulnerable. Human, for a moment.

But the moment has passed.

You sigh softly as you rise from your desk, stretching the aches from your complaining muscles. Weeks of constant travelling and fighting has your body expecting a certain standard of treatment that is not met by late nights at your writing desk. You blow out your candle and vow to finish your notes in the morning.

Given the largeness of the keep, the living quarters where you and Gortash are posted are actually quite a decent size. The guest wing is in disrepair and unkempt, and so you sleep in rooms - still larger than any you've ever owned in your life- adjacent to each other, with your own ensuites and a common sitting room

Heading towards your own room, that sitting area is where you find Gortash tonight. A low fire burns in the hearth, flickering against heavy crimson curtains and golden embroidery. The kind of opulence that declares power, not comfort. The moon cannot shine its light effectively through the clouds, and thus the polished stone is cast only in flickering fire-gold.

Gortash lounges in a velvet chair by the hearth, one long leg slung over the other while he draws a memo from the stack on his little side table. The firelight gilds the sharp lines of his face in copper and shadow, and he greets you with a smirk: arrogant lacquered over only thinly with charm.

“You know,” He says, voice slow to a drawl, swirling a glass of deep red wine. “There are a good number of people who would kill for the opportunity to share a bed with me.”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Then perhaps you should find one of them.”

He clicks his tongue, raising and strolling to the fireplace. “Oh, but they wouldn’t be the one fated to me by the gods, would they?”

You shoot him a sharp look, trying not to let the heat rise in your cheeks. Your bond, whatever it is, lingers as it always does like a magnetic charge in the air between you.

But that doesn’t mean you are going to indulge him.

Gortash places his glass of wine on the fireplace mantle and turns towards you, lazily unfastening the cuffs of his embroidered shirt and rolling his sleeves up, exposing the body hair and healed scars that decorate his forearms.

“It’s a curious thing,” He smiles at you, showing the point of his canine teeth. “This soul-thread, this divine entanglement of ours. You’d think it would have… expedited certain aspects of our relationship.”

“Is that what you think?” You straighten your posture. “That a bond like ours is just a shortcut to seduction.”

He tilts his head and slowly paces towards you, eyes glittering in the flickering light. “I’m merely observing the absurdity of the situation. I have a soulmate who seems uninterested in my touch.”

You cross your arms and tilt your head back at him, saying nothing.

“Is it the supposed atrocities then?” He smirks, waving a bare hand. “The war crimes? The fact that you had a tadpole in your head?”

“All of those are perfectly good reasons.” You glare at him.

There is silence for a moment, Gortash now close, studies you with an intensity that might come before a killing blow. And then he leans in, too close.

“And yet, you still stay.” He murmurs in your ear, voice deep and rumbling. “You sit beside me in council. You walk the high walls of the keep with me. You watch me like you’re hoping I’ll become something else.”

You back away, expression hard. “I stay for the sake of the city. Not for you.”

“But you want me.” He says simply, not as a question, but as an infuriating certainty. “I can feel it, same as you can. We’re connected. You dream of me.”

You do. You hate that you do. 

There’s a draw, a magnetic tug in your chest every time he leans in too close. Something ancient, echoing, binding. But that doesn’t erase what you remember: the bloodied streets of Baldur’s Gate, the prisoners, the tortured, the way he planned for steel and fire to break the world.

“And I wake up angry,” You snap. “Because I remember what you did. Because I remember the people who didn’t survive your dream of order.”

“I did what I had to.” His mouth twitches, whether in amusement or irritation, you can’t tell. “The world needs to be rebuilt.”

“By blowing up orphaned refugees?” You hiss at him.

“That never came to pass.” He waves his hand dismissively.

“Because we stopped you.”

“No one else could have done what I did.” He hisses, the seductive mask slipping just enough to show his sharp, honed edges.

“Nobody should have tried to.” You cross your arms.

The fire crackles behind him, his face cast in shadow. His eyes narrow darkly, a calculating flicker.

“Fine.” He sighs, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “If you’re so determined to pretend that we are nothing more than political allies, I won’t press. Tonight.”

He steps back, brushing past you like a storm front, deliberately letting the back of his hand graze yours. You do not let yourself flinch.

“Still,” He says, over his shoulder as he heads for his own room. “I have a feeling you’ll come around.”

You give him no answer, just turn towards your own quarters without a word.

When the door shuts behind you, you let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding.

You’d seen the flicker of doubt in him on the wall at dusk. But here, in the warm, cloistered firelight, he had retreated behind his armor of arrogance again. And though some part of you does indeed feel the magnetic pull he spoke of - the inexplicable, divine tether - it doesn’t outweigh the echo of the screams you heard during the war. The faces of innocents caught beneath the boot of his ambition.

So you get ready for bed alone.

-

Sleep drags you under like a riptide.

At first, there's peace. Cool stone beneath your feet. A horizon painted in bruised red and dusk gold, a real sunset you haven’t seen in days. But then the silence fractures and a voice pours in, velvet-slick and terrible.

“You were born shackled.”

The fog around you thickens, pulling close like desperately grasping hands. The Gate’s buildings tilt at impossible angles, crack open at the seams, bloodied screams pouring forth as your city crumbles.

“They gave you law and called it order.”

“They gave you gods and called it truth.”

“But you remember, don’t you? What it means to choose.”

You try to speak, to rebuke under the guidance of your god Talos, but your mouth won’t move.

“You kneel to tyrants.”

“You suffer behind masks.”

“You call your cage a city.”

The voice is everywhere now, layered and inhuman, like it's being spoken by thousands at once. And beneath it, rising like a tide, you hear the sound of others. Citizens. Crying out in sleep. Chanting.

"Unchain us."

And then, a final whisper, low and intimate, pressed against the curve of your mind:

“You could be so much more, if you only let go.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You reach for Talos’ name, desperate-

And you wake. Gasping. Drenched in sweat.

Outside your window, the city is too quiet.

Chapter Text

The clouds over Baldur’s Gate feel heavier come morning. When the sun finally rises, you’re displeased to find you’re already awake to greet it.

You’re on edge, and as you peer out your bedroom window in the dawn light, it seems as though your city is as well. The Flaming Fist patrols march past with tightened jaws and restless eyes, their presence constant but, as you so well know, stretched thin. The marketplace seems less busy than typical; early-rising mongers plying their trade have shown up in smaller numbers than usual. When you crack the window open, the air smells just as it did yesterday: of salt water and smoke. But Talos echoes in your bones, and you detect the electric undercurrent of tension, a storm that refuses to break.

You have to tear your gaze from your window, convincing yourself that the world will not meet its end merely because you choose to wash your face.

As you perform your morning ablutions, you plan your next steps. You must away to your office immediately and pen urgent missives to your allies. Jaheira and Astarion will be best served as ears to the ground, sniffing out rumours and goings-on from those in the know. Shadowheart is in the perfect position to discuss the nature of the symbols and dreams with her church elders and congregation. Gale, you plan to direct towards Ramazith’s Tower; he and Rolan can bring their formidable brains to bear and report on the nature of the dream manipulation.

-

You’ve only just sent your missives out with the carrier pigeons when a firm knock sounds at your office door.

“Come in.” You call to your unexpected visitor.

“Archduke Morgan,” The guard bows, greeting you by your full title (regardless of how many times you’ve told him to call you ‘Tav’).

“Good morning, Lionel, what’s news?”

“A man and woman have arrived requesting a word with Lord Gortash.” He pauses for a moment. “They claim to be his parents.”

You blink silently for a moment. Gortash had left with the sunrise this morning to meet with Lord Caldwell, though you know he is due back any moment. 

“Escort them to the reception hall,” You instruct your guard. “I’ll meet them there.”

-

The reception hall - rarely used for anything other than strategy briefings - is one of many rooms you barely know how to find amongst the corridors. But eventually, you push open the right door, carrying before you a tray boasting a modest tea service.

“Ma’am, sir,” You greet the newcomers with a slight bow that also serves to lower your carrying tray to the tabletop. “It is very nice to meet you.”

You cannot help but observe the two of them as they stand with your entrance.

They appear humble folk - worn cloaks, calloused hands, and the faint scent of leather and glue that speaks of their trade. Dravo Flymm has a stooped frame and a dazed look in his eye. Sally Flymm’s smile is tight, her eyes flickering nervously across the gilded edges of the chamber. You’ve known about them since not long after you entered the city. You’d even hoped to get around to meeting them at their cobblers’ workshop before the matter of the elder brain 

But alas, time was of the essence. 

So you will take to meeting the parents of your tyrant despot soulmate over tea instead. A truly unique scenario, you reflect.

“You must be Montavega,” His mother surmises, her voice as tight as her gaze. They both bow - much lower than you yourself did.

“Please, call me Tav.” You insist, gesturing for them to retake their seats as you find your own.

The reception hall is unnecessarily large for such a small party, but you can gather intimately around the corner of the ornate table as you pour tea for your guests.

 "We hope we’re not interrupting anything important," Sally says, settling again into her seat.

“Not at all,” You reply, keeping your tone polite. “It is nice to finally meet… Enver’s parents.”

If they notice the way that you pause before using his first name, they do not react to it.

“How nice for him,” His mother says, and by the gods, the thinly-veiled tension in her voice is exhausting you on her behalf. “To have found his soulmate.”

“Mm,” His father hums in agreement, though he adds nothing else to the discussion. The man hardly seems aware of where he is, and you feel a pang of sympathy.

“I understand that the life of an Archduke is a very grand one.” Sally intonates with a seemingly practiced politeness. “But I hope our humble selves will still be invited to the wedding.”

You choke on your tea.

You cover it well, sputtering only for a moment, but you cannot help but cough into the back of your hand.

“Weddi- well,” You stammer, finely walking the tightrope of presenting your soulmate’s mother with a dispreferred response. “We do not exactly have plans for such a thing, particularly with so much of the rebuild effort left to organise.”

“Ah, of course, for the good of the Gate.” She nods in response, and perhaps you’re imagining the sardonic undertones in her speech. “You know, our housing barely survived all of that calamity.”

“Oh, Mrs Flymm, I am very sorry to hear that.” You feel the urge to comfort her as you would any other troubled citizen. Though her tightly-clasped hands do not indicate that she would welcome a sympathetic touch. “You must let us know if we may be of any assistance.”

“Hm, and so I shall.” She states simply. “You know, our neighbours haven’t been in the Gate as long as some of the real citizens. I truly don’t see what right they have to claim the emergency stipend along with the rest of us.”

“Oh...” You find yourself, for the first time in a long time, at a loss for words.

The door to the hall opens, and you thank your lucky stars for the interruption.

Gortash enters, his long cloak sweeping over the polished floors. He’s in his full regalia, severe lines of black and red and embroidered gold, not a hair out of place after his meeting with his financial backer.

He offers no embrace to his parents, you note, he simply nods in greeting.

“Mother. Father.”

His mother stands. “Enver, you look well.”

“I am well.” He does not sit at the grand table, but places a hand on the back of a chair and rolls the tension out of his neck. “I trust the staff treated you well… however unannounced your visit may have been.”

His mother’s mouth twitches in an expression you can’t quite read, but his father nods and speaks. “Your guards were very kind. And very tall.”

The quip earns a smile from you, but Gortash’s face doesn’t budge.

“Dearest,” He addresses you, and the pet name makes you purse your lips in distaste. “Would you please fetch me a cup from the kitchen as well, so that I may join you all for tea?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, but can read the exceptional circumstances and leave to do as he asks.

You can’t have been gone for more than 3 minutes, but by the time you return to the reception hall, Gortash and his parents appear to be saying their goodbyes.

“-and do not forget to invite us to the wedding.” You catch his mother saying. 

You purse your lips at that as well, unhappy that she did not take your hint earlier, and even moreso that she has brought it up with her son instead. As much as Gortash enjoys taunting you, however, his expression remains composed, impenetrable. He merely nodes towards the exit with a bow of his head, and they follow his direction.

-

This evening, unlike many previous, you’ve had opportunity to avail yourself of the comfortable velvet wingback chair beside the fireplace in your common area sitting room. You can tell why Gortash has a vested interest in claiming it for himself each night. Oh well, first come, first served and all that.

In your lap lie short missives, responses from your allies agreeing to collect intel and return to the council chambers tomorrow morning to debrief. You’ve read them each a dozen times; their contents are uninteresting, but the fatigue that wracks your brain has you staring blankly at the pages.

You’re not surprised when Gortash enters the sitting room, but he says nothing of your vacant gaze. Instead, he slides open a compartment of the small bar standing against the wall and pours an amber liquid into two fine crystal glasses.

“Thank you,” you say when he hands you one.

You watch as he retires to the brocade lounge. He looks tired too.

The window beside you is open, and the scent of wet dirt drifts in on the wind. You don’t even think the rain has actually started yet, but the moisture in the air adheres to everything - including the dirt.

“Your parents seem… nice?” You prompt, setting aside your papers on the side table, swirling the warmly-coloured liquor in your glass.

“They aren’t.” He snorts as he says it. His posture is poor, a collapsed marionette on a comfortable couch after a long day

“They left quickly.” You observe, attempting to avoid posing it as a prying question. You take a hearty sip of your drink. It’s good, strong.

“All they came for was money.” His voice holds an obvious contempt that he does not bother hiding. “They got it, and they left.”

“I hadn’t had the chance to meet them before today.” You speak slowly; you do not wish to offend. “But I do remember Raphael once referred to you as his ward.”

“Ha!” He laughs once, venomously. “Ward is very generous indeed. He bought me from them at age six for a handful of gold, and then locked me in a room.”

“Gods...” You sneer at the thought of it. “Who in the hells would sell their child?”

“Idiots in debt.”

“You were a child.”

“Children make excellent currency, I understand.” He laughs, bitter and dry. “Though one could argue that they gave me a very valuable lesson about trust and dependence.”

You allow the silence to sit for a long moment. Your next sip burns your throat nicely.

“Regardless, one can thrive without their parents.” He crosses one leg over the other and turns his attention to you. It makes you feel like either a lanceboard opponent or perhaps a prey animal. “You know this as well as I do.”

You grimace at him. You’re unsurprised that he has information about your upbringing; of course the controlling tyrant would do his homework on his supposed soulmate-slash-nemesis.

“I did not lose my parents due to cruelty, however.” You glare at him. “I lost them to the sea.”

“Mm, Rosemary and Henry Morgan, yes?” He asks, but he knows he is correct. “Pirate captain and first mate.”

“Pirates indeed,” You chuckle. “Though terrible ones at that.”

“The sea took them, and you were raised here, by your aunt.”

“A storm hit, Talos’ fury. Our ship went down off the coast of Candlekeep.” You don’t know why you’re spilling your guts like this. Maybe it’s his own vulnerability that has you loose-lipped. Maybe it’s the liquor.

“Hold on,” He leans forward. “‘Our ship’? You were aboard?”

“I was the only one who made it.” You tell him. “Washed ashore near a little fishing village where a druid man found me. Told me how Talos took my parents because their disrespect angered him - and that’s why I was spared.”

“And you’d worship this god?” You know that Gortash is looking at you like a particularly peculiar experiment.

“Gods are not just worshipped, they’re appeased.”

His silence in response tells you all you need to know about his feelings on the matter. One does not follow Bane without making sacrifices either.

“It seems almost hypocritical of you, dearest.” He posits, making you raise an eyebrow at him - more for the pet name than for the accusation. “That you would condemn my actions, disavow me as evil and irredeemable. And yet you yourself serve - or appease - an evil god.”

“I have standards.” Your jaw ticks in dissatisfaction. “I do not do evil for the sake of evil.”

“And your aunt?”

“Huh?” The topic change throws you for a loop.

“Is she still in Baldur’s Gate?”

“She is. She survived the battle with the elder brain, thank the gods.” You sigh, it’s a fact that has brought you no small measure of comfort. “Her and her husband are safe now.”

“One would think our childhoods taught us that safety is an illusion.”

“Hmm,” You tilt your head, mulling it over. “I think there is much more to learn than just that.”

He turns away, looking out the window. “Does your relentless optimism not get tiring?”

“Yes.” You say.

The silence between you is not particularly comfortable. You would hazard a guess that neither of you is happy to be openly vulnerable with a co-ruler who is one poor choice away from becoming a deadly enemy.

You drain your glass and push yourself up from your chair, ready to turn in for the night

“Ah, at least we now have an appropriate list for who to invite to the wedding.” Enver says, his tone light and performative.

Chapter Text

You eat a small pastry with one hand, juggling a pile of papers with the other as you walk the hallways leading to the council chambers. Distantly, in the back of your mind, it registers that this is perhaps not the dignified behaviour of an Archduke such as yourself. But alas, your dreams were blissfully empty last night, and you’ve had barely enough time to grab your breakfast after you slept in.

The mood in the council chambers is restless when you arrive, and you’re unsurprised to learn you’re the last in attendance.

The full council hasn’t convened today, not so soon after the last session, but those who are unable to attend will have classified meeting notes delivered by hand. Duke Ravengard, acting as Marshall of the Flaming Fist, and his lieutenant Liara, along with Lady Ambrose, are the only attendees who have no new intelligence to contribute.

As you sit beside Gortash, you feel the ever-present pull in your gut settle, but it is replaced with one of concern. He looks tired. Straightening up a pile of notes, his hair dishevelled like he’s spent the night running his hands through it. You must enquire about his dreams once you have the time. Hells, you can’t muster your usual exasperation about the calm that your soulmate’s presence inspires within you.

Your companions have done well in their reconnaissance. According to their summarised notes, Astarion’s intelligence seems to be the most actionable at the present moment.

When you yield him the floor, he says ‘Thank you, darling.’ in a way that earns an impatient look from Gortash.

“There’s a suspicious group gathering in a building in the old storage district.” He tells the table, unfolding a map on the table with a too-smooth flick of his wrists and a near-undetectable eye keeping watch over the group’s reaction. “In one of the warehouses left abandoned after some of the less-essential merchant fleets fled the war.”

You scan over the marked map in front of you; the ritual site isn't far from where the steel watch foundry was once located. You suppose industrial areas are industrial areas, but you raise an eyebrow at Gortash regardless.

“Some of my people noticed movement in the eastern tunnels,” Astarion says, and you barely fight back the urge to roll your eyes at the implication that he has ‘people’. “Followed a group of four individuals to this address, at least one of them was wearing that symbol we've seen everywhere.”

Privately, you are thrilled that Astarion is taking so well - so earnestly - to his position on the council. Perhaps you shouldn't be surprised, immediately after the nautiloid crash, his instinctual cover story was the role of magister. Regardless, his talents have already proven invaluable, and you're not at all disheartened by the knowledge that it may be more selfish than selfless.

“Four individuals.” You repeat, weighing the number in your head. “Could something as complex and resource-intensive as city-wide dream manipulation be conducted by so few people?”

“It’s very unlikely.” Gale contributes. “Though they do appear to be targeting only a percentage of the population each evening. Last evening, Master Rolan and myself spent hours observing the weave through the oculus at the apex of Ramazith’s Tower.”

“And your conclusions?” Gortash prompts.

“The spell itself seems to share similarities with Dream, a common enough, if advanced, illusory spell. It appeared that none of the people whose dreams were altered last night were elves, who are immune to the spell by virtue of not sleeping.” Gale tilts his head thoughtfully, discomfort obvious on his features. “But that is perhaps where the similarities end. Dream typically can be resisted, and it may only be directed towards one target. Additionally, even a wizard as powerful as myself could only cast it twice per day.”

“And how many people do you think were targeted last night?” You ask.

“Perhaps ten thousand.” Gale says, solemnly.

“Gods,” You sigh under your breath.

“Roughly a fifth of the current population.” Gortash concludes. “So what do you suspect, are there five thousand mages casting this spell each evening?”

“It’s more probable that we’re dealing with a different spell, or perhaps…” Gale pauses, his eye flitting over the parchment bearing the group’s symbol. “They may bear the power of a god.”

“And what knowledge do we have of the symbols?” Gortash addresses Shadowheart.

“Symbols of Unbinding.” She replies, her voice low. “Chains broken around Banite symbology, that much is clear.”

“This is more than a political rebellion.” Duke Ravengard surmises.

“Indeed. Something divine… or more likely profane is being done here.”

“I could feel my faith recoil during my dreams.” You add. “The feeling of it makes my skin crawl, like it’s unnatural.”

“It is indeed,” Jaheira adds, her brow furrowed. “The very soil in the outer city appears to be shrinking back from the atmosphere surrounding the Gate. Saplings supplanted in destroyed gardens a week ago have withered overnight. The few animals in Rivington have fled into the forests, even the livestock.”

“Whatever it is, it’s sending ripples through the weave that put both myself and Rolan ill at ease.” Gale adds. “It’s not unheard of for animals to sense unbalance in the fabrics of reality.”

“An undertaking with such a broad scope, gathering such power, having a strong impact on the natural, the divine, and the magical.” You rub a hand over your temple. “It is unsurprising, but it is not a favourable omen.”

You glance at Gortash, your co-ruler. He is silent, watching.

“We cannot pretend it is not urgent.” Jaheira presses, highly strung. The situation obviously stresses her greatly, which makes you worry. A seasoned veteran of countless world-ending disasters is unsettled over your current predicament. “We must act now, before the rot is rooted too deeply.

“We mustn't panic the city.” Duke Ravengard interjects. “Marching fighters through the city so soon after the battle with the elder brain would cause hysteria among a populace already fearful.”

“But they already think we’re losing control.” Liara, the Flaming Fist marshall rebuts her superior. “It’s obvious we’re spread thin, and with every civilian afraid of a visitor in their own minds… martial law may be the only option.”

“Your people could handle it.” Gortash speaks, finally. “The Fist would lock down the more populous suburbs, impose a curfew and monitor for any resistance or delinquent activity. Crush any who resist swiftly and quietly.” 

“That’s not feasible,” You frown at him. “The more populous suburbs at the moment amount to little more than emergency encampments, and support crews are still acting at all hours of the night.”

“Sacrifices in the name of protection.” He replies evenly. “We protect the peace of those who abide by our laws.”

“You cannot simply change the law to punish entire neighbourhoods and then threaten those who are unable to comply.” You glare at him. “The number of innocents who would wind up in your dungeons would fill it to the brim!”

“You misunderstand.” He sounds pragmatic, cold. “None would make it to the dungeons.”

You slam your hands on the table. The sudden sound reverberates through the mostly-empty chamber, and you shove your seat back as you stand, allowing yourself the height to glare down at him.

“I will not stand for the petty criminalisation of harmless individuals.” You hiss at him. “The institution of unjust laws - punishable by death - is not something that this court will abide by.”

“Hear hear!” Duke Ravengard calls. The input breaks you from your focus, your intense staring match with your co-ruler and supposed soulmate.

The silence hangs in the chamber, the tone rancid with the weight of your disagreement. Beside you, Shadowheart crosses her arms and tilts her head up in support. Astrarion’s eyes flit between yourself and Gortash, clearly reading every microexpression with a small, entertained smile.

You straighten your posture and let out a long sigh. You roll the tension from your shoulders and turn to address the present council.

“A targeted strike. Akin to when we dismantled the Absolute factions.” You announce to the room, but you glance to Gortash. You’re rubbing your credentials and historical successes in his face. “We - just a small contingent - infiltrate the hideout Astarion found and see what they’re hiding. If it’s nothing, we avoid escalation and discuss our options tomorrow morning.”

“And if there is resistance?” Gortash inspects his gauntlet claws, affecting an air of disinterest. He is clearly unhappy to be opposed, particularly with an audience. Though with a lack of personal allies in the room, he must have been expecting a compromise of some sort.

“Then we take them out.”

“You make it sound so simple.” Lady Ambrose ponders, speaking up for the first time. “Though I suppose we have many of the famed heroes of the Gate in attendance with us.”

“Combat often plays out much more straightforwardly than politics, I’ve found.” Gortash addresses her, an air of glibness replacing his displeasure in short order. “And we are indeed blessed with the assistance of my incredibly capable soulmate.”

It feels petty to glare at him over such a small infringement as being called his, but you do it anyway.

“Just ensure that you return in one piece in time for the fund-raiser tomorrow.” Ambrose stifles a polite laugh behind her gloved hand. You raise a seeking eyebrow.

“Ah yes, I had intended to inform you.” He shrugs easily. “We shall be the guests of honour at a garden party on the Caldwell estate tomorrow.”

You do not reply beyond a displeased look.

“Which will serve to raise emergency funds from the patriars in attendance, my dear.”

You purse your lips unhappily, regarding both the egregiously public pet name and your reluctant acceptance that this likely-snobby party does, in fact, sound like a worthwhile use of time and resources.

You studiously avoid eye contact with Astarion and Shadowheart as they mouth the words ‘my dear’ at each other silently.

-

The sun has long since disappeared beyond the horizon - behind its cloud cover, in addition - when you and your party reach the warehouse. 

It’s an old shell of a building, tucked between collapsed brickwork and the charred remains of a long-forgotten forge. The windows are boarded, and the streets are just as quiet as one would expect. Even with the prevalence of homelessness in the Gate, the emergency shelters are much preferable to dilapidated buildings which house any number of dangers.

Astarion leads the pack, and he slips quietly among the shadows, running the last moments of reconnaissance while the rest of your party remains back. His movement is precisely as roguish as you remember, honed over weeks of travel and battle.

Astarian traces the walls of the building, disappearing from sight as he investigates the far sides. When he returns, he has his dominant hand hovering over his dagger’s sheath. 

“Four inside, appear to be lightly armed.” He reports in a whisper. “The back door looks to be the only feasible entrance, but the room opens up immediately after the doorway, no blockages, no furniture.”

You immediately pick up on what he’s insinuating. “We enter loud and fast. The four of us get through the door quickly before it acts as a choke point, first Astarion, then Jaheira.”

You wield your staff, feeling the familiar static as you idly trace your thumb over the grip. Your pulse steadies, you hold in your hands the power that defeated two of the three champions of the Dead Gods. Talos is with you, as are your allies, and you’ll require no further convincing.

“We go.” You command, ushering your small party to the door.

The skirmish is short.

The door bursts open wildly under the force of Astarion’s boot, and he immediately vanishes. In the time it takes Jaheira to approach one of the enemy combatants, he has reappeared behind another with a blade to their throat.

Then the fight breaks out in full, and it remains just as swift and jagged. A bolt from Gale topples a lantern, but his staff catches the flame in midair, twisting it into an ember that is hurled directly at the chest of an opponent.

In small, close-quarters combat, you need not call lightning; instead, you weave your way through the back of the room, galvanic energy coursing across your body from the studs in your boots to the crown of your helmet. Each swing of your staff discharges the energy like a river downstream, washing over your unlucky targets.

One enemy turns invisible and flees, untraceable. The remainder fall or surrender. 

The room is silent. Papers litter the floor. Most are messy pen-scratchings scrawled out in - what you hope is - blood-red ink, fragments of nonsense. A disturbed pile on a countertop looks more useful, it appears to be a pile of missives. You gather them all, and as you flip through them briefly, you see mentions of names, locations, and the occasional stamp of that now-familiar hand-and-chain symbol.

“These four definitely weren’t working alone.” You murmur to your party.

Jaheira crouches beside one of the fallen, rifling through their pockets. She produces a heavy set of keys. “It’s a network.”

“So what now?” Astarion asks. “Must I keep skulking about in the night, investigating broken down deathtraps?”

“No, rest up. And good work, all of you.” You say, sinking back into your familiar role of shot-caller from your party’s heyday merely a fortnight ago. “Gortash and I will investigate these missives, and our captive here. We’ll find a way to corner the players that matter.”

Your fight is not over, but neither has the city burned. Not yet.

Chapter Text

His chest is broad, manly and hirsute, taking up almost your entire field of vision.

Hovering over you like this, his arms carry most of his weight, making the ample muscles bulge and flex with every little shift and thrust. You run your hands over those arms, feeling the warmth under your fingertips, and rest them on his wide, solid shoulders.

Having your soulmate like this, finally giving in to the urging pull, has you wanting, illogically, to be even closer. His heat between your legs is unbearable, and you can feel the tension in your thighs where his hips hold them open.

And above all, gods, his cock.

Throbbing hot and carving a path deep within you, it stretches you wide. You can feel it tattooing the shape of itself so unyieldingly inside you. Long, hard strokes hit exactly where you need them, spilling dazzling stars behind your eyelids.

“You feel so good around me, my dear.” His voice is husky in your ear, and it makes your internal muscles flutter ever-tighter around him. The pet name sends a thrill through your gut. “How many times?”

“Hah?” You gasp dumbly, all thoughts fucked right out of your head.

“How many times can you cum for me tonight?” He whispers, like it’s a secret, and you can barely hear him over your moans punched from you with every single thrust. His wicked mouth nips gently at your ear.

“Ah!” You cry aloud. “You cocky bastaah- ah!”

“Hmm, that doesn’t sound quite right.” He hips slow, and you cannot even find it in yourself to be ashamed of the long, low whine that escapes from your lips. He looks amazing like this, his grin wolfish and dangerous. “Say my name.”

“Enver…” You whisper.

“Good,” He purrs to you, his hips resuming his pace - and then some. Your body lights up at the sensation, every nerve sparking like an electrical current running through your entire being. 

“Fuck, Enver,” You gasp, and he kisses the corner of your mouth gently. He feels like a poison coursing through your veins, somehow both numbing and heightening your sensations. He brings a helpless flush to the surface of your skin, prompts a heavy bead of sweat to track a tickling path down the side of your throat. You groan aloud when he kisses it away.

“Mmh, do you want me to stop?” He teases, but his hips do not slow. His tongue traces a wet line down your chest as his hips pump away at you urgently.

“Gods, don’t stop, Enver!” It’s blissful, finally having the one you’re spiritually bonded with. If you could bottle this feeling, you would carry it with you every day.

“My dear,” His voice rumbles, and he straightens. Kneeling now, he holds your hips up off the bed with his strong, capable hands. His thrusts are devastatingly perfect, punishing where they drill at every soft spot within you.

You’re going to cum.

“I’m going to cum,” You whisper to him, almost lost in your desperate, panting breath.

“Say my name.” He commands, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to obey.

“Enver,” You gasp, abdominal muscles clenching, chasing your pleasure as every thrust rolls wave after wave of building tension into your gut. “Yes, so good…”

“My dear,” he croons, gasped low between his own groans. You cannot tell where you end and he begins. His body is flushed, his hair is a mess, his lips hang open around his own helpless sounds. He’s perfect like this, he’s yours.

He tilts your hips up, changing the angle, and -

You awaken.

Close, fuck, so close.

Your hand buries desperately inside your sleep pants, immediately finding your dripping wetness and fucking two fingers inside as deep as you can reach. It’s not him, it’s not his cock, it’s nowhere near good enough when all you’re craving is relentless, perfect, punishing ruin at his mercy.

But it’ll get you there.

“Enver,” You whisper helplessly into your pillow.

You come with a breathy moan, mouth dropped open and eyes squeezed shut. It’s powerful, so overbearingly good that you are helpless but to ride the waves and all but black out for a number of long seconds.

When the sharp pleasure calms, you can feel yourself clenching around your fingers in throbbing pulses, and you can’t help but imagine how his hips might stutter as he feels you squeeze around his cock.

You moan into your pillow, low and ashamed at how much that thought turns you on and causes your spent pussy to clench needily around nothing.

You sigh, staring daggers at your bedroom ceiling as though you plan to intimidate it into keeping your secret.

-

“My dear,” Gortash calls, and it is difficult work to hide the shiver that runs down your spine.

“Don’t call me that.” You assert.

“My dear,” He repeats, powering ahead regardless of your complaint. “You really should dress more regally for these types of events. We can have the tailors fit you for something nice.”

To appease Lord Caldwell, as a trade for his financial support, yourself and Gortash are preparing to attend a garden party. How Caldwell has managed to repair his garden enough for socialising is beyond you. Whatever skilled hands rebuilt his home could have been of much use elsewhere in the destroyed city.

But… you’ve been instructed to play nice today. That, and the garden party doubles as a silent auction, raising funds for the city’s coffers during the rebuild effort. And so you will play nice. At least today. With Caldwell himself, and with any number of other nobles who have little actual work to do.

You sigh silently. Potential donors and allies.

Gortash is in his full regalia, looking every bit the Archduke he should be.

You are in your cleric’s armour, the weave-infused chainmail that lived on your back for the better part of a month, but still gleams impressively with proper care.

“It suits the image better.” You come up with the argument on the spot, but you’re not wrong. “I’m not your duchess in a grand frock, I’m your champion. The Gate’s champion.”

“You could be my duchess.” He says simply.

“There are plenty of epics, tales of platonic soulmates: shield brothers, oath-sworn knights.” You list off. “Besides, I think you have enough nobles clamouring to be your duchess.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I am acquainted with Lady Jannath, I am aware of your seductive manipulation of those in power, and your back-door deals…” You pause for a moment. “The double entendre was entirely purposeful, by the way.”

“Hilarious.” His tone is deadpan, but his mouth holds a wry smile. 

“With such a prevalent tool in your arsenal, I have no interest in being your duchess in name while you sleep with half the Gate.” You assert. “I will be your champion, Enver.”

“Enver?” His voice is surprised, and you flinch when you realise your slip up.

“I didn’t mean-”

“You’re right.” He interrupts you with a scheming smile pulling at his features. “You may wear what you wish to this little garden party. But you must address me by my first name while present.”

-

“Excuse me, Archduke Hero?” A polite voice calls your attention from behind you, and when you turn, you see a small girl in fine dress.

“Hello young ma’am.” You crouch before her, bringing yourself down to her height. She must be about the age of 6, and it warms your heart that she appears physically well so soon after such a violent battle on her doorstep. “How may I help you today?”

“Your clothes are sparkly.” She points out, gesturing to your chest armour.

“They’re magic,” You grin at her, whispering like you’re sharing a secret. “When there’s bad guys around, they let me summon lightning!”

“Woah!” She whispers back, obviously thrilled to be let in on your secret. “Can I touch it..?”

“Of course!” You hold your arm out to her, and she runs her small fingers over the chilled chainmail texture. 

“You gotta be strong, right?” Another voice calls from behind you, a small boy this time. “You’re a hero, so you gotta be strong.”

“She doesn’t have to be strong, Bastian, she’s magic!” The young girl comes to your rescue.

“Hmm, I don’t know if I am strong…” You pretend to think for a long moment before offering him your other bicep. “Here, grab on tight.”

He grabs your bicep firmly in his hands, and you stand up straight, lifting him off the ground as you do.

“Woah!” The boy, Bastian, you figure, cries out, his legs dangling in the air. “You are strong!”

“I want a go!” The young girl jumps excitedly.

You stoop beside her and hover your spare hand behind her back. “May I, my lady?” With her excited nod, you scoop her up around her middle and carry her under your arm.

Admittedly, a cleric as you are, you’re not particularly strong, and you know you’ll feel the strain in your muscles tonight. But the stereo sound of thrilled giggles from the small children are entirely worth it.

You are not aware of the conversation that is happening on the opposite end of the garden.

“Lord Gortash, are you listening?” A good-natured Lady Ambrose follows his eyeline and catches him watching as you play with a pair of excitable children.

“Oh, she seems so good with children.” Lord Caldwell observes, but the tone of his voice raises Gortash’s hackles. Far too fawning.

“Yes,” Gortash agrees, his voice purposefully walking a fine line between a lovestruck sigh and a professional mask.

“Do you intend to make her your duchess?” Lady Eltan asks, clearly on tenterhooks. Though she may be a descendant of Duke Eltan, founder of the Flaming Fists, she herself is nothing more than a notorious romantic.

“Ah,” He affects a look of near-chastisement, appearing to snap out of a reverie at the question. “She is my champion, the hero of the Gate.”

“That is not what I asked, Lord Gortash,” Eltan presses, teasingly. “She is your soulmate! Surely you intend to marry her?”

“She…” Gortash almost exhales the word, a play at wistfulness. “She is my champion. Excuse me.”

He can hear the enthralled, sighing simpering of noblepeople with nothing better to do with their time come from behind him as he crosses the garden to you. The cooing of ‘so romantic’ is only barely audible on the wind. 

Gortash is still smiling smugly when he approaches you and your growing cadre of 5-year-old fanatics, each of whom want to play with the hero of the Gate.

“Lord Gortash,” You greet, formal in front of your audience of children, but he raises an eyebrow at you, and so you correct yourself. “Enver. What have you been up to?”

He raises a hand to your cheek, and your eyes go wide as he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His hand never once touches your face, but you can feel the promising static of his caress lingering a mere breath away from your skin. You blink dumbly at him, but over his shoulder, you can see a group of well-dressed women swooning.

“I’ve just secured us several new donors, I believe.” He says under his breath.

You roll your eyes at him and ignore the flush that warms your cheeks. You stretch the tightness out of your back muscles; how is it that a garden-party-slash-fund-raiser is the most exercise you’ve gotten in the last week?

“Oh,” you say. That brings a thought to mind. “This party is also a silent auction, correct?”

“Indeed, the proceeds will be going to the town’s coffers.”

“We should have donated something to be auctioned…” You muse, disappointed.

“Worry not, my dearest, we did.” His smile is smug once more, scheming, and you do not trust it for a second.

“And what exactly did we donate?”

“I donated a number of artworks from my personal collection.”

“Oh, that’s very nice of you.” Your voice echoes your pleased surprise.

“And for yourself, you’ve got a bidding war going on an intimate dinner date.” He grins.

“...You jest.”

“I do no such thing.”

“No, but truly, you jest.”

“Last I saw, bidding for that particular item had reached nearly twenty thousand gold.”

“Twent-” You stammer. “For a dinner date?! With me?”

“Mm, you seem to be quite the hot commodity, due to your acts of heroism.”

“Well who in the hells bid that much?”

“Ah, that much, I cannot say.” Gortash shrugs playfully. “The bids are made under a pseudonym to avoid turning this charity party into a mean-spirited contest.”

(It is only on the way home that you learn that it was Gortash himself who won the pleasure of joining you for a dinner date.)

-

You cannot sleep.

Between the dream manipulation and last night’s… excitement, the last few evenings have not been kind to your sleep. 

You’ve been tossing and turning for what feels like hours, and so you figure the best course of action is to throw a warm robe over your sleep clothes and walk the corridors for a while. The repetitive stonework always puts you in a sleepy kind of near-hypnosis, and that sounds just about perfect.

The paintings on the walls watch you, and you watch them right back. Large portraits of historical figures that you do not care to name at this hour follow you with their eyes, and in turn, you silently critique their brushwork.

Your feet, it seems, have led you to your office, and you purposefully do not go in. 

No working. You’re trying to sleep.

You continue down the hallway, wondering if you’ve ever actually been any deeper than this into the keep. You know Gortash’s own office is down the next turn, but you’re not sure if the hallway loops around enough to lead you back to your chambers-

Oh, the candles are burning in his office, light escaping in a slim column through the slightly-ajar door. Perhaps he too is having trouble sleeping. Perhaps this is an opportunity to interrupt and banter with him a little.

“-wanted to ask about your brother.” You hear his voice, soft-spoken in the evening, and it gives you pause.

“Corbin?” A woman’s voice replies, and it’s familiar. “He’s been missing for years now.”

“I simply know he happened to have a small contingent of zealot supporters.”

“Enver,” The voice is reproachful, and that’s what tips you off to its owner - Lady Ambrose. “I have it on good authority that it was you who had him assassinated, so let us continue this conversation with that knowledge out in the open.”

You freeze. Should you intervene? Should you flee? Your heart beats quicker, and you struggle to keep your breathing silent.

“Lady Ambrose-”

“I do not blame you, I know what he was.” She interrupts, and the tension leaves your body with a silent sigh. “How any of you could get yourselves mixed up with such a fickle god is beyond me.”

Though she is apparently not with the cult of Bane itself, it is of interest to learn that she is not, in fact, ignorant of Gortash’s alignments.

“That’s blasphemy.” But Gortash says it lightly.

“He’s not my god, what do I care?” She scoffs. “I saw what it did to Corbin, losing Bane’s favour like that. I would never put myself in that position.”

“It got him killed.” He agrees.

“And worse…” She trails off, and you can hear the thoughtfulness in her voice. “Is that why you called me here, Enver? Do you wish to know of the horrors he faced before he was finally granted his untimely end?”

You barely manage to stifle a gasp. She is clearly implying that she assumes Gortash may be losing favour with Bane… that he may want to prepare himself. 

“No.” He replies, and if his confidence is a mask, then it’s a good one. “The reason I requested this audience was to ask if there was any possibility that your brother’s supporters had a hand in this dream manipulation.”

“I wouldn’t have the faintest clue.” She answers. “Why them, specifically?”

“I’ve been alerted to a high volume of funds being moved through branch families of the Ambrose house, and one must investigate-”

“It is war time, Enver.” She replies, deadpan. “Or post-war or whatever it is your soulmate calls it. Of course we must funnel some funds to our more distant relatives. Nobody is spending money on silk and dyes when the world is ending.”

There’s a silence between them that lingers for a long moment, no sound beyond someone shifting their weight. You cannot even retreat lest the shuffling of your clothes echo in the soundless night.

“I am not your enemy.” She sighs, sounding sincere. “I can tell you what it was like, when Corbin lost Bane’s favour… if that is of interest to you.”

“No, thank you Lady Ambrose.” Gortash speaks politely. “That is of no relevance to myself.”

Vaguely, you’re disappointed in missing out on the information yourself. That, and you do not believe he’s being truthful. But you can acknowledge that there’s no reason for others to believe he’s lost bane’s favour.

“A toast then,” Lady Ambrose poses, her voice only a little sardonic. She toasts the executioner for apparently avoiding the chopping block himself. “To your continued success.”

“To the council’s success.”

Chapter Text

The warmed water filling the bathtub soothes your tired muscles as you lounge beneath the bubbles. You let out a deep sigh and allow yourself just a few more moments of peace before you must emerge and begin your day.

You don’t intend to confront Gortash about his clandestine meeting last night, and you very purposefully do not care what else the two of them might have gotten up to after you retreated to your room. You rub a damp hand over your face, soothing the stress from your jaw. You will not begrudge him acting according to his nature, a dog is a dog, and your soulmate is a scheming tyrant. 

Great.

A solid knock at the bathroom door breaks you from your thoughts.

“I’m in the tub.” You call.

“You have a visitor.” Gortash’s voice calls shortly. You know him well enough by now to know that he sounds unhappy.

“Is it you?” You call back sarcastically.

“It is one from your little herd of misfits, returned to the city. The big druid.”

“Oh, Halsin?” You reply, pleasantly surprised to hear that your dear friend has returned during such trying times - and so soon after he left, at that! “Send him in.”

There is a long, long silence from the other side of the door.

“Into your chambers?” Gortash calls back.

“Yes?”

“While you are bathing.” It’s not a question.

“What do you-? Hey!” You flinch as Gortash barges into your ensuite, closing the door behind himself. Your modesty is easily maintained by the coverage of soap bubbles, but you hide yourself with your hands regardless. You find yourself once again entirely dissatisfied with his behaviour.

“Why in the world would you invite another man into your chambers while you are bathing?” He all but growls at you, his incensed tone reverberating off the stone walls.

You tilt your head and observe him silently for a moment. You’ve seen him angry, enraged before. This is definitely similar to that. His brow holds a deep furrow and his posture looks coiled, like he’s ready to strike something.

“You’re jealous.” You surmise simply.

“And you are my soulmate.”

“You are aware that half of my companions have seen me bathe during our travels, correct?”

“Which half?” 

“Enver,” You reprimand him. “You are being ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m being ridiculous, am I?” He throws his gauntleted hands up in exasperation. “You cover yourself so ardently in front of your soulmate, and yet any number of travelling rogues across Toril might have seen you in an unclothed state.”

You cannot help but roll your eyes at him. “Matters were different when we were contending with the end of the world. Safety, more than modesty, was a priority.”

“On that matter at least, you are correct.” He hisses at you. “You are indeed no longer travelling. You are an Archduke now, and I would trust you to behave as such.”

And indeed, he does have a point there.

“Alright, I’ll make myself entirely presentable and meet Halsin in the sitting room.”

“Agreeable.” He huffs and crosses his arms.

There is a long, silent moment where neither of you move.

“Enver?”

“Yes, dearest?”

You pull a face. “That was your cue to leave.”

“Oh, was it?” He feigns ignorance.

“I must dry myself and dress.”

“And who am I to stop you?” He replies simply. He does not move to leave.

You narrow your eyes and raise a wet brow at him… before shrugging your shoulders in acceptance.

“Well, if you insist on lingering…”

You rise gracefully from the water, heavy rivulets running down the planes and curves of your body, all bared under the watchful gaze of your soulmate. Your heart beats faster, and you put every ounce of control you possess into not visibly reacting under his stare. Showing vulnerability, exposing yourself under this despot’s gaze unnerves you, but it has the stupid little soul-bonded feeling in your gut trilling in happiness. That, and you’re not not aroused by the weighty stare of an attractive man.

Gortash, for his part, is entirely motionless. With his jaw dropped and his mouth hanging ajar, his eyes rake rapidly over every inch of your body.

You sigh, gently, and step out of the tub. 

You step slowly towards him, and as you approach, his eyes only widen further. A stunned surprise locks him in his place, his entire body frozen. Well, that and-

“Flee.” You issue, completing the cast of the spell Command.

He turns from you - his eyes glued to your bare form until the last possible minute - and leaves the bathroom. You shut the door behind him, taking care to lock it this time.

Poor bastard, so enthralled with your breasts that he had entirely missed the way you uttered the verbal components for such a simple spell. 

You cannot resist the urge to call to him, tauntingly. “Enjoy the sitting room, dearest.”

-

“Halsin,” You greet your guest with a smile as you enter the sitting room. You politely ignore the way that Gortash’s eyes trace over your now-clothed chest. “I did not expect to see you return to the Gate so soon.”

“I certainly had not intended to return so soon.” He accepts your greeting, holding one of your hands in two of his own - large, warm - and giving it a squeeze. “Alas, I fear I bring ill tidings, dear friend.”

When he releases your hand, you take a seat on the brocade lounge, gesturing for him to do the same. Gortash seats himself in the wingback chair and watches you both closely.

“I was afraid as much might be true.” Your voice is grim. “We appear to be facing turmoil in the region already, spreading outwards from the Gate like rot.”

“Rot indeed may be the correct phrasing there.” His mouth is set in an unhappy line. “Whatever has caused this, nature is suffering for it. Willows along the Chionthar have reportedly begun to shed their leaves, though it is barely late summer. We’ve seen beasts flooding into areas around the grove, both wild and domesticated; we assumed they’ve fled the Gate?”

You nod in confirmation. Jaheira’s reports on the animals of Rivington play in the back of your mind.

“I had thought as much.” He sighs heavily. “While we druids are doing the best we are able to ensure the safety of all living beings, the sudden arrival of a wolf pack at our borders put many of our young new charges on edge. And on top of all of that…”

He trails off, looking meaningfully out the window. 

“I do not need to advise you on the unnatural nature of the cloudcover that lingers here.”

“No,” You fold your hands. “You do not.”

“What would you have us do, Archduke?” Halsin asks, and it surprises you.

Meeting his gaze, he wears a too-familiar expression. A tired smile of camaraderie washed over with tones of resignation to a difficult cause. It is as familiar on his face as it would be on any of your companions’. 

Still, you are surprised that he asks for direction. It does make tactical sense; you are, if nothing else, the most informed of and entitled to speak on the issue. But the druids of the grove are an entirely separate governing body to that of Baldur’s Gate, and historically, they do not like taking orders from a city that would shut nature out at the boundaries.

If nothing else, it warms your heart to know that your global good will carries on between calamities… however much you would prefer no such calamities occur.

“I take it you mustn't have had much time to speak with Thaniel?” You ask, and Halsin shakes his head in agreement. “That is your next move. Your priority - that of the grove as well - should be to treat the symptoms of this malady. With what appears to be a singular cause uniting all of these issues, the only cure will be for us in the Gate to destroy the source. You do not need me to tell you that you’ve done well to prioritise safety, but I fear that is all I can ask of you for now. Commune with the spirit of the forest, trust in Sylvanus’ guidance, and nurse the bleeding until we may cauterise the wound.”

He says nothing more, but one of his large, bearish hands raises to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You’re struck with an immediate awareness of just how similar this is to the move Gortash pulled at the garden party yesterday. It is less smooth, his warm skin brushing your cheek gently. And yet you do not tingle with anticipation, as it had for your soulmate. 

Regardless, a kind touch is nice, and you shoot him a fond smile. 

And then you hear Gortash shift audibly in his seat, and you pull away from your friend, your smile remaining.

“I imagine you won’t be staying long.” You prompt Halsin. “Though you are welcome to stay in the keep if you so wish.” You very politely ignore that way that Gortash openly glares from across the room.

“Ah, I had hoped to leave before this evening…” He pauses for a long moment. “But I fear so much travelling in such a short span of time has left me beyond weary.”

“Mm, I don’t think we could convene the full Council of Secretaries any earlier than tomorrow morning regardless.” You hum. “Perhaps it would be best for you to stay and report your findings on the morrow.”

“If you insist,” Halsin sounds unsure.

“Perhaps-” Gortash attempts to add, himself being the obvious source of Halsin’s hesitation.

“I do insist.” You affirm, interrupting. “Regardless, the others would be heartbroken if they did not get to see you. We could go out to dinner with them somewhere with good music and strong drink!”

Gortash drums his fingertips against his chin in impatience. You very purposefully do not extend him an invitation.

“I will not deny that that does indeed sound agreeable.” Halsin’s shoulders slump under the weight of his exhaustion.

“Right, well then why don’t you get settled in the room three doors down that way,” You gesture out the door. “And rest up! Cleric’s orders.”

He chuckles lowly as he rises from his seat, his spent muscles clearly disapproving of the motion. 

“Thank you, my friend.” He stoops down and presses a gentle, dry kiss to the centre of your forehead. You have to twitch to keep his long hair from tickling your face. And then, just as suddenly, he has left to find his room.

When the door to the sitting area shuts behind Halsin’s retreating form, Gortash slips over to take his seat, sitting beside you on the lounge.

“He seems a useful enough oaf.” Gortash posits.

“Don’t be rude.” You chastise him.

There is a long silence as he tilts his head, examining you.

“You’ve fucked him, haven’t you?” Gortash asks. He appears almost amused.

“Don’t be gross either.”

“No, truly.” He snorts. “A blind man could see the way that lumbering brute looks at you.”

“No, Gortash,” You sigh, already entirely exhausted with his antics for the day. “I did not fuck Halsin.”

Another pause, and more of his annoying observation. “But you wanted to.”

And… Yes, you reflect to yourself. You were indeed almost romantically involved with Halsin before your party ever reached Baldur’s Gate. 

After freeing the Moonrise from the shadow curse, he had whispered something promising about you being all that he wants. You were entirely certain that, once you’d settled in your next camp, your relationship with Halsin would evolve into a fully romantic and sexual one.

But then you had learned about Gortash, your soulmate.

And that… had paused things indefinitely. It wouldn’t have been fair to string Halsin along at that point, even in the event that Gortash had to be killed to be stopped. You had far too much going on in your life to make the space that Halsin deserved.

But you do not plan to admit all of that to Gortash himself.

So instead you simply say, “No, we were never together.”

He looks at you, pensive, and it makes you skin fucking crawl with how much your asshole of a soulmate has flayed open your motivations and alliances for his own perusal in the span of one meeting.

“That aside, who in the hells do you think you are to hound me like this?” You cross your arms and glare across the scant space between yourselves. “I am allowed to have history, Enver. I know you yourself are no blushing virgin, I’ve read Lady Jannath’s damned smutty diary entries.”

He has an odd look on his face, and it gives you pause in your frustration. And then it melts into a familiar, sleazy smile. 

“You’ve read Jannath’s analysis of my sexual prowess, have you?” He smirks, shifting closer to you on the lounge so that you have to lean away from him. “And that knowledge has just been living in the back of your mind this entire time?”

You feel a flush crawl up your cheeks and your heart begins to beat faster. As you lean away from him, he tilts himself to follow; with each inch, each motion, he is practically pinning you to the couch beneath him.

You do not shove him off you, something instinctual and burning inside yourself enjoying the bodily closeness to a truly embarrassing degree. Hells, you can already feel your undergarments growing damp with your arousal.

You turn your head to the side, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Well, you must know that Lady Jannath isn’t quite the skilled novelist.” He purrs, and then his hand touches your chin. The shock of connection, of bare skin conducting the thrumming energy of your heart from one being to another, it’s enough to make you gasp. He uses this distraction to tip your chin back to meet his gaze. “Perhaps it would be best if I gave you better insight… a practical demonstration.”

You want it, you want him. You fucking hate it, but you do. Though you certainly cannot give in immediately after his rude and possessive display.

But you’re half-gasping for air already, and he’s breathing so heavily you can feel it skate across your lips, and fuck, you might just kiss him-

“Archdukes, I- oh!” A voice interrupts. Lionel, the guard, you recognise.

Every muscle in your body freezes, and your eyes squeeze shut painfully tight. Humiliating. You’ve been caught in flagrante delicto, even if it is with your supposed soulmate. You were truly about to kiss this absolute bastard, and out in the open of your common area too? Idiot.

Gortash sighs heavily, and you feel the rush of breath warm against your cheek. DIstantly, you think he sounds more weary than you’ve ever heard him before.

The broad warmth of his hand slips deftly around to cup the back of your head, and then he presses his lips gently to your forehead - right over the spot where Halsin kissed.

“Yes,” He finally addresses the guard, standing to his full height and straightening his clothing. “What news?”

"Oh, well, that is..." Lionel looks sheepishly to the floor. "The cook asked me to fetch you for lunch."

Ah. You'd best prepare to stop your soulmate from murdering this poor man.

Chapter Text

You sigh long and weary - an action you have become far too familiar with - as you settle into the hard wooden chair at The Three Old Kegs.

It’s definitely a bit more upmarket than the taverns you’re used to, but Astarion’s suggestion had been correct: you do indeed wish to catch up with your friends uninterrupted and unworried about being overheard.

“The finest drinking establishment in the Gate, darling!” He had called it, and he’s not wrong. You do have to hand it to him, it is nice. You’ve found a secluded table for your small party (though it is unfortunate that Gale, Jaheira, and Minsc have business elsewhere).

Lifting your tankard to your lips, the first pull is long and tasty. You do have to admit that the alcohol’s quality does justify its price. You relax back in your seat and regard your friends warmly, drawing again from your drink.

“Allow me to cut to the chase.” Shadowheart begins, and she turns to you. “How is he in bed?”

You aspirate your ale.

Coughing, lightly choking, you fight to catch your breath (and to catch up with the sudden topic of conversation).

“I beg your pardon?!” You wheeze out, tapping on your chest for some relief.

“No, she’s right.” Astarion nods sagely. “It’s exactly what I’ve been wondering as well.”

“Need I remind you two,” You clear your throat around the words. “That our arrangement is an allyship, not a romance.”

“That’s what everyone says right before it becomes a romance.” Shadowheart looks unconvinced.

“So what,” Astarion judges, sounding disappointed in you. “His bloody moral compass is enough to keep you out of his bedroom?”

“It certainly is.” You say firmly. “We share neither our alignments nor our beds.”

“Boo.” Astarion jeers, taking a long sip of his own drink.

“But I’ve seen the way he looks at you during our meetings.” Shadowheart observes. “It’s like he’s torn between overthrowing you with a coup or proposing.”

“She’s entirely correct, my dear.” Astarion says. “Plus, you yourself often look like you could either kiss him or stab him.”

“It depends on the day.” You laugh.

“Kinky, I like it.” astarion grins, baring his sharp fangs impishly. “So you do not sleep together, but you don’t deny your interest… so there’s something going on between you.”

You hesitate for a long second, and the two of them appear to latch onto it like hungry wolves. Somehow, even Halsin looks interested in your answer.

“We almost kissed this morning.”

Astarion throws his arms up and collapses back into his chair.

“Almost kissed,” Shadowheart sighs. “What are you, pre-teens?”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a prude, darling.” Astarion says glumly. “Hells, before this whole debacle, I had assumed you were climbing our resident bear like a tree every night!”

You flush high on your cheeks and shoot Halsin an awkward smile.

“My apologies, Halsin, this is hardly an appropriate topic for a friendly catch-up.” You say, pointedly hinting.

“Wait, I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter, Halsin dear.” He prompts, smiling once more. “Surely our lovely, repressed friend here should stop fighting the whims of fate, yes?”

“Or at least be relieving her tension elsewhere…” Shadowheart adds.

“That is indeed a very good point,” Astarion gestures with his tankard. “You’re far too tightly wound these days, and it would be remarkably easy work for you to bring someone else to your bed.”

You glare at the two of them, unhappy that they have put Halsin in an uncomfortable spot and judged you on your sex life. 

Halsin considers the question for a long moment, apparently hesitant to speak his mind. “Such bonds should serve to strengthen, not suffocate. Lovers should offer you freedom and happiness.”

“See, he agrees with us.” Astarion grins. “So you should either fuck or get off the pot.”

“That’s not the expression.” You say, deadpan.

“Irrelevant. Have sex with your soulmate, or have sex with someone who isn’t your soulmate.”

“Agreed!” Shadowheart says. “Cleric’s orders, you need to relieve some of the damned tension of being an Archduke.

“You know I’m a cleric too…” You grumble. You very purposefully do not tell them about your recent sex dream, or about how you flashed Gortash mere hours ago.

“And yet you’re neglecting your own needs.” Astarion shakes his head sadly. “And your soulmate’s for that matter! Think about how much more agreeable Gortash would be if he got his dick wet.”

“Hear hear,” Shadowheart agrees. “A toast then: To good sex and a bearable pair of rulers.”

Astarion grins at you sleazily as he lifts his own glass, “And may your soulmate never find out just how many would happily replace him if given the chance.”

You bury your face in your hands while your friends take a long drink, cheering your sex life.

-

A few hours - and several strong drinks - later, you walk through the quiet hallways of the keep with Halsin at your side. You can feel the effects of the liquor in the back of your head, settling your more stressful thoughts into a heavy, happy silence.

“Thank you for coming to dinner tonight.” You say. “I’m sorry it began so… awkwardly.”

“Think nothing of it.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Though… may I make an observation?”

“You may.” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“You seem tired, my friend.”

“Ha, I am tired,” You admit with a small smile. “I’ve been thrust immediately into a position of power, and I need to spend every damned day figuring out how to use it correctly.”

You both come to a stop outside of his guest room, and he reaches for you. Just as this morning, he brushes the back of his hand gently over your cheek. His touch is warm and unfaltering; it comforts you.

Your heart beats a little faster, and you cannot help but gaze up into his eyes. You’ve never been able to get used to just how handsome he is… just how big he is. Your head spins, the intoxication pounding against the walls of your skull as you take stock of the situation.

“You could have peace, you know.” His voice rumbles, low in his chest. “In the grove, with me, you could be without such responsibilities. You could finally get the rest you deserve.” 

Your lips part, but you have no clue what you intend to say in response. His eyes, a deep colour in the dark of the corridor, rest assuredly and comfortingly on your own.

“I couldn’t do that.” You let your eyes fall to the floor, breaking his gaze. “There are - there always will be - threats to the wellbeing of those who live here… forces which would end Baldur’s Gate as we know it.”

He pauses for a long moment, his hand stroking over your hair. “And is that so bad?”

You flinch, and your eyes find his again, your brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“The sick and needy line the streets.” He states, his hand patting reassuringly over your hair as you follow his meaning. “By design, those who are in power hold dominion over the lives of those who are not. Nature does not thrive within these walls, it is tamed or chased out.”

You find yourself speechless.

“Would the destruction of such a way of life be such a tragedy?”

You step away from him, and he pulls his hand back.

“We are not in agreement on this.” You tell him plainly, trying to keep the anger out of your voice. “Does the gate have its hardships? Of course, but I defy you to find me one civilisation which does not.”

He simply frowns gently at you.

“A larger scale of civilisation will always lead to a larger scale of hardships, Halsin.” You state, your indignation sobering you momentarily. “A city itself is incapable of being heartless, it is a community same as any other. It is the rulers who must have heart for their citizens.”

“And do they?”

“I do.”

He exhales and his shoulders sag. He does not look you in the eye. 

“I do not wish to see you work yourself into the grave against the insidious evils of those in power.” He tries to reach for your hand, but you do not allow him to hold it. “And considering what our companions raised this evening… are you sure that you are fulfilled here?”

You sigh. “Yes.”

He laughs humourlessly. “Then I hope he at least fucks you good.”

SLAP

Silence rings out, accompanied only by the echo of contact. Your hand stings.

Halsin simply blinks for a long second, his head frozen where it had turned under the force of your strike. One of his large hands raises to touch his stinging cheek. 

Good.

“My apologies,” He bows his head. “Perhaps the drink has affected me more than I thought.”

You cross your arms at him, this whole conversation has you incensed on behalf of yourself and your city.

“Please forgive my rudeness.” He opens the guest room door. “Allow me to sleep it off, and I am certain I’ll be entirely contrite come morning.”

“Goodnight, Halsin.” You bid, sighing. He was out of line, but you’ll forgive him by morning.

“Goodnight, my friend.”

He shuts the door behind him, and you pinch the bridge of your nose. As you walk the short distance back to your own chambers, the drink hits you again, spinning your head unpleasantly. You cannot wait for a good night’s sleep.

You enter the sitting area, intent on slipping through to your own bedroom, but Gortash stands immediately on the other side of the door, blocking your path.

“You were listening.” You state. It’s not an accusation; though your conversation was loaded, you wouldn’t have spoken in the open hallway had you needed privacy.

“It seems he is the one who is jealous.” The corner of his mouth ticks up just a touch.

“Drop it.” You beg.

“It is admirable, however.” He muses.

“What is?” You’re tired and dizzy and you do not have it in you to play games with him right now.

“Your moral convictions.” He answers. “The self-sacrifice to further your cause and your own beliefs. You work hard at a role you are untrained for just to help the Gate reach your ideal.”

“Thank you…” You whisper, lost for words under his surprising sincerity.

You gaze up into his eyes, dark enough to get lost in under the flickering candle light. The eyes may be the windows to the soul, and you feel now, as always, the tantalising pull of your very being towards his. It only grows stronger each day. Moments with him, moments like these, remind you that he is no longer your enemy, but your ally. Despite your differences, you care for the wellbeing of the Gate, and hold nothing but a deep respect for each other.

“You know, your dedication would have made you an excellent Banite.”

“...Goodnight, Enver.”

-

“Montavega Morgan.” The voice calls for you in the darkest recesses of your mind. 

You’re alone, adrift and untethered in a way that sends a fresh spike of panic through you with every beat of your heart. You’re free of your god, free of your powers, free of your bonds.

“You will not deny us our freedom.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, but the inky blackness does not disappear. You grasp desperately at nothingness, seeking your holy symbol, your staff, anything to keep you tethered to your sanity. 

“It is not too late to break your bonds.”

And again, finally, spoken with the gentle caress of a lover:

“You will lose them either way.”

And you awaken.

Chapter Text

“It said my name last night,” You speak, gravely, to your Council of Secretaries. “In my first dream mere days ago, they spoke generally, like they may have been addressing anyone. But last night, they spoke to me.”

Gale furrows his brow and flips through pages of one book of many. “Surely it is not possible to transmit specialised dreams to thousands of recipients…”

“Did we not think manipulating the dreams of thousands impossible to begin with?” Shadowheart asks.

“Yes, but this would be particularly impossible.” Gale huffs. “I would need to confer with Rolan and determine what was observed by the oculus last night, but… it is entirely possible that Tav was the only one receiving a personalised dream.”

“I admit my dreams were manipulated last evening.” Duke Ravengard speaks up. “Though I was not addressed by name, nor did its words hold any particular meaning to me.”

The silence in the chamber is tense for a long moment.

“You were targeted.” Gortash says, plainly. His face appears impassive, guarded, but you know by now that he only flicks the claws of his gauntlet when he is bothered by something.

“It matters not.” You sigh, ignoring the way that several of your confidants look poised to argue that statement. “Our work does not change.”

“It most certainly does matter!”

You jump in surprise. The voice had not come from a seat on the table, but from his position at the door: a loyal guard of the keep, Lionel.

“Lionel-” You begin.

“My lady, please forgive me for speaking out of turn, but you must remember your public engagement tomorrow.” Lionel places a fist over his chest and bows to the table. 

Ah, you had indeed forgotten; the Feast of Helm begins tomorrow. Not quite a feast as the name suggests, it is instead a long-standing festival paying tribute to Helm, the god of protection held sacred among many Baldurians. 

“Religious unrest is at a breaking point with the blasphemy being sent directly into the peoples’ minds.” Shadowheart worries. “And so soon after the battle with invading forces, the churches and the citizens wouldn’t be happy were you to be absent...”

“Securing the safety of an Archduke during a normal public appearance is already a difficult task with hundreds of variables.” Lionel speaks again, still posed in his differential salute. “And that was before you received threats of violence. As captain of your guard, I must recommend that you do not attend, my lady.”

“What?! You must attend the Feast!” Lady Ambrose calls from across the table, and again you are surprised. 

The festival itself takes part in the lower city, with your appearance scheduled to be in the forecourt outside of Sorcerous Sundries. You would be surprised if any noble houses deigned to brave the lower city crowds at all. 

“You are a cleric of Talos,” Shadowheart adds. “The congregations which follow good or lawful gods remain skeptical of your motivations.”

You stare at the woodgrain of the table for a long moment, considering the arguments, and lamenting the fact that backing out would forfeit a crucial opportunity to gauge public attitudes. Both towards yourself and the current crisis.

“I must attend.” You say decisively to Lionel. His jaw ticks almost imperceptibly, but he nods and returns to his station at the door. Idly, you note that the poor man deserves a raise.

“With that decided,” Gortash speaks, his expression unreadable. “We must consider the recent reports from our reconnaissance agents and our visiting dignitary from the druids’ grove.”

“And consider our next steps, we cannot wait around for things to develop.” You add. “Astarion, where are we with the captive we took from the warehouse?’

A single captive was taken during your raid just a few days ago. While you had initially planned to hold him within the keep’s dungeons, the place is entirely too busy (and unsecured, as you had proven with your multiple break-ins mere weeks prior). And so you had sent him with Astarion to be kept in Cazador’s dungeons for interrogation.

“Oh, you’ll love this, darling.” Astarion grimaces, his tone telling you that you will most assuredly not love whatever he is about to report. “He died in his fucking sleep.”

“What?” Gortash hisses through clenched teeth.

“I examined the body this morning,” Shadowheart answers, looking disturbed herself. “It looks like a capulet of poison had been sewn into the hem of his undershirt’s neckline. All he’d had to do was bite down hard enough and…”

You rub away the tension pounding behind your forehead. You did not sleep well enough to deal with this kind of calamity. 

“Alright, we’ve lost our person of interest.” You say, unhappy but unwilling to get bogged down in it. “Gale, you spoke with Elminster last night, yes? What news?”

“Ah, therein, at least, lies some progress!” Gale perks up, sliding a letter across the table. You prop it up at such an angle that both yourself and Gortash may read it at once. 

“‘Sir Mordenkainen’,” You read aloud. “Why do I recognise that name?”

“A powerful wizard he is indeed,” Gale hums. “His particular realm of expertise is planar magic. Should this dream manipulation be powered by influence from the gods - or from other extraplanar beings, for that matter -  he will likely be able to identify which in particular.”

“Good work,” You commend.

“Extraplanar influence is most certainly an element of this whole debacle.” Shadowheart sighs. “We have spent the last nights attempting to scry through dreams with our silver mirrors, but alas all we could divine was a corrupted dreamscape.”

“They’re actively blocking divine insight.” You say in a hushed voice.

“At least through Selune’s domain.” She agrees. “If you would accompany me to the Stormshore Tabernacle after our meeting, we could seek the aid of some more varied clergy.”

You nod in agreement, but Gortash draws your attention for a moment. He leans into your space, and murmurs in your ear, voice low so as to be inaudible to any others. “Return to the keep by nightfall.”

You blink, silent and confused for a moment, but you nod to him in understanding. Gods know what is of such importance that you be present by a set time, but you have no reason to distrust him.

“Duke Ravengard,” Gortash raises his voice to speak across the table. “What is to report regarding public unrest?”

You grind your teeth together, just a little, reminded suddenly that you do, upon occasion, have reason to distrust him. 

“The population is uneasy but quiet, with fewer incidents to report even than before the battle with the elder brain.” Ravengard reports, and the sigh of relief you breathe is almost audible. “It appears that a calm but constant presence of law enforcement was indeed a wiser suggestion than martial law.”

Your eyes flit to Gortash, and his face remains carefully impassive. Regardless, you know that an officer of lower station would have been punished for such a backhanded comment about the Archduke’s proposed plans. Ravengard, too, appears to be aware that his station allows for the occasional slight at his higher-ups, and he sits relaxed in his chair.

“Good work, and good news.” You say earnestly. 

“But the Fists themselves are worn thin.” Ravengard says. “Many lose hours of sleep returning to the barracks from the warehouse district in the lower city.”

“We must keep a watchful eye on the warehouses, though.” You say. “With so much movement and the reports we’ve received, the area cannot go unchecked…”

You pause, thoughtfully, for a long moment, and no council member has input worth filling the silence.

“Though, Enver,” You muse. “The old steel watch foundry, what condition is that building in?”

His jaw clenches unhappily at the reminder of his destroyed empire - destroyed at your hands.

“It still stands against the weathers, dearest.” He replies, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at the pet name.

“Then we arrange for a temporary barracks to be set up. Use the offices in the back, they’d better befit actual living quarters, and allocate an allowance for food from the nearby eateries in absence of a cafeteria.”

“Most agreeable, my lady.” Ravengard notes each point on the parchment before him.

You feel almost delirious when you relax back into your chair, observing the faces before you with a tired smile. Each issue raised has been met with a satisfactory plan for progression. You’re not unproud of yourself for your ingenuity here, working a role and serving a populace in a way that you had never planned to.

-

Your evening engagement, it turns out, is to make good on your silent auction donation.

When you’d arrived home from the Stormshore Tabernacle, your guard contingent had handed you a missive from Gortash, requesting the pleasure of your company for a nice dinner in the keep’s most intimate dining room.

And so here you stand before the standing mirror in your bedroom, combing your hair for the twentieth time in uneasy anticipation. You feel almost silly for how much effort you have put into your appearance this evening. You’d bathed briefly, and spent far too long worrying over the scant contents of your wardrobe before you’d found a particularly fine blouse that you’d bought from Figaro’s on a whim over a fortnight ago. It shows a good deal more of your cleavage than your usual tunics, and the high-waisted pants cups your ass nearly obscenely close.

You look too hot for a date with a tyrant, frankly. 

For a date with your soulmate, though? Perhaps if he behaves well, he will have earned the pleasure of your appearance this evening. A knock on your bedroom door draws you from your thoughts - and your own admiration of your reflection. Must be your date.

You blink, stunned for a second, when you open the door. 

Greeting you, already in a simple vase, is a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Lightly aromatic, each bloom is a rich, complex colour that makes your eyes light up as you observe them all.

“They’re beautiful,” Your voice comes out as a whisper as you gently take the vase from him, your eyes never once straying from the intricate arrangement. You place the vase on your bureau alongside a short pile of books, and cannot help but stare longer. The delicate petals sit softly against a backdrop of darker greenery, their colours looking silken in the candlelight.

“You wear these colours often,” Gortash responds, and his voice sounds almost awkward. “I took them for your favourites.”

Your chest feels lighter at his words, so thoughtful. “I love them.”

You finally tear your gaze off of your gift and return them to your soulmate. He, too, is dressed just a little finer than his usual wardrobe. He has left his imposing cloak behind and forgone his gauntlets in favour of a few simple golden rings. His shirt, still black, is of a more tailored fit than usual, and is held closed by a row of buttons down the front. 

Your gaze very specifically does not linger on his exposed forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

His gaze is unashamed in its appreciation of your own garments. You roll your eyes, allowing your exasperation to hide how flattered you feel. That, and you’re all too familiar with the weight of those seeking eyes over your form, and you must do all you can to stem the blush that threatens to spill across your cheeks at the thought.

“Come then,” You sigh, playing at impatience. “Show me the way to this dining room.”

He walks beside you, directing you down long corridors, past garish paintings and heavy red curtains.

“The keep is so large for just two people,” You note as you walk. “Even with house staff too.”

“Mm,” He agrees. “The guards’ chambers on the ground floor are in full use, as are the armory, prisons, and council chambers. But historically, the remaining rooms would house the extended families of the lord in power, with the necessary storage and amenities.”

“I fear neither of us has much of an extended family to speak of,” Your words are sad, but your tone is glib. “And thus I must instead get lost on the way to the front door.”

You have apparently arrived at the dining room, and he opens the door for you. Inside is a small table, sit to seat but two people, and a comfortable-looking pair of chairs. The room is lit by wall sconces and the wallpaper is deep and understated. A small tealight floats in a crystal glass half-full of water in the middle of your table.

He pulls out one of the chairs, and you take the invitation to sit, nodding your head to him in thanks. This is certainly a novelty to you if nothing else. You were not raised in particularly high stature, and historically your dinner dates were more likely to be accompanied by an upbeat brass band playing folksy drinking music than they were candlelight.

“Have you ever thought about moving?” You ask as he settles into his own chair. “You wouldn’t even need to sacrifice finer living, we could live somewhere in the upper city with enough space for staff.”

“Oh?” His voice sounds more interested than you’d expected.

“Indeed, after the emergency efforts have settled, you could have the dilapidated wings renovated and turned into permanent housing for the higher ranked members of the Flaming Fist.” You look at the ceiling, musing aloud. “That way, they could be on call while living amongst their families, and it would free up space in the barracks for more recruits…”

“As pragmatic as ever, my dear, and I promise you I am indeed considering your points, however…” He pauses for a long moment, and you finally notice that his smile is wolf-like. “You said that we could live in the upper city.”

Your cheeks flush.

“Oh! That is- What I meant-” It is suddenly very difficult to meet his gaze.

“You are just darling when you’re flustered, did you know?” He interrupts, and you scowl at him wordlessly. 

Thankfully, praise the gods, any need to fill the silence is removed from your shoulders as a man enters the room with two fine-stemmed wine glasses and a bottle of deep-red. He places the glasses before you on the table, and spins the bottle around to show you the label. Frankly, you do not even speak whatever language it is written in. He pours the barest sip into Gortash’s glass and waits patiently.

Gortash rolls the wine around the bottom of his glass and takes but a brief sniff before sampling it.

When he nods, the man pours two full glasses, first yours, and then Gortash’s. And then he retreats the same way he came.

“Many nobles labour under the false assumption that one samples the wine to determine whether it is to their taste.” Gortash says. “When in actuality, it is to check whether the bottle is corked.”

You blink for a moment. “Isn’t all wine corked?”

He smiles at you in a way that makes you unsure whether he intends to portray condescension or fondness. “It is indeed a misleading expression. For a bottle to be ‘corked’, it means that it has gone bad.”

“Oh,” you say. “Every day’s a school day.”

You turn the wine over in your own glass, watching the way that it clings to the sides. You’re not entirely unknowledgeable about wine, but you suppose you’ve had much less opportunity to sample the finer things than your date has.

“You know, I expected you’d poison me by now.” He states simply. “Living in such close quarters with one’s greatest threat, one begins to eye one’s food and drink warily.”

Again, his words pull you up short.

“I never considered it.” You say honestly. “Disagree though we may, we have an alliance.”

He raises a silent eyebrow at you.

“A real alliance.” You roll your eyes. “You know as well as I do that you intended to kill me as soon as I had fetched Orin’s netherstone for you. That, and I could never abide by the Iron Throne or the steel watchers.”

He rolls his eyes at you in turn and takes a sip of his wine. “However did the fates see fit to assign me a goody-goody for a soulmate?”

“If that’s the worst you can think to call me, I’ll allow it.” You scoff and raise your glass. “A toast then, to the gods’ sense of irony.”

“To us.” He smirks, and gently taps the rim of his glass against your own.

The wine is surprisingly light on your tastebuds, a deceptive subtlety hidden underneath its deep colour. You’d expected something heavier, something that would cling to your tongue and dominate your palate, though it instead washes over you brightly.

“It’s lovely,” You say.

“Mm, it’s a favourite of mine.” His eyes watch you while he idly swirls his wine, and you fight the childish urge to stick your tongue out at him. “That, and our courses this evening would be washed out by anything stronger.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

“It is not every day that one wins a dinner with the hero of the Gate.” He says, sardonically. And he is correct; the two of you do not often dine together. Usually you both take your meals in your respective offices or out on the town with an important contact.

The server man appears again, this time carrying two small plates, and when he places one in front of you, it appears to hold thin slices of a jewel-toned root vegetable and a heavy-looking soft cheese. It’s plated spotlessly with an immaculate spiral of oil-coloured dressing.

“Pardon me, sir,” You say. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

After placing Gortash’s dinner before him, he bows low. “Indeed, ma’am. We are employed but for the evening.”

You look to your date with an exasperated smile, clearly conveying you shouldn’t have. “Then well met, sir, thank you for your good work.”

The man simply nods and exits the room once more. 

“Tell me, are you indeed incapable of not befriending every soul you come across?” Gortash asks you, though his tone sounds more like a dissecting interest than a judgement.

“Well, forgive me,” You laugh, cutting into the gentle give of the cheese and arranging a nice forkful. “Imagine my momentary mortification at realising I am unacquainted with - what could well have been - one of the house’s five staff.”

“I do not know our usual cook’s name.” He lies.

“That’s a lie.” You say, muffled around a truly delicious mouthful.

“Yes, but it could well have been true.” He rolls his eyes. “Archdukes must prioritise their time better than to befriend the house staff.”

“Again, I cannot stress enough, there are five of them.” You chuckle. “I will happily spend as much time as necessary learning the names of the people who cook my food and wash my bedsheets.”

He is silent for a long moment, and when you look up from your food, his mouth is pursed as though fighting the urge to speak.

“You want to call me a goody-goody again, don’t you?”

“Desperately.”

That brings a laugh from you, surprised and unfettered, and you bring a hand up to cover your mouth. His eyes are wide, as though he too is surprised by your reaction, and you cannot help but notice that he covers a smile of his own with a slow sip of wine.

-

The hour is late when you retire from the dining room and rest instead in your communal sitting area.

You fetch two short glasses from the bar and fill each with a finger of - what you’ve since identified to be - a soft whiskey. You sit on the brocade lounge, figuring that after he has spent so much effort on planning your evening, perhaps he deserves his preferred wingback chair.

When he finishes building the fire in the hearth, the flames catching with gentle pops and hisses, he undoes his two topmost shirt buttons, flicking the fabric to air away the warmth. 

Gods help you, you’re all but hypnotised by the movement, by the vision of his thick chest hair over tanned skin. So much so that it surprises you when, instead of claiming the velvet chair, he takes a seat beside you on the lounge.

You’ve sat like this recently, after your meeting with Halsin yesterday morning, when he confronted you on your relationship and then all but kissed you.

You shake your head minutely and instead take a gentle sip of whiskey, letting the burn of it distract your thoughts, regardless of how the warmth of it tantalises. 

“You shall have to learn to pour more generously.” He smirks. “It’s a requirement of leadership.”

He smells good.

You can feel a blush spread across your cheeks, and you take another sip. Your half-intoxicated mind pushes an image into your mind: of crawling into bed with him each night, enjoying the warm, clean smell on his skin.

“I think perhaps I’ve had enough to drink this evening without tempting fate.” You reply, coy and obviously flirting.

“We should do this more often,” He says, taking a sip of his own drink. “Dinner, drinks, mutual attempts at civility.”

You snort, undignified, at his joke, and you’re already addicted to the way that his eyes light up when you laugh. It is far, far too dangerous.

“I think you’ve behaved admirably this evening.” You commend him, your voice low and playful. “Not even a hint of tyrannical conduct.”

“You’ve been misled; were I not behaving as a tyrant, I would have let you sample the wine first.”

It pulls a damned giggle from you, and your blush warms your face so thoroughly you feel almost dizzy with it. You finish the last sip of your drink almost remorsefully. In truth, you’re having too much fun to want to go to bed, but you both must rise early to prepare for the festival come morning. 

“Thank you, my dear,” He says, setting his own unfinished drink on the small table beside the lounge. “For the pleasure of your company this evening.”

He moves slowly, telegraphing his movements clearly as he reaches for your hand, and you allow it. He holds it in his own hand, the touch solid and his grip careful. The feedback runs down your arm with each enraptured pulse of your heartbeat, your soul bond tugging as always at the pit at your stomach.

When he kisses the back of your hand, it is slow and warm, nothing more than a press of lips to sensitive skin. You almost gasp at the sensation, the heat of his breath as he himself seems to sigh contentedly into the action.

When his lips leave your hand, you’re surprised to find yourself closer to him, but the stretch of your back informs you that it was, in fact, you who leant in… and so you lean closer, until you can feel the warmth radiating off his torso, so close to being pressed against your own.

Your eyes find his, and they are half-lidded and barely focussed. His gaze flits down to your mouth for just a fraction of a second, and you have to resist the urge to bite your lip against the rush of want that travels through you.

You kiss him.

It is simple. It is soft, chaste, and slow.

His lips are dry, the soft plushness pressed against your own. He smells faintly of the whiskey, even more faintly of the delicious wine. Your kiss is too chaste to taste him.

You pull back at the same moment as he does, though you only part by a scant half-inch. And then, once more, so briefly it could be a dream, you press your lips together again.

When you straighten your back, you are thrilled to find that his pupils have blown wide, betraying his usual calm demeanor.

“The pleasure of your company indeed,” He huffs a breathless laugh and gives your hand one final squeeze before gently releasing it. He rises from the couch. “I bid you goodnight, my dear.”

Tragically, you’re learning that him not pushing you for sex is the hottest thing he’s ever done.

“Ah, I hadn’t noticed,” He says, and you blink out of your hazy reverie. “I appear to have spilled some wine on my shirt. Ah, no matter.”

With one smooth motion, he pulls the shirt off over his head, and your mouth drops open. The movement causes his stomach to flex as it is revealed under your watchful gaze, and then his chest, and then his broad shoulders. 

In the intimate, low lighting of the fireplace, he looks akin to a fucking god.

He’s covered in body hair, this you knew, but it looks as though it would be soft to the touch, and your fingers ache to reach out. The trail of chest hair continues down his stomach and disappears, thick and dark under his waistband. It makes your cunt throb. Your mouth waters and you realise, distantly, that you are moments away from drooling over him.

Your breath comes heavy, aroused and intoxicated by more than just the liquor. Your chest all but heaves against the low neckline of your blouse with every heaving breath.

He upends the last of his drink into his mouth, the act flexing every soft-looking muscle in his chest under your watchful, ravenous gaze.

“Goodnight, dearest.” He says, simply, and smirks as he leaves the room.

Gods fucking damn that man.

Chapter Text

The morning air in Baldur’s Gate tastes of iron, as big cities often do.

Rain still threatens but will not fall. The same low ceiling of cloud cover presses against the world, reflecting the city’s light back at it in sickly hues. Every street, every back alley is damp and hot, and every shadow spied from out the corner of one’s eye appears to move.

Jaheira has been awake too long. Her boots are slick with gutter water and she rubs a hand over her tired eyes.

Her trail began at sunset: a letter intercepted by her harpers. Since then, every lead she has followed has bled into another. A coded note smuggled from the docks of the lower city, up to the body of a courier found belly-down in a pond, the mark of the not-Banites burned into his marred face. Each clue more violent, more desperate, and more blatant than the last. 

She has hunted many times before, and she knows this feeling, her quarry is panicked.

And Jaheira, stubborn as the dawn which crested mere hours ago, intends to find them before she may rest.

She cuts through the streets of the lower city, her cloak drawn tight, her boots soaked through uncomfortably. The world is beginning to grow loud around her, the sun long since risen as revellers complete their merry preparations for the festival.

Her prey may be panicked, but so too is the hunter. In the muted light of day, she has run out of darkness to cover her search, run out of quiet to minimise risk of incidental casualties. And yet she has no final piece to her puzzle.

Her hunt has led her blindly to the town square, the large courtyard decorated brightly. Too many people, too many moving parts, too many hiding places. Her exhausted mind flips back through every hint, every missive that she’s found, desperate for anything that may gain traction. 

A light wind blows from above, a rare occurrence in the oppressive weather, and she breathes in deeply, allowing her animal instincts to come to the forefront. 

Standing in the shade of a watchtower - empty, the guards long since rotated away - the beasts within her commune with the subtleties of her surroundings.

Her breath stills, her lungs full. A familiar scent.

Bowstring wax.

Jaheira runs.

The climb to the rooftops is harder than it should be. Ascending the stairs of the watchtower, two at a time, her legs feel more of willpower than of muscle.

She finally emerges onto the rooftop, the cloud-stifled sky spread wide in all directions.

And there, a figure, crouched behind the stone wall, silhouetted against the grey daylight. Slim, ready, covered head to toe in dark leathers and a long cloak.

An assassin.

Jaheira’s pulse spikes and time slows to a stop around her.

Their arrow is nocked, the string pulled taut and ready to fire. They have their eye on their mark. She cannot alert them, they cannot release their hold. 

Her only choice is speed.

She races closer, every muscle engaged, her hand outstretched and ready to grab at their cloak and pull them off their balance. And then the crowd below erupts into applause.

“No-!” She lunges, but the arrow flies before the word can even leave her throat.

The very clouds above seem to hold their breath.

And then, far below, a cry rips through the square, and the heavens finally pour forth with rain.

Jaheira does not think, she moves. 

Covering the last few feet to her target, she tackles them hard, sending them both sprawling across the dampening stone rooftop. The bow clatters away. They struggle against her, but it is no competition, their skills are painfully inferior to hers.

Jaheira slams a knee into their side and grabs their hood to wrench it from their head.

A pale noble face, slack with shock, stares back.

“Ambrose..?”

The rain hisses over stone and blood alike, washing the city clean.