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He watches Solace curl into the embrace of a man they hate, their hands clutching at his stupid coat. He feels the desire to dig into the man’s spine and leave him gasping for breath. He calls Solace the wrong name and holds them against him like they are his lover, uncaring of the tension in their body.
“I have missed you so much, my Zealir. I cannot believe you survived. I am elated you even partially remember me. Us.” The man kisses Solace’s cheeks and lips; fervent, desperate, possessive. Solace’s tail whips back and forth, uncomfortable, but Gortash would see it as enthusiastic because that is what he wants to see and what Solace wants to show him.
“The tenets of Bane are strict, but he sees the power you wield. The drive you hold. He respects you as he always did, Zealir. We can rule together as our Lord demands. We can bring this city, this world, to glory, dearest.” His voice is airy; elated. He has his lover in his arms after thinking them dead and gone, and he tells them his version of a love confession. He doesn’t see the fine, scared tremor that shakes the tiefling’s body.
Gortash, blinded by his relief and elation, wraps his arms around Solace’s body, his heartbeat fast, his breath excited. His hands touch every part of the tiefling, as though determined to prove they exist and won’t disappear. The man walks them backwards, their back hitting the pillar, their hands in the man’s hair, their own heart beating rapidly in their chest.
They’re scared. They are afraid of disappointing the tyrant and they’re panicking, unable to imagine a way out. Gortash’s kisses linger on their skin, his hands sliding over their clothed sides and back. He pauses, his forehead against theirs. His eyes remain closed, his hands now holding the sides of their face, his fingers playing with the braids Astarion had fixed this morning.
“Look at me, impatient as a teenager. Your effect on me remains as strong as ever, dearest. But. You must still be reeling. Even a man as strong as you would need a moment. Come. Sit. Tell me what you remember.” The tyrant steps back from the tiefling, his hands now on their shoulders, looking at them with naked, desperate affection.
The tyrant walks the mildly dazed tiefling to a couch, gently sitting them down, taking their hands in his, gazing down at them with soft eyes. He does not join them. He rests their hands on their thighs, walking back to the table, grabbing the water carafe and a single goblet, filling it and pressing it to Solace’s lips without a word. Their hands, trembling slightly, take the goblet from Gortash and drain it, handing it back to him silently. The tyrant smiles, looking like a proud, lovesick fool as he sets the goblet and carafe aside.
The human brings over a chair, sitting in front of Solace, offering his hand to them, smiling when they take his in theirs, pressing a kiss to their knuckles and resting their hand on his knee. When the man speaks again it is soft, comfortable, and yet still laced with command. Astarion sees the nervous twitch of their tail, the subtle swallow of fear in the tiefling.
“Zealir, how do you feel? Tell me, my dear man. You have been gone so long. What memories can I clear up for you?” There is something… Off in how Gortash and Solace sit across from each other. The chair is two inches taller than the couch, forcing Solace to look up at the man. The tyrant looks down at his favorite assassin, soft affection in his eyes. Again, he calls Solace a man and seems oblivious to the discomfort of the tiefling.
“It’s… a lot to process.” Solace breathes, eyes clouded as they look at the human, another trickle of blood falling from their nose. The man smiles and cleans their face again, showing no signs of discomfort. He is completely at ease in his home, the shaken tiefling depending on his care. A tear forms and falls from their eye, Gortash’s expression shocked as Solace wipes it away. Had the tiefling never cried before the man? Astarion feels a swell of pride; Solace placing more faith and trust in him than the human that had driven them from Bhaal initially. A small victory; to claim the vulnerable tears of Solace as his own.
“Gods, Enver. There is so much noise in my head. Orin stole so much of our time together. I… want to know how you built everything. I want to understand the brilliant man I remember caring for. Please. Humor me.”
Solace has found a way towards their ultimate goal; information. They just needed to convince Gortash they wanted to know him again. The tyrant beams at them, leaning forward and taking a kiss from their lips. They tilt their head to allow it, a subtle twitch in their right foot as discomfort suffuses them.
“How could I deny my favorite assassin the information he seeks?” He slyly asks, smiling against their lips, drawing back before Solace's hand flies to the right side of his face, his hand grabbing their wrist immediately. His expression is dark and hungry as he studies Solace’s expression; their eyes fixated on the scar their thumb caresses. Gortash does not seem surprised; he seems jubilant, as though he had been wanting some aggression. He probably was; hoping to see the spark from the Scion of Murder, a little familiar bloodlust.
A long moment passes, tension and mild arousal thick in the air. Astarion’s hand flexes, wanting to sink a dagger into the man’s throat. Gortash does not want Solace. He wants whoever Zealir had been, and he was trying to force them into the role he wants them to fill.
“I gave this to you.” A different tone leaves Solace’s mouth. Harsher, more demanding. Gortash, his hand still restraining Solace, leans forward, beginning to stand over them. He smiles wider, hungrier, when Solace resists, their eyes dark with memory and desire, glare into his, challenging his power in this moment.
“You did. Do you remember why?” He has moved closer to the tiefling, a knee on the couch; aside the tiefling’s thigh, his body tense with lust and the will to dominate the tiefling beneath him. Astarion is trembling, unsure what he feels. He doesn’t want to see Solace assaulted again. He doesn’t want Solace to be assaulted. He doesn’t want them to go along with Gortash’s wants. But he knows Solace would hate it if he ruined their attempt to save the Gondians and their families.
If they wanted him to step in they could use the tadpole. A small comfort. He knows they won’t use it.
Gortash towers over the seated tiefling, the hand that doesn’t restrain their arm caressing the side of their face. He gazes at Solace like they are a gift; a precious thing he adores. His eyes had held the same light when he looked at the sword and shield he had made for them.
“You frustrated me. You spoke against Bhaal’s creed. My blade struck your chin; a burst of blood. A reminder of your mortality. You kissed me for the first time. Your blood in my mouth.” Solace’s voice is still that strange, harsh tone. Gortash groans with lust, his mouth devouring theirs. His body on top of the tiefling’s, his arousal evident to everyone. The tielfing’s arms pull him close, desperate breaths escaping them, their body taught as a bowstring.
He doesn’t want to see this. He can smell Solace’s arousal and he hopes desperately they are doing what they want. He wouldn’t especially care if they found pleasures without him so long as they wanted it and told him of their choices first. He doesn’t know what he feels as Gortash grinds his hips against Solace and the tiefling’s heartbeat races, their hands pulling the human closer.
“Your kisses were more teeth than lips. The barbarity of your god. Your father. You were glorious. Violent. Delicious.” Astarion has to look away. He doesn’t know what he feels as he sees the body of Solace wrap itself around Gortash, the hands and arms that had held him a few hours ago embracing a man they had promised Karlach they would help her kill.
He sees them out of the corner of his eye, the black shape that is Gortash atop Solace. His hands flex, his jaw tenses. He doesn’t see exactly what happens when the man rears back, cursing, a chuckle in the sound.
“You didn’t ask. ” The tiefling hisses, voice once again familiar to the vampire’s ears. They are upset, sober and once again in their own mind, glaring at the human as they shove him away, wiping his blood from their mouth. Gortash steps away from the tiefling as they rise from the couch, their back straight and tall, the human smirking at them, his lip bleeding from their bite. His eyes are warm, desirous. He wants the tiefling and he likes a challenge; a little fight in his lover he can dominate.
“You are correct.” It isn’t an apology. Solace’s tail lashes behind them, furious. They crack their neck, focusing back on why they’re here. They need to know about the Steel Watch. The Gondian prisoners.
“Come now, Zealir. A man can only deny his appetites for so long, as you well know. That elf can’t have given you what you need. He’s so… delicate.” The man’s voice is husky, enticing and teasing in the same breath. He takes a half step towards Solace, stopping when their sharp nails touch his chest. His breath catches with delight.
A split second passes where he thinks Solace might just murder the tyrant where he stands. The tiefling’s eyes seem to glow with indignation, their tail lashing behind them. They grimace, falling into the part they needed to play. He steels himself for what they must tell Gortash.
“Be that as it is, Enver, we have business to do before pleasure. If I’m gone too long my followers will start to worry, Karlach most of all. We can get reintroduced when the brain is back under our control. Until then, entice me with how you built the metal monstrosities that walk the streets.”
Gortash laughs, charmed by the former cult leader, his eyes soft. He gestures to the table that had been abandoned when he said their old name. The man shuffles a few papers, finds what he’s looking for and hands a folder to them, watching their face as they see what the Steel Watch actually is. The tiefling knows the part they must play. They must appear as a sadist, a devoted assassin. Their expression flickers from impressed to ecstatic, and Gortash seems appeased.
Another hour passes, Solace prying more information from the tyrant, his body language never shifting from his comfortable presentation. He wants to share the information with his old ally. He wants them to rule at his side. Astarion doubts the tyrant would accept an equal, even if they were Solace, but an assassin? A loyal attack dog as the man remembers them? Astarion could see the man readily accepting that from who he wanted Solace to be.
Zealir. The Scion of Murder. The Son of Bhaal. Enver Gortash’s favorite assassin. That would be all they could ever be at his side. No matter what they may want for themselves.
The tyrant tells the tiefling about the Gondian prisoners in the Iron Throne. He speaks of designing the submersible with the plan to avoid using magic as much as possible, believing that in an event such as The Spellplague, the lack of magic should not be a hindrance to society. The man is brilliant, and Astarion can see a spark of regret in Solace’s posture. They know Gortash must die; that he is too far gone to be redeemed, but they will mourn the loss of his brilliance. Even when he speaks of the explosive collars on the Gondian architects, the man describes the contraptions with such a focus on function and duplication even Solace’s quiet outrage at the concept is overshadowed by simply being impressed.
Eventually Solace finds a way out of the conversation, reminding the man they had followers to return to. They stand together; the tyrant himself and his favorite assassin, feet from the abjuration ward that would destroy his invisibility. He has to wait for Solace to distract the man so he can safely become visible for a split second and cross the ward. He waits. His skin crawls as he watches Gortash touch Solace, knowing they hated every second of it. Their tail flicks in subtle discomfort.
“I thought I had lost you forever, Zealir. I will never let you go when this is over. My husband, my dearest husband. Whatever your previous involvement with that pale elf, I forgive it. I would never hold your appetites against you. I would be a fool to hold a man such as you responsible for finding entertainment in my absence. Particularly when your past was stolen from you.” Husband. Man. Solace’s tail lashes every time the tyrant says the words. He kisses the tiefling’s jaw and neck as he says it, reminding them they are his. His husband. His assassin. His lover. Possessive and demanding.
And yet the man’s voice is soft. His tone aches of loss and hope and joy. He cares for Zealir in such a painfully palpable way Astarion almost understands the desperate denial of the change the tiefling has experienced. The human had allowed himself to respect the Chosen of Bhaal, and whatever he felt, he had convinced himself it was love. Or close enough to it.
“How gracious, Enver. He’ll be heartbroken, but… well. If there is one of my followers it will be easy to trade up for, it’s him.”
They don’t mean it. They don’t mean it. It’s an act. They have to play along. Stay calm. It still hurts to hear their voice say it. He won’t deny that. It stings like poison to know they could say it so casually.
“I need to get back to them. It’s been long enough they might start to worry. Now. Something I’ve been thinking about since your coronation.”
Solace pulls Enver Gortash in for a passionate kiss, the man’s eyes widen in surprise and then close with pleasure, his hands playing in their white hair. The man seems surprised by the much less violent kiss from earlier, but he leans in to the affection.
Astarion sprints through the abjuration ward, invisibility potion already halfway consumed when he’s visible. He blinks into obscurity again, turning to watch for the paladin to disentangle themselves from Gortash. The man is not subtle about wanting to keep touching the tiefling. His hands stay on their hips as they walk away, their eyes on the invisible vampire waiting at the door.
“Don’t be long, Zealir. I have missed enough time with you.” His voice is both warm and dominant at the same time. Solace shivers in disgust, the human seeing anticipation.
“I’ll be back before you know it, Enver.” They coo, waving their fingers as they walk out of the chamber. They do not speak. They do not wait for him to reveal himself, nor will he do so until they are out of Wyrm’s rock. He keeps pace with the agitated tiefling, sending his thoughts to them as they walk.
Breathe. It’s over. The next time we see him he’ll die. Breathe, Solace.
The tiefing does, humming slightly as they cross the bridge, eyes staring ahead, mostly unfocused. Their steps are almost unsteady, their balance off. Their hands continually flex, and their tail lashes madly behind them.
They are back in the Elfsong, the paladin pacing madly back and forth, still not having spoken since leaving the tyrant. He had dropped the invisibility upon entering the suite, even though Solace had avoided all the Steel Watchers on the way back, he did not want anyone to know he was defending them. If the only asset he could guarantee was surprise, he would take it.
Now he stands, his back against the wall, watching Solace pace. They have not spoken. They have barely made a sound aside from their breathing and footsteps. Their expression is placid, their mind racing. He can only imagine the memories the tyrant had awoken; what horrors the man had inflicted on the mind of the tiefling who wanted to be more than what they had been made to be.
“Solace?” He asks, carefully. They hold up a hand, eyes wide and unblinking as they continue to pace. After five minutes, they freeze, looking up at him with wet eyes, the first of many tears spilling down their cheeks.
“He didn’t want to kill him. Zealir died to save him and it meant nothing. ”