Chapter Text
One night. He allowed himself one night of mourning.
Holed up in his office, surrounded by empty bottles of expensive wine that was meant to be savored, his well-practiced mask remained in place on his face, betrayed only by tears working their way down his cheeks.
What lingered in his mind were her eyes. Pale, gleeful, high on the kill. Eagerly searching his face for cracks in his unflappable facade.
“Behold, Tyrant, Bhaal’s new chosen.”
Her mocking bow led his attention towards the wicked blade in her hand. Bloodthirst. The blade of Bhaal’s chosen. His blade.
A bound blade that could not be separated from its owner by anything but death.
Orin’s wicked grin only widened as she found what she was looking for. Realization. Pain.
Bane’s chosen wasn’t meant to care. It was a useless emotion, one that was beneath him, as all things were. All things except The Dark Urge. The very thought was heresy, but he indulged in it one last time. Just for tonight. Alone he was a genius, but together they were brilliant.
A man that the Bhaalspawn wouldn’t kill and a man that Bane’s chosen would rule beside. It was ludicrous, heresy, against everything they believed in. But it worked. Until Orin.
He allowed anger to replace the aching grief in his chest. Anger was an emotion he knew, one he could use. He had told him. Told him that Orin was too dangerous to keep around, too unpredictable. But Durge had always been confident, bordering on arrogant, and insisted that the wretched creature be allowed to live. Father’s will, he had said. And now he was gone.
Gortash had thought Orin would want to proclaim her victory to the world, hanging a dripping corpse for all to see, but she hadn’t. Her new status was proof enough. And worse yet, she wanted to rob him of the closure. He could tell by the smug look on her face when she caught him searching the room with his eyes, as if Orin had dragged her kin’s corpse around like a toy. He certainly wouldn’t put it past her. But the familiar sight of bloodstained scales eluded him. He was just gone. All Enver was left with was their plan.
He silently cursed himself for taking a healing potion after their last night together. Durge had broken their agreement to not leave marks visible to the public, with a rather prominent bite mark wrapping around his shoulder and peeking out of his collar. He could still recall the smug grin on his partner’s face as Enver shot him a displeased look in the mirror. That grin had faded to a frown as Enver retaliated by downing a healing potion, erasing all marks left on his skin that night. How he wished he hadn’t. Who cared if the whole world knew. Now all he had left were a few scratches on his desk and memories tainted by Orin’s laughter.
Getting caught up in memories was dangerous when planning for the future. But for now, he allowed himself one night.