Chapter Text
Raziel-
"We were a perfect match. My intellect, your ruthlessness. We created the Absolute together."
The words from Enver Gortash swirled endlessly through his mind, accompanied by the horrified accusations of his companions and the ever-present, twisted voice of Bhaal.
"What the fuck was he talking about? You couldn't possibly have worked with him. Fucking hell, have you been lying to us this entire time?"
"How many have you killed? How many innocents have died because of your schemes?"
"Your plans could have cost the world. And to think, the hand that drafted and carried out all this chaos is the same one I grasped for aid when trapped in a portal. The irony is dizzying."
"Tsk'chk. You did this."
Karlach. Wyll. Gale. Lae'zel. The others, too. Fear, anger, and disgust colored the voices he had recently begun to cherish. He had failed them all.
And then there was Astarion. Astarion, his beloved, whose words haunted him more than any of the others.
"Honestly, I am rather impressed. Thank you to the evil bastard who freed me from Cazador's clutches. I owe my freedom to you."
Always pragmatic. Always sarcastic. Astarion's words were the worst of them all, because they implied that something good could have come from Raziel's actions. From him. Something he now knew was impossible.
Since awakening aboard the nautiloid, he had known something was wrong with him. Even as a blank slate, the Urges had been there, whispering to maim, to torture, to kill. The pounding in his head whenever he refused the bloodlust. The exhilaration that sang through his veins whenever he indulged.
Alfira. The tiny squirrel in the grove. The goblins and True Souls that, while foes, he not only killed but butchered to the point of being unrecognizable. Nearly Astarion, only nights ago, when Raziel had awakened his lover with a knife at his throat and begged to be tied down before the Urge took him completely.
He had fought it, fought for some semblance of mercy, fought against the monster that served the Absolute. Somehow, learning that the monster he had been chasing was himself was the furthest from surprising.
When they had first returned to camp, Karlach, Gale, and Astarion filled the others in on the day’s revelations and he had been appropriately shunned. He could not find it in himself to blame them and made no attempt to avoid their criticisms or defend his actions. They were objectively indefensible.
In the vain hopes of easing their discomfort by removing himself from their presence, he had withdrawn to his tent on the outskirts of camp almost immediately. Sitting there, alone on his bedroll, he looked down at his blue-gray hands and could envision the blood of thousands that stained them.
This is what you were made for. This is what you are. Go back to them, spill their blood, decorate your halls with their bones. Atone for your failures and you will be welcomed back as the true Prince.
He shook off the thoughts, the images of Karlach’s limbs splayed out at ungodly angles, Gale’s entrails spilling on the ground, Astarion’s head mounted on a pike. The disgust and guilt that flooded him was tangible, suffocating. The painful throbbing in his mind was overwhelming.
Usually, when the Urge flared, he would seek comfort with his companions, his friends. He would go to Astarion and indulge in the distractions of blood or flesh, silencing the voice. But now he knows the truth. He does not deserve that luxury. He does not deserve their love. And they all deserved much more than him.
He had failed them all before they had even met. Thinking back on the faces of the victims he remembers it horrifically easy to imagine his companions joining their ranks, one by one, as he becomes more and more of the Bhaalspawn he was created to be. He promised from the start to free them from their tadpoles, help them stop the Absolute, and keep them safe as long as they traveled together.
As long as they stayed with him, they could never be safe. Their biggest threat was him. And if there was one thing Raziel was good at, it was eliminating threats.
In his tent, he carefully removed his rings, his armor, the trophies he had collected on their journey. He methodically packed it all up in a simple chest, easier for the others to dispose of. He doesn’t bother with a note. He knows it would only be seen as an excuse, or serve to make him an object of pity. The last thing he wanted was someone to feel sorry for the death of a monster.
Under the cover of night, Raziel slipped out the back entrance of his tent and stalked into the empty woods. Not even a bird let out a sound as he moved further and further into the darkness, away from the terror and concern of his friends. He could feel their anguish through the tadpole in his head, another unwelcome guest in his thoughts, only reassuring him that this was the right course of action.
When he found himself decidedly isolated, he stripped his shirt from his body, folding it and setting it aside, leaving him bare-chested in the moonlight. Scars covered his body, remnants of past battles, ritualistic self-flagellation, marks of experimentation from his time with Orin and Balthazar that he is only just beginning to remember. A perfect canvas for this final strike.
He reaches to his belt, withdrawing the silver dagger from its sheath. A pretty thing, blade thin yet sturdy and sharper than a razor. He had looted it from a recent fight, meaning to give it to Astarion but something inside him had been desperate to keep it. Perhaps he had been planning for this moment longer than he thought.
For one moment, he imagines his companions finding him out here. How they might react to seeing their leader, their protector, reduced to the monster he had always known himself to be lying still in the cold.
Gale would be angry. Raziel was the one who talked him out of his own self-sacrifice, after all. But he would understand, see the logic to it, the necessity. Karlach would be furious, both with him and for him. But after seeing her with Gortash today, he knows her fire will be redirected to the right place. Wyll would be confused and hurt, unable to accept that goodness and bravery weren’t always enough to defeat a monster. Shadowheart, Lae’zel, they would manage fine without him. Jaheira and Halsin would put their duty over their emotions and keep fighting. And Astarion would-
No. He cannot allow himself to think of those crimson eyes, those pale hands that held him when his mind filled with venom and his heart nearly gave out. Astarion was his greatest vulnerability, able to shatter his resolve in a glance. Astarion was the only one who might be able to convince him he should keep going, something Raziel knew was not an option.
He would be okay. He had to be.
Before he allowed himself another moment of hesitation, he dropped to his knees and drew the blade vertically across his abdomen, slicing deep and deadly. Two more cuts swiftly followed, connecting his shoulders to the initial incision with surgical precision.
Crimson so dark it was nearly black began to pool on the forest floor beneath him. For the first time in hours, the voice inside him was silent, holding its breath. Then came the disgust. Offense.
His blood was sacred, it was not meant to be spilled like this. It was meant for altars. For prayers whispered over a corpse. For a god's hand to claim what belonged to him. This was dishonorable.
No. You do not throw away what was given.
Then, something deeper stirred. Something primitive. It latched onto the metallic scent of blood, its warmth. The macabre beauty of something living becoming something else. The voice of the Urge faltered, because it liked this. And for the first time, he found himself fully agreeing with it. His blood was beautiful.
The voice went silent again, and so did the others. As his vision faded to black, his mind was for once wholly and truly quiet. The last thought he had before it all faded away was that of Astarion- he would never be able to hurt him again.