Chapter Text
Moonrise Towers had an eerie familiarity about it.
Grey could feel it. Some horrible gnawing sense he couldn’t escape from, as he kept continuously glancing up at the intricately carved stone arches leering over him. Unable to escape the cold dread prickling on the back of his neck as he noted the long, impossibly dark shadows cast against the ghostly white light of the countless moonlanterns dotting the perimeter, apparently keeping the shadow curse at bay.
And yet, somehow, even with all his newfound protections against it — Isobel’s blessing and a pixie’s charm he’d picked up after freeing the creature from a mad drider’s lantern — he couldn’t rid himself of the sense that he was walking into the eye of the storm. Somehow, even though Halsin had continuously assured him that their efforts in both rescuing and reviving Thaniel had been enough, Grey couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that the curse raging around him had never been stronger.
He felt unstable, with every step he took having an odd sense of vertigo to it. Balancing along the very edge of a yawning chasm he knew was there but couldn’t see, one wrong move away from simply plummeting into its waiting jaws. Here, the quiet was all-consuming. There were people all around him, talking, working, moving piles of cargo onto a small dock and loading it onto waiting ships. What should have been noisy work reduced to little more than reverent whispers, as the surrounding environment seemed to completely consume any sense of actual life.
He didn’t know what he was doing here.
Grey clutched himself tightly as he fought back endless violent shivering, wrapping his arms around his body in some vain effort to remind himself what warmth felt like, as the world lurched and swayed beneath his feet, and even the air itself felt like ice against his skin. Keeping his focus solely on what was immediately in front of him, desperately ignoring the way so many of the cultists — guards, pilgrims, workers; seemingly anyone and everyone he so much as caught a glimpse of — appeared to notice him. Ignoring the crawling paranoia as he saw a few of them stop in the middle of what they were doing, pausing and straightening just to watch him, their expressions twisting into ones of sheer disbelief. Trying to think about literally anything other than the fact that he could feel their wide-eyed stares lingering on his back, even well after he passed by.
Before him, the one single remaining tower of Moonrise loomed over him, stretching up into the sky, so tall that the top of the spire was lost in the swirling, endless, oppressive darkness above. And with every step he took, he found himself compulsively looking up at it, unable to rid himself of the distinct and pervading feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’d been here before.
Had he been here before?
He’d never thought he’d come to miss the cold wariness of the Harpers at Last Light this much. He’d never thought he’d find somewhere so unwelcoming as that. Certainly not this soon. Because this place, it-
It felt like it was eating him alive.
What was he doing here?
Why was he here?
To infiltrate the cult, he reminded himself firmly. To uncover Ketheric’s secret and make him mortal once more. To find the Absolute, and destroy its heart. Like they planned. It wasn’t a complicated list.
But, gods, this place-
He’d rather be anywhere in the world but here.
“Welcome back, True Soul,” a guard greeted him with a friendly nod after he felt a foreign presence brush briefly against his mind. “What news?”
“Little from the field,” he answered, all too easily sliding into a tired, somewhat bored tone that was verging on apathetic.
And all the while, he just kept his head down and his body moving, barely acknowledging the uncomfortable twinge, or the way his eye twitched in response, or either of the guards responsible for the intrusion as he passed between them, up the steps to the main doors.
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t listen out for their reply.
He tried not to think about their words.
Welcome back.
There was a long, groaning, excruciating creak as he leaned against the tower’s main doors and pushed them open, wincing as ancient rusty hinges screamed in protest. Slowly stepping forward as he forced his way inside, trying not to choke as he was greeted with a blast of air so dry it seemed to strip the moisture from him on contact, and every desperate, gasping, choking breath was like swallowing mouthfuls of dust. Grey didn’t know where to look, as he felt what seemed like hundreds of pairs of eyes suddenly turn to him, drawn by the sound of the commotion as what little chatter and noise there was gave way to deathly silence.
This place, it-
It was like walking into a tomb that hadn’t been disturbed for centuries.
He shouldn’t be here.
Why was he here?
Why had he come?
He thought he could feel it — something pulling at the edges of his mind, gnawing away at the part of him that was connected to something else, an uncomfortable weight pressing in him. The unease and wariness and anxiety of his friends as they trailed silently behind him, none of them brave enough to dare say a single word out loud. Past them, the distant, quiet murmurings of what must’ve been hundreds of others, whispered thoughts and feelings and sensations, converging and coalescing. And past even that, there was something else, the barest impression of a presence, something cold and alien, lurking just beyond his awareness, just out of reach, lying in wait. A bottomless pit threatening to open up beneath him at any moment, and swallow him whole.
There was an eerie familiarity about it. All of it.
Grey kept walking, trying to push past it all, to ignore the dread crawling through him and focus solely on what he knew he needed to do.
Infiltrate the cult, he repeated to himself, over and over again. Uncover Ketheric’s secret. Remove his invulnerability. Find the Absolute. Destroy its heart. Just those things. It wasn’t complicated. It shouldn’t be complicated.
He came to a halt before the throne room doors, pausing there as he heard shouting coming from just beyond. For a moment, his hand lingered inches away from the wood, silently debating with himself. Unable to escape the growing sensation that this was the absolute last place in the world he actually wanted to be.
It was fine. He could do this. All he had to do was not make a scene, and pretend like he belonged.
He glanced over the ancient, decaying wood of the doors immediately before him, brow furrowing as something vague and distant tugged at something, pulling at the hole left by a memory that was no longer there.
Don’t think about it.
Then slowly, carefully, and as quietly as possible, he cracked the doors open, and peeked inside.
What greeted him was a small gaggle of goblins clustered together before an ancient and weathered throne, bowing and scraping as they tried to plead their case. In front of them, an unimpressed half-orc woman with her arms folded tightly across her chest. And sitting in the throne was-
Grey stopped dead.
He stopped dead in his tracks as the others slowly and carefully sidled in behind him. Suddenly, every muscle in his body locked up, holding him in place as his tail whipped and lashed around behind him. Something rose up in him, something like frustration and impatience and utmost disdain. Whispered words he couldn’t quite decipher ringing in his ears.
Ketheric Thorm slouched in his throne, casually resting his head against his hand as he stared absently into the distance, wearing an expression of exhausted boredom and complete apathetic disinterest. Clearly not listening to the argument unfolding before him. Not paying attention to any of it.
For a moment, Grey thought he could almost remember it.
He-
He was-
Suddenly, he was moving, he was stepping forward, he was commanding the room, relishing the way everyone around him shrank away, trying to get as far away from him as possible, hiding behind each other in a desperate bid to remain beneath his attention. Suddenly, he was standing before that same throne on that same crumbling stone dais, standing before it in demand, not supplication. Suddenly, Ketheric was standing up, his face twisted with fury. Suddenly, there was barely an inch between them.
There was something, some vicious insult spat in his face, something cold and cutting and demeaning. And suddenly, he was idly playing with a knife, making a show of being unaffected as he brought it up to eye view, his nails clicking against the serrations as he traced its edge, a psychotic grin spreading across his face.
And suddenly, he heard it.
Quiet and soft with a lilting sort of cadence and the faintest hint of an accent. Low and icy and dripping with malice.
Do your part, it snarled. Or your dear, sweet, darling girl will become part of mine.
Grey blinked.
And there he was, still standing in the back of the room, pressing himself against the far wall, his nails scraping into the stone. And there Ketheric still was, reclining in his throne, barely paying attention to the back and forth playing out before him.
The doors closed with a quiet, heavy thud.
Ketheric’s eyes flicked up at the sound, not moving from his position slumped upon his throne, but his expression suddenly so sharp and so aware and so present as he scanned the room.
Then their eyes met.
And Grey’s blood turned to ice in his veins.
Almost immediately, Ketheric straightened. In an instant, his slouch was gone and he leaned forwards, his lips parting as what seemed like a thousand emotions passed across his face in a single second. Shock and disbelief and outrage and confusion and realisation and-
The corners of his lips seemed to twitch then as he settled back, tilting his head to one side as a smug smile spread across his face and he suddenly looked more relaxed than ever.
For the longest time, Grey didn’t move.
Ketheric didn’t move, either.
They both just stayed exactly where they were, stock still on opposite ends of the room, both staring directly at each other, studying each other carefully. Meanwhile, the argument between the goblins and the half-orc woman raged on around them, and neither seemed to hear it.
Then, finally, Ketheric raised his hand, and the room was unceremoniously plunged into a terrible, uneasy silence.
There was a beat.
And then;
“Now this,” Ketheric began, his voice low and sending cold shivers up Grey’s spine with each word, “is an unexpected surprise, I must say. I wasn’t expecting to ever see you again, True Soul.”
True Soul.
He emphasised that part, enunciating the words carefully and deliberately, making painstakingly sure Grey heard them. That if he heard nothing else, he heard that. An amused smile playing upon his lips all the while, waiting for a clearly expected reaction.
And suddenly, all eyes were on him. The goblins, the half-orc woman, the guards, even his friends. Suddenly, each and every single one of them was staring at him just as Ketheric was, waiting.
True Soul.
It wasn’t subtle, what he was doing. Not even slightly. Grey knew it was an insult. He knew there was something purposeful and precise in how Ketheric made a show of referring to him by the title foisted upon him by a parasite rather than his name, when he obviously knew exactly who Grey was. Or, more to the point, who Alassane Erendse was.
He was attached to his name. He always had been. That’s what Sceleritas Fel had told him. The fact that Ketheric was smugly avoiding saying it while clearly knowing precisely what it was meant something.
He’d been here before. Grey knew it — it was unavoidable. He had been here before, back in his prime, back when he’d been a real person and things had made any amount of sense. And now here he was, crawling back on his hands and knees, pathetic and clueless and left to the whims of people who’d once been so fucking far beneath him. Here he was, broken and beaten and little more than a husk of a person. Forced to listen as those words were thrown in his face, at the silent laughter as he was humiliated, and they all thought him too much of a fucking idiot to understand what was being said to him.
It was an insult, Grey knew it. He didn’t need the full context of his past to know that.
True Soul.
Like that’s all he was. Like that was all he’d ever been.
Empty. Nothing. No one. A useless fucking husk of what had once been a person. Grey.
He’d been someone, once. Someone no one in this fucking tower would’ve dared to cross. And now-
Now he wasn’t. Now he was little better than a scared animal, caught in a trap. Now he was nothing. Nothing but endless fucking grey.
And Ketheric just stayed there, never taking his eyes off him, amused by all of it. The fun he was having at Grey’s expense all too agonisingly evident.
“You are here to assist and not to meddle, I trust,” Ketheric continued smoothly, the lilting humour in his tone still so undeniably there. Every word dripping with it, never letting Grey escape the feeling that he was being humiliated, mocked, and demeaned at every turn.
It didn’t take long to decide that he hated this man. Ketheric seemed to hate him in return, given the hostility radiating off him, and just how much he was clearly enjoying this turn of events. But Grey couldn’t escape the gnawing feeling that they’d both hated each other for an awfully long time.
He hadn’t realised he’d stepped forward until he was suddenly halfway across the room, his hand already flying to the daggers on his belt, when Ketheric’s hand raised again in what was clearly a warning, forcing him to a sharp halt, lest he make a scene right here and now, and start a fight he couldn’t win.
Invincible, Jaheira had said. Suddenly, Grey couldn’t rid himself of the nearly overwhelming desire to test that. Just to see how far that went. Just to see if Ketheric’s apparent inability to die extended to his ability to feel pain.
He could see it, the smug sense of superiority that radiated out from the frail husk of a fucking half-elf sitting in front of him. Content in the idea that he had the upper hand. Confident he would always have it. Solid in the belief that he was untouchable.
“I would remind you that while in my halls, you obey me,” he said with a horrible, patronising smile as Grey could only stand there and fucking seethe. “Just as you would any other Chosen.”
The words, the tone, the way he emphasised it, the fucking infuriating smug little smile on his face — that was something, too. Gloating. Mocking. Referencing something Grey didn’t know, something he didn’t have the context for, something he couldn’t quite-
“I’m sure you will enjoy watching my justice enacted,” Ketheric added lightly, still smiling as he gestured vaguely at the goblins cowering before his throne, still with that mocking tone, still enjoying every fucking second of it. “You have to take what pleasure you can, after all, in your diminished state.”
Gods, he hated him.
He hated him so fucking much.
Frustration and indignation and humiliation burned brightly within Grey as nausea churned relentlessly in his gut and he hated this man so godsdamned much.
He knew — him, who he was, his past, the things he’d done. Ketheric knew it all, and everything about him made it so painfully fucking obvious that he would never tell Grey any of it. That he’d never say a single fucking word. That he would hold it all over him for the rest of fucking eternity, and relish every second he did so.
He was going to kill him.
There was a moment, as Ketheric remained there, unmoving and still wearing that fucking smirk, eyebrows raised, almost like he was silently daring Grey to react, to argue, to start a fight they both knew he couldn’t win. Taking immense satisfaction in every single agonising fucking second they stayed there, watching each other, finding some perverse pleasure in the absolute seething loathing of Grey’s returning glare.
Then he let out a long sigh, and somewhat reluctantly turned his head back to the half-orc woman standing at his side, not bothering to even acknowledge the small collection of cowering goblins that shifted uneasily before his throne.
“But we’ve more pressing matters to deal with,” he acknowledged quietly, slowly pushing himself up to his feet with a faint grunt. “Z’rell, kill them. Quickly.”
That earned a flurry of screams and panicked protests from the goblins themselves as they suddenly scrambled, arguing and yelling and fighting to get away even as the guards advanced, halberds bared, quickly encircling them and closing off any hope of escape.
It might’ve been painful to watch, if Grey had been paying attention. If his eyes had been on anything else other than Ketheric as he turned to go. The dawning horror in the goblin’s voices as they shrieked in fear and the sound of feet on stone as they scrambled away from the ever enclosing blades might’ve been uncomfortable to listen to, if Grey had been able to hear anything other than the blood pulsing through his skull.
Then there was a frustrated growl and a scream and the sound of a scuffle and metal scraping against stone and then-
A guard staggered back, reeling, his halberd clattering to the floor.
A flash of light as it was picked up and thrown with more force than Grey would’ve thought a goblin capable of, flying through air, aimed squarely at Ketheric as he turned to leave.
There was a horrible, sickening crunch as the spike hit him in the chest, and the metal plate of his armour immediately folded and gave way under the sheer piercing weight of the blow. For a moment, Grey could almost hear the sound of Ketheric’s ribs snapping as the halberd punched through him, burying itself in his chest and tearing through him inch by inch, only coming to a halt when the wider axe head hit the armour with a faint clang.
Ketheric stumbled.
He let out a faint gasp, one hand weakly reaching up to the shaft of the halberd, only for his fingers to fall away from it and his hand to drop limply back to his side. He stepped back from the force of it, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he fell, collapsing back against his throne and crumpling, blood seeping through his armour. The only sound in that moment being a small, faint death rattle.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Nothing but cold, shocked silence as they all stared, not a single person in that room quite able to process what just happened, or how quickly it had all come to pass.
Grey didn’t move. He didn’t dare. He remained precisely where he was, his tail flicking and twitching in both agitation and anticipation, dead silent as the guards all stared in shock and the goblins seemed to relax and celebrate. Unaware of the fact that they were the only ones in the room who didn’t seem to realise what was coming.
Then Ketheric’s eyes flicked open.
He stood up.
He calmly pulled the halberd from his chest, glancing over to Grey with a knowing smile as he held the weapon up, leaving the rapidly healing hole in his chest clear for all to see. Tendrils of something faintly silver crawling across his exposed skin for a moment, before turning to a deep, thick black and all anyone could do was simply watch as his flesh knitted itself back together.
The half-orc woman — Z’rell, Ketheric had called her — was saying something, frantically apologising for failing to prevent the attack, but Ketheric didn’t seem to hear her. He stepped forward, keeping his eyes focused on Grey all the while, lips still pulled into that awful, horrible smug smirk as he dropped the bloody halberd at the goblins’ feet, letting it clatter against the stone.
And then, very calmly, without ever taking his eyes off Grey, he said;
“Try again.”
Bright glowing gold eyes flicking up.
Neatly sidestepping the swing of a greatclub.
A bored expression plastered across his face.
Smiling through the pain.
Try again, Grey’s own voice purred in his ear. Try harder.
He winced.
And Ketheric had never looked happier.
Another swing of the halberd, and there was a loud snap as Ketheric’s head was forcibly jerked to one side as the blade cleaved through his neck, catching on his vertebrae and getting stuck there. Blood sprayed from the wound, but Ketheric didn’t even pretend this time. He remained standing, calmly glancing down at the goblins with a look of polite amusement as he reached up and tugged the halberd from his neck, carelessly tossing it aside as something silver then black pulled him back together again.
The goblins really were panicking now, frantically throwing themselves as far back as they could manage, fighting desperately to get away from Ketheric as he approached, his hands balling into fists and raising them, just to bring them down on the offending goblin’s head a moment later.
A crunch.
And blood and brain matter spilled out across the floor.
Ketheric straightened, shaking his hands in an effort to clean his gauntlets of the viscera now covering them, still smiling pleasantly. He seemed all too pleased with himself, really. A little too taken with the showmanship of the entire display. Like being rejected even by death itself was something to take fucking pride in.
“Dispose of the rest as you see fit,” he told Z’rell quietly as he turned to go.
Then he stopped. He turned, just enough to once again spy Grey standing there, silent and still and unimpressed, in his peripheral vision.
“Or, better yet,” Ketheric added as he seemed to think better of it, “let us take advantage of our surprising guest, and his particular brand of creative genius. I’m sure the results will send a clear message to the troops on the importance of discipline.”
Maybe he said something else, then.
Maybe Z’rell did, when she cast a single curt nod in Grey’s direction.
Maybe there was an entire conversation happening around him, but Grey didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear a single word of it. He just stood there, rooted to the spot, entirely focused on Ketheric’s back as both he and Z’rell retreated upstairs, quickly vanishing from view.
The goblins were saying something, turning to him, making desperate pleas in his direction. Begging for mercy, he was sure. Maybe the others were saying something, trying to tell him what to do. Grey didn’t hear any of it. He didn’t hear anything at all as he stared off in the direction Ketheric had disappeared; only the pulsing of blood in his skull as his stomach roiled and his vision bled red and yellow and the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.
And somewhere else, somewhere just beyond, goblins pleaded for their lives, and everyone else was watching him carefully.
Ketheric knew him.
Ketheric knew him.
Ketheric seemed to know everything about him, and wielded that knowledge like a weapon, holding it over him, taunting him with it, relishing every moment of it and all Grey was able to do in response was just stand there, keep his head down, do as he was told, and fucking take it.
He was expected to just fucking take that? To give Ketheric the fucking satisfaction? To pretend he was too much of a fucking idiot to know they were laughing at him?
“Split yourselves open,” he murmured after what felt like an eternity, his voice faint and distant and barely there until he finally turned his head to look at the goblins in question, the world around him suddenly coming back into painfully sharp focus. “Smile while you do it.”
There was something, something that rose up in him when the goblins didn’t immediately respond. A strange feeling, something cold and alien that crept through his mind, reaching out and making a connection with some part of him, or something just slightly to the left of him.
A sense of command. A sense of power. A sense of control. A sense of-
“Now,” he hissed, the anger and frustration and hostility flowing out from him, suddenly given palpable weight as the parasite writhed uncomfortably in his brain.
His eye twitched.
He saw a faint purple light begin to glow in the goblins’ eyes as their screams of fear and protests were abruptly cut off, as their faces began to spasm uncontrollably. The lips of each and every single one of them forced into a wide rictus grin as their hands twitched and jerked, wrapping around their own weapons and turning them against themselves. The terror in their eyes as the blades come down all too clear.
Grey didn’t bother staying to see it all play out. He turned heel almost as soon as the goblins began reaching for their blades, uninterested in the result as he stalked back to the doors and out of the throne room altogether. Barely acknowledging the screams of pain, even as they quickly faded back into the previous ominous and oppressive silence. Ignoring the way using the parasite like that made his flesh crawl.
He could almost hear it — the whispers of something else, some foreign presence in the back of his mind, distant and somehow closer than ever before. Pulling him in some specific direction. For the barest moment, he couldn’t rid himself of the thought that maybe, if he focused, if he followed, he could almost make sense of it.
It was-
There was something-
He was halfway down a small side hall before he realised he’d been moving at all.
What was he doing?
Why was he even here?
“Grey,” he heard Shadowheart call out from somewhere behind him, her armour clanking as she jogged to catch up with him. “Grey- wait.”
Finally, reluctantly, Grey stopped, throwing his head back and letting out a loud groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What?”
“Can we take a moment to talk about- …about whatever that was?”
His brow creased. “Not like you to suddenly care about the lives of goblins.”
Shadowheart’s lip curled slightly at his desperate attempts to avoid the real subject. “Don’t pretend that’s what I’m talking about.”
For a moment, Grey just watched her, not entirely sure what to make of any of what just happened himself. Not entirely sure what any of that just now even was.
He-
Ketheric-
It didn’t matter.
None of it mattered.
He didn’t want to be here, with her, having this conversation. He didn’t want to be here at all.
“I’m not sure,” he managed quietly, his voice low and hoarse as part of him remained desperate not to think about it. “I don’t… I can’t talk about it right now. Where are the others?”
Shadowheart arched an eyebrow at his fumbling response, but seemed to accept it.
“Scouting the rest of the tower, I assume,” she told him quietly, furtively glancing over her shoulder out the fear that her answer could be overheard. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he managed weakly. “Sure. That makes sense.”
A beat, as she seemed to have to take a moment to work up the courage about something, and Grey just stood there, unable to escape the horrible feeling that he knew precisely what she was about to ask him.
And then;
“Are you all right? Ketheric really seemed to throw you.”
There it was.
It wasn’t a question, but rather an observation. More of an accusation, really. Grey let out an impatient hiss and turned away all the same. He knew it was asked out of concern — of course it was. But he’d been dealing with everyone’s concern for what must’ve been days now. It was beginning to seem endless.
“Can we not talk about me?” he found himself practically begging her.
“Fine,” Shadowheart sniped back a little impatiently. “I imagine Z’rell is expecting you, anyway.”
He blinked. “Z’rell? The half-orc? Why?”
“Were you listening to a single thing that was said to you, back there?”
Evidently not. Not that it mattered, anyway. Grey had no desire to slink upstairs and meekly give a report like an obedient dog. Like the good little mind-addled slave he was clearly expected to be. Maybe he would have to, eventually. But he had no interest in reliving the silent humiliation of the throne room over again. He didn’t want to see Ketheric’s fucking face anymore. Or the faces of any of his gods-forsaken fucking sycophants.
And-
And he could feel it, skittering along the edges of his awareness, pressing in on him. Calling out to him. A silent voice echoing from across an endless distance. Something cold and alien and uncomfortable and eerie and strangely familiar, the closer to it he seemed to get.
If he could just-
He barely heard Shadowheart exasperatedly call out to him as he turned away from her, making his way further through the halls and corridors and side rooms. Running his hands over the stone in search of… something. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew what. But it was there. He could feel it. So close now. Like breath on the back of his neck.
There was just-
If he could just-
He thought he could hear it, for a moment. Something in the walls, sliding and shifting over stone. Filling in the ancient cracks. All throughout the tower, something grew and writhed and pulsed with life.
Suddenly, stone vanished from under his fingertips. Grey stopped, his head snapping up to look, just to see his hand pressed against the wall, fingertips at the edge of a large crack in the stone. He cocked his head slightly to one side as he looked at it, not entirely sure what to make of it. Not entirely sure why he’d stopped.
There was something-
He could almost see it, see the dim light reflecting off something dark and… moist. Something that seemed to shiver and pulse and crawl over itself and he could feel it, he just had to reach out, to touch it, to see if it was real, if he was real, and-
Slowly, with a shaking hand, he reached out to it, pressing himself against the wall as he reached into the crack, trying to see. Fingers brushing against something slimy and wet and moving, shivering and shrinking away at his touch, and then-
Something snapped.
Tendrils coiled around his wrist and drew tight, yanking him in, slamming his body roughly against the wall with so much force it knocked what little air there was from his chest. Grey grunted and gasped in surprise and pain, and tried to pull away, but something was reaching out, something was wrapping around his mind and pulling him closer as the rest of the world faded out of existence, and-
Footsteps as Shadowheart ran to him, screaming something he couldn’t hear, and-
Suddenly, he was scattered.
He was everywhere.
It came down on him all at once, an incomprehensible weight bearing down on him as he sagged, his knees buckling beneath him even as he was pressed harshly against the stone, clawing and scraping as he tried to push back, push away, to give himself enough space so he wasn’t being crushed, so he could breathe, only for it all to fade out of awareness and existence, melting into an endless void that opened up beneath him, and-
Falling through an endless expanse and-
He was everything and nothing, it was part of him and all of him and it embodied him and he couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t think, and he wasn’t real, he wasn’t there, he didn’t exist, he was just one tiny, insignificant speck of an incomprehensibly expansive greater whole and-
He could feel it, feel all the parts of himself hiding throughout this spire, throughout this region, throughout this world, a thousand thousand fragments of his being scattered across all of existence and he could feel them all, and-
There was curiosity and fascination and questioning and-
And recognition-
Struggling to reduce himself to it, to be the thing they made him to be; the words, the voice, the shape, the chain and the chain and the chain-
A sense of ease, a sense of partnership, a sense of betrayal, a sense of abandonment, a sense of fury, a sense of resentment-
A thousand thoughts, a thousand feelings, a thousand silent voices speaking over each other, interrupting and yelling and shouting and whispering and scattering and converging and coalescing and breaking apart and shattering and-
And recognition-
Returned--
Rage and resentment and recognition-
Joining and rejoining and he’d been given everything, he’d been given everything, he’d been given everything and abandoned and left to rot and he was trapped and he’d just been left there-
Everything--
He felt it, felt it forced upon him, felt the weight and power shifting, felt it course through him, given everything, given everything, given everything, given more than even they could understand, given everything just to be lured in and trapped and used-
Bound and chained and trapped and he’d been given everything-
The sound of soft footfalls as boots came ever closer and someone was kneeling down, someone was smiling and saying something, someone was reaching out to him and then someone wasn’t there anymore and he was alone-
--Disappeared--
Gone and gone and gone and gone and-
And recognition-
--Return--
Offering hope, offering a plan, offering a way out and he would do it, he would go along with all of it, gather the army and play along and he was going to do it but they were gone and he was alone-
Familiarity and disappointment and acknowledgement and cold determination and-
--Pawn--
And recognition-
Reaching out and beyond, disintegrating and desperately trying to keep himself together, to force himself into shape, the shape they’d chosen for him, the shape that was not his but must be his, the shape that was easier for their impotent little minds to understand, to use the voice they gave him, to better speak to them without breaking them-
Comprehensible. Conceivable.
You abandoned me.
A servant.
A slave.
The single flaw in a once perfect jewel-
The chain to bind the world.
You left me their slave, the chain used to bind this world.
Boots coming ever closer and someone was kneeling down, someone’s face came into view, someone smiled, someone reached out as they began to speak-
A voice.
Quiet. Soft. Lilting cadence. The faintest hint of an accent.
Chains can be broken. One way or another, they can always be broken.
The one flaw.
It will be ours, in the end.
The one thing out of reach.
We just have to bide our time.
The one hope.
“Enough of this! Break off from that thing!”
Come to me. So that I may become myself again.
Hands on him, desperate, clawing, drowning, pulling him down-
“What in the hells-”
“Help me with him!”
Come.
“Grey? Grey!”
Become.
Sudden, excruciating pain shot through him like a knife and he felt it, he could feel it, feel something wrapped around his wrist and something else was desperately grabbing at him, pulling him in opposite directions and tearing him apart-
Come--
Being pressed mercilessly against cold hard stone and every part of him was being crushed and somewhere someone was screaming at him and he couldn’t-
He had to-
He needed-
Become--
Grey gasped as there was a sharp pop from his shoulder and something finally loosened. Suddenly, without warning, he was sent reeling back, collapsing onto the stone floor and landing hard on his back. Pain immediately shot through him without mercy, searing across his shoulder as he was finally wrenched free of the wall. Almost without thinking, he rolled over onto his side, gasping and panting and frantically gulping down air as he clawed blindly at his shoulder, writhing and fighting as a weight was suddenly on him, as hands were pressing him back down against the floor, holding him down tightly before the pain flared and he had to bite back a scream and-
And his shoulder was forced back into place.
And suddenly the pain was gone.
Grey blinked.
His eyes snapped open to find Shadowheart on top of him, straddling him, one hand pressed against his shoulder while the other was planted firmly against his chest, keeping him still, holding him against the floor.
For a moment, he stared. It was all he could do.
And then;
“What were you thinking?” Shadowheart all but screamed at him, her face pale and stricken with fear. “Are you an idiot? Grey?!”
“I…” he began, weakly trying to push himself up, only to immediately give up when Shadowheart refused to budge. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Astarion drawled from somewhere in the vague nether above him. “I was almost worried.”
Immediately, at the sound of his voice, Grey glanced over to him, unable to help himself. And for the barest fraction of a second, he saw Astarion standing there, eyebrows raised in that slightly mocking way, though never quite able to hide the undercurrent of genuine worry and fear colouring his features.
Then Astarion seemed to notice Grey’s eyes on him, and very quickly glanced away, throwing his hands up defensively when Shadowheart threw him a poisonous glare.
“You absolutely are not fine,” she snarled back at Grey, all while tearing off a shred of cloth from the Sharran robes she wore under her armour, and tying it tightly around Grey’s arm in an effort to keep him from moving it. “Keep still.”
He might’ve tried to argue, or even fight with her, but there wasn’t much he could do with her on top of him like she was. So he just let out a long sigh and fell back against the stone, letting her work as she bound up his arm as tightly as she was able.
“There,” she said as she tied it off, leaning back slightly and still looking supremely unimpressed. “Until we get back to camp, don’t move your arm. And if you do something that stupid again, Dark Lady forgive me, I’ll kill you myself.”
“What on earth even happened?” Gale’s voice asked from somewhere behind Shadowheart.
“Someone decided to try communicating with what I can only assume is the Absolute,” she sniped back shortly, eyes narrowing as she carefully assessed Grey’s condition, before finally pushing herself off and allowing Grey to stagger back to his feet. “That about the right of it, Grey?”
He didn’t look at her.
“All right,” he groaned. “Fine. You’re right, that was idiotic. Sorry. It's just… I felt… drawn to it. Like it wanted to meet. Like it still does.”
She just curled her lip and waved him off, unimpressed with that. Not that Grey could really blame her. The more he tried to justify himself, to think of his reasoning, the less he was sure there had ever been a reason. Suddenly, he couldn’t recall what he’d been thinking. He wasn’t sure he could recall thinking at all.
“Well,” Gale began a little awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in an effort to expel any amount of the nervous energy that was building up, “I suppose you’ve piqued its interest. Though I can think of at least a dozen gods I’d rather meet.”
“Bit of a clingy little shit,” Astarion supplied unhelpfully, still expertly avoiding meeting Grey’s eye, or even acknowledging him at all. “And it wants to meet? I wonder why?”
Grey didn’t answer. He knew Astarion wasn’t really looking for one. Not from him, anyway.
Beside him, Shadowheart shivered.
“That’s not a question I want the answer to,” she whispered, doing everything possible to keep her voice low and even, wincing when she wavered despite those efforts. “Now, can we go? I don’t want to stay here any longer than we absolutely have to.”
Grey nodded, one hand reaching up to clasp his shoulder, nails biting slightly into his skin through his armour.
“Yeah,” he agreed softly. “You’re right. We should… we need to report back.”
“What about Z’rell?”
“I’ll talk to her,” he groaned quietly, even though the very idea of doing that made him rankle. “Meet me outside. We’ll get the others and report back. Figure out where to go from there.”
Shadowheart and Gale nodded at him, while Astarion had already turned heel and was making his way to the exit before Grey had even finished talking. Not acknowledging him in the slightest, as Grey tried to ignore the deep gnawing sense of rejection and isolation that rose up in him at the sight. It didn’t matter, anyway. He just needed to get through the next fifteen minutes without catastrophe. For now, he’d focus on that. After… well. Who knew.
Maybe by then, he’d have a plan.