Chapter Text
There is filth on her pallid skin. It has not scrubbed off with the wash basin, and no repeated casting of prestidigitation removes the tainted feeling that seeps into her pores and ruins her from the outside in. Even as the sun rises, and its light shows no dirt or stain in sight, she scrubs her arms again until they are pink and nearly bleeding.
Lakrissa left for the tavern at daybreak, casting worried glances behind her as she left Tamasvi by the basin. There hadn’t been much for the tiefling to do, even in the arms of Ast- of someone she once felt safe with, the nightmares always found her.
There is a cup of coffee on the side table, left for her for when she comes around to her senses. It’s a kind gesture, but the smell makes her feel sick. Her stomach churns, lingering at the back of her ragged throat that remained sore from screaming herself awake that morning. She is a quivering, trembling wreck. A wretched creature that wants no more than to hide in the darkness of a pit, like prey hiding from predation.
If she was not expected in the High Hall – no. She wouldn’t go if she didn’t want to. She does. The apartment is too small, too quiet. The walk will do her good and the sun isn’t high enough in the sky to illuminate every winding pathway that leads to the Upper City. If she waits too long, she’ll be in the same situation as she had been the day before.
The air is cool and damp outside. The thick fog that usually descends upon the city at night has not fully lifted, leaving pockets of swirling mist in various densities down the narrow streets. It is a clean, wet smell, and Tamasvi tries to conjure the memory of Halsin’s reverence for nature, before stumbling into a puddle that is deeper than she realises.
“Fuck!” Halsin had also hated cities, she supposes.
Wetness leaks into her boots. She’d stolen them from the caravan of a dead trader they’d found on the road to the city. The soles are thin, and she liked how soft and quiet they were when she crept into spaces she shouldn’t be. Now, they have holes in them, she’s going to need to replace them sooner than she’d hoped.
It is not a pleasant walk in the dampness with soaked socks. The air has not yet warmed up from the cooler evening, and her legs start to feel numb from the chill that she can’t get rid of. At least the crowds are thinner than the day before. With the city not yet fully awake as she makes her way through the Gate easier, this time, there are no interruptions. When she makes it to High Hall, she sees nobody, and Nysene is not at her desk outside of the Archduke’s office when she slips inside.
Enver is there, reading something as he sits back in his heavy leather chair. She stills, watching him carefully and wondering if he went home at all last night. He’s wearing the same shirt, still has the same ink stains on his fingers, and the stubble on his jawline seems thicker than it had been when she had seen him yesterday. Did he sleep? He’s human, unlike her, he needs at least eight hours a night.
Her stomach is still churning, and her sense of self still feels out of kilter with her body as she waits for him to speak. It is a different kind of anxiousness today. Whatever her nightmare had been about, the feelings continue to keep her on edge. When he does not respond to her presence, she takes in a deep breath and carefully relaxes the tension that stiffen her joints. Her hands still feel fat and clumsy, still shaky like the moments after an adrenaline rush. Minutes pass, he continues to ignore her. Eventually, she’s able to avert her gaze and look around the room.
Yesterday, she could not have described the space, other than it belonged to him. Now she sees how it is smaller than the rooms he had at Wryms Rock. Bookshelves and cabinets line the walls with stately looking tomes and curious items that look rare and expensive. A thick pair of velvet green curtains frame the only large window that illuminates the room in a disrupted kind of sunlight from the clear panes. Its bright, yet her eyes don’t hurt.
She makes her way to the window, curious. It looks clear, the leading around each pane is new and the same dull pewter that most stained-glass windows use. She can see no etchings of runes along the bottom of each pane, and there is no sense of residual magic lingering from potential enchantment. She ungloves a hand to touch it, reaching out and-
“When you are done, let me know.”
Tamasvi’s mind goes blank. His voice sends her flying back, leaping into a side table as she spins to face him and knocks over clutter as she does so. She’s reeling. Staring with wide eyes as the roar of her heartbeat refuses to slow down and drowns everything but the thunder in her chest and raw lightning that floods into her limbs.
He has lowered his papers. The expression on his face hasn’t changed dramatically, but she can tell from the way his mouth has twitched that he hadn’t expected her to respond that dramatically. She doesn’t keep her focus on him, it’s too hard. It’s easier to look around the room while the adrenaline churns. She looks for a way to distract from her obvious vulnerability.
“Your windows, how did you do it?” She manages, and waves in their direction. “My eyes- you know that is one thing I miss that stupid tadpole for, my eyes never hurt as much as they do now. If we knew how to use it, well, netherese magic far outstrips our own understanding of-“
“Your eye.” He corrects, interrupting the rush of words that seemed to spill from her. Tamasvi raises her gloveless fingers to the magical replacement Volo gave her. Given how upset she had been this morning, she’d forgotten to cast a minor illusion to hide it. It feels too large in her socket. Has she always blinked so much? Every movement of her eye lids scatters her thoughts.
“Yes. I forgot to hide it; I usually do. So it matches.” Why can’t she stop talking? He stands up, dragging the legs of his chesterfield across the floorboards in an uncomfortable scrape. “You should get a rug for your desk.”
Enver ignores her and walks over. It is only a few steps for him, it feels so sudden. He is taller than her, her eyes only reaching the collar of his tunic before she looks up at his face. She can’t smell soap, only a lingering aroma of an unfamiliar cologne that sits alongside a strong, natural musk that makes her want to breath in deeply. She shies away, remembering too late that her backside is firmly pressed against the side table she fell into not moments before. It’s an awkward, stumbling movement, and when he reaches towards her to tilt her chin; she freezes.
He isn’t looking at her, he’s examining the eye. The unsteadiness that still haunts her intensifies. She hopes he does not notice the pulse in her neck as palpitations in her chest crash against her ribcage. The whole stupid exchange has her feeling like a blushing virgin and her first infatuation: overwhelmed and swooning. Tamasvi looks back towards the direction of the window when he leans closer. Looking at him is too disorientating. She can smell his breath; coffee, and an undercurrent of something sweet. He’s been drinking the brandy too.
It’s a firm grip, not gentle by any means, that he uses to position her face to better examine her eye. His fingers are rough, they feel thick and calloused against her oversensitive jawline. Her skin tingles, anticipating touch that her body remembers and mind can barely comprehend. A traitorous image flashes before her; her claiming his fingers with her mouth, of her dragging her tongue lazily over salt laced skin and swirling it between digits, of his own groan in lustful anticipation and a promise of much more to come.
Tamasvi flinches back and snaps her teeth together. The side table she's balanced on knocks loudly against the wall, and she nearly topples to the side. Something smashes on the floor. Enver tsks, and grabs her hip with his free hand. His focus never leaves the magical contraption in her socket.
“Stay still.” He commands, but his voice is far away. His thoughts are fixated on a new toy to consider. She stills, and tries to take a deep, steadying breath. It’s not fair that he’s so calm, so solid and in control. Especially when she feels anything but. “Who gave you this?”
Her eye, he’s talking about the eye. “I got it after my eye fell out when we were trying to extract the tadpole”.
His grip tightens for just a moment before relaxing. It’s enough for a stinging pain to bloom at her side where he’s gripping her. The tips of his gauntlet are sharp, and in her daze that morning, she’d forgotten to pull on her gambeson. It’s a stinging, familiar sensation. Grounding. Her mind seizes on the hurt and settles around it. In that moment, she's free.
“I’m not going to remove it. Go away” Tamasvi takes hold of his wrist and pulls it down, forcing him to release her chin. He doesn’t move, so she treads on his foot and smirks when he jolts away.
“Stop that you brat” He growls and reaches for her again and this time, she manages to slip away. Her steps are light as she towards the window “Have you considered someone could be using it to spy on you?”
She keeps facing him as she moves away and places one of the plush chairs between them. It makes her feel safer, but her feet remain light as if she’s ready to run. “I sincerely doubt the donator has the wits to even consider it himself.”
“Yet you keep his name from me and remain vague and obtrusive, as usual.”
“That’s because you don’t need to know.” She can’t remember much about Enver, but she knows with absolute certainty that the man does not tolerate those who he perceives to have wronged him – deserved or not. “And I like it, Its useful.”
Too bloody useful at times.
He doesn’t look like he believes her, so she places her hand over the offending eye and murmurs a minor incantation. “There, like it never existed.”
“You’re being a stubborn idiot” He rolls his eyes and goes back to whatever he was doing at his desk. “Do you plan to do that every morning for the rest of your life?”
“No. I imagine when it eventually breaks, I’ll pull it out and let a new eyeball grow in.”
Enver looks disgusted as he shakes his head in disbelief. It’s enough to have him drop the conversation, and he sits back down to focus on his work from before. He’s back to frowning at his papers and begins again to ignore her. After a few moments pass, Tamasvi deems it safe enough to sit quietly in one of the sofa chairs in front of his desk.
***
She’s bored in the first hour. In the quiet, with only the occasional rustling of papers and Enver’s breathing to pay attention to, there is nothing to startle her back towards the edge. He must have done something for sound too, she realises, as no shouts of the guard or metallic steps of the steel watch interrupt the calmness. When the tension filters away almost completely, she leans to rest her head and arms on the desk. The smell of ink and wood lacquer feels vaguely familiar – almost comforting.
She doesn’t want to sleep, not after last night. So she adjusts herself to steal glances at his work. From what she manages to read – upside down, partially hidden by the way Enver rests his elbow on the desk and scrawled in someone’s scratchy, looping handwriting – it’s a report on expanding the sewer system beneath the city. To the side, she sees a list of patriars with names crossed out and others circled, and watches a quill slowly leak blue ink over it and bloom into a large navy spot. She could move it back to the pot, but she makes a game out of betting how long it will take him to notice his ruined papers instead. She’s off by around ten minutes, his ability to focus is impressive.
Nysene arrives later in the morning. Her heels are heard first, clicking over in hurried steps before she enters the room with a carafe of coffee next to a neat pile of unopened letters on a shiny golden tray. She uses her hips to close the door behind her, and when she sees Tamasvi, her pleased smile fixes into something almost fierce.
“Oh my, your Grace, I did not realise you were already working with petitioners.” Her saccharine tone seems a bit too high as she places the coffee and the letters on his desk.
He puts down his report and flashes his assistant a politicians smile. “Nysene! Good morning to you, thank you for the coffee.” He makes a point of taking a sip of it before continuing. “Delicious, thank you.”
“It’s the same as every morning your Grace. Strong and bold, just how you like it.” There’s something in the edge of her tone, Tamasvi can’t quite place it.
“You know of the Heroes of Baldurs Gate, yes? Of course you do, you’re not a misanthrope. My friend, this is Nysene of House Eomane: my assistant.” He waves his hand in each woman’s direction. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll be needing two cups and a breakfast to be brought in the mornings. Tama, I imagine your taste hasn’t changed much: still prefer savoury?”
“I don’t want breakfast” and don’t call me Tama. Her friends call her Tama, or Tav, or any other variation under the sun. It doesn’t sound right when he calls her it. She looks at Nysene, her smile reminds Tamasvi of the rictus grin of the newly dead. “If he makes you bring breakfast, get something that he likes, and I’ll make him eat it instead.”
Enver forces a laugh and shakes his head. She wonders if Nysene can tell he’s faking it too. “Cheeky. Nysene, don’t disturb us. I’ll call on you when I need you.”
“Of course” His assistant snatches the tray away and her heels click louder against the floor than they did on the way in. The door doesn’t slam, but Tamasvi wonders if Nysene would have let it, had she not been too afraid of Enver’s response.
“Don’t disrespect me in front of my assistant.” He drops the faux cheerfulness and pours himself a drink. Its steaming, and he doesn’t let that phase him as he takes a gulp. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Then stop making decisions for me. I don’t need to eat, why does it matter?”
He reaches over and grabs her wrist before she has the chance to snatch it away. When she tugs at it, he refuses to relinquish his prize and instead holds it up. When she snarls, he remains unfazed. “You’ve lost weight since Moonlight Towers. You have lost further weight since the incursion.”
“So?” When he releases her hand, she snatches it back and sits back in the chair, cradling her hand as she glares at him suspiciously. It is thin yes, but it works all the same. She is lithe but not a walking skeleton.
“How do you think it looks to the people when they see you wasting away before their eyes?”
Oh, politics. “I hardly care about the sympathy of those I don’t know.” When he raises an eyebrow, she continues. “Don’t involve me in your schemes.”
“Has Orin’s machinations truly made you a half-wit? These schemes are ensuring that neither of us swing by the noose in the days to come. Better to control the narrative now than wait for those who oppose us to attempt it in the future.”
Tamasvi rolls her eyes and ignores his petty insult. She could comment that his motivation is more around his own need for self-preservation than to keep her safe, that her status as a hero and their connection is useful but he doesn’t need it as much as he implies. Enver is the one pushing for them to rule together, not her. For her own neck, it would be little effort for to leave the city tonight and never return.
She’s here for Karlach’s heart. Mostly.
“Did you make any progress on the engine?” It’s a change of subject. Tamasvi hopes he’ll take it as the peace offering it is meant to be.
“No.” He takes the bait. She leans forward onto the desk, elbows resting upon the lacquered wood. “By the time the schematics arrived for me to look at, I was needed at the foundry.”
That explained the clothes, the dark circles around his eyes and the darker stubble on his cheeks. He’s still working, still going through whatever is on his desk and doing it alone. The coffee that Nysene set out for him has already been finished, how many nights has he remained awake all night?
“What happened?”
He’s assessing her too. Enver’s dark eyes dart in the smallest of motions, she can almost feel his gaze move from her eyes, her arms, her mouth. What does he see that must be so different from the past? He says that she has lost weight, but she can’t even remember the last time she looked at herself properly in a mirror to check. Did she have scars that have burned away from the plethora of healing magic she’s been exposed to; did she wear her hair differently? Enver Gortash feels so familiar to her, and she has never felt more like a stranger to him.
When he wilts and lets out a small huff of air; she lets him reach over and brush a strand of hair that has fallen loose from its braid. She doesn’t move when he carefully tucks it behind her ear with a gentleness that he shouldn’t possess. Gooseflesh ripples down her neck and over her arms, she tries not to give it away in her expression.
“A mistake, that I took too long in fixing” He finally tells her. She has to work to remember she had asked about the foundry. “One you had warned me about during their first design actually. Its rectified now.”
She nods. It’s clear to both of them that she can’t remember, he doesn’t elaborate further.