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A pounding in time with a heartbeat reverberated off of the inside of your skull. It built slowly, pulling you from somewhere that was almost dreamy and smelled of black berries and steel where dark brown eyes watched over you until you were screaming yourself into consciousness. Your hands clawed instinctively at the source of your agony and found wet warmth, sharp bony fragments and a new wave of heightened agony upon touching the exposed quicks of your horns.
Your horns. They were gone.
Recollection trickled back to you, the moments leading up to your reprieve,
unconsciousness. Your body had taken pity on you, rewarding you with a moment of mercy a midst the torture when they had snapped both horns from your head. One at a time.
It was a miracle you’d stayed conscious after the first. That type of pain was nothing you’d ever experienced, exposed nerve endings forcing repeated shocks of splitting, radiating torment with every shuddering breath your body reflexively took. Red poured down the side of your face, stealing half of your vision in a sheet of scarlet.
You’d looked up for the next one, unable to replace the fear in your eyes this time with malice, to see your capture’s hand grip the other. He’d held onto the other side of your head for stabilization, meaty thumb burying itself into the exposed fleshy bit at the center of your fragmented horn. The hobgoblins grin was just as sickening as the snap of your other horn in your ear before it was replaced by your own blood curdling scream as you’d crashed into blackness.
Now, all you could see was red. It pooled at your feet beneath where your head had hung. Your body dangled by a single arm from the chains attaching it to the wall at your back. There was so much blood, and despite knowing horns were very vascular and feeling as though you’d been drained of a large volume of yours, you knew enough about the body to understand that the amount of it painting the floor at your feet couldn’t have been from only you.
Otherwise, you’d be dead. Part of you wished you were.
The movement of your eye lids when you lifted your gaze felt sticky, the blood bath that was your face had become tacky in the time you’d been out. It was unlike them, to let you have relief for that long. When you saw the state of the room, you understood why they hadn’t woken you.
The hobgoblin and numerous kobold bodies scattered the floor of the stone room, and you realized then that one of your arms was free of its chain. It too was covered in blood, and by the smell of it you knew it wasn’t your own. The sour metallic reek almost covered the stench of the rest of the sewer, the thick odor so present in the small space likely because of its age. Almost. Time had most certainly past, by the way your shoulder that belonged to the arm still attached to the wall ached, likely it was in the realm of days.
You should’ve mumbled a prayer, a thank you, to Bhaal, and if you’d had enough strength to do that and lift your free hand to use the hair pin you’d been saving to loose the metal cuff, you might have. Instead, you barely had enough will to half catch your body when it dropped fully down onto its knees into the half congealed blood puddle at your feet.
Orin was never going to let this go, was never going to let you forget that you’d gotten yourself captured. You were always the softer of your pairing, and that had shown in how little time it had taken them to break you. At least everything you’d told them died with them. Why Bhaal had chosen you was as much a mystery to you as it was to Orin, and to Gortash.
The irony of your self doubt was not lost on you as you stood in a literal pool blood, drained from the bodies of those you’d murdered half possessed and still in chains. If you were more objective, the quality and creativity of your work easily made you a top pick for the chosen of the Lord of Murder. But you were not, and instead you were easily worn down by the judgement of your sister and Bane’s chosen.
Gortash.
With your brain half muddled and body beginning to move forward into the expanse of the sewer, you’d almost forgotten the sending stone that connected you, chosen of Bhaal, to your less than preferable other half. If he was in the city, and for once you hoped he was, then maybe you could reach him.
When you pulled the stone from the inside of your breast pocket and began your sending, it nearly slipped like a bar of soap between blood oiled hands. A hiss sounded from between your palms, emanating from the rock, in annoyance at the squelching and clattering that echoed on the other end. “What is it this time Eve?” You never thought hearing Gortash’s annoyed and judgmental, though slightly self satisfied, balk would make your knees weak with relief.
“Gortash..” You would’ve been embarrassed at how that relief drenched your tone if you’d had the energy to allocate it to caring what he thought of you in this moment. Your body slumped partially against the stone wall in the sewer passage, needing to catch your breath to speak, unable to both walk (stumble) and talk at the same time.
“What is it Eve” His voice was harder this time, though not with furthered annoyance. Maybe it was the blood loss that made it sound so, but the edge his voice had taken, now more serious, hinted almost at worry. “Why do you sound like that.”
Through a swimming line of sight you narrowed your eyes down at the stone as though he could actually see you “I don’t sound like anything.” A waste of your energy, you snapped back at him though with significantly less bite than was typical. Still, following the longer collection of words you half panted, the sound of it echoing off of the narrow sewer passage.
“You sound hurt.” It wasn’t a question and hint of smugness seeped through the stone. You could picture him smirking. “Orin had mentioned you were missing. Of course, I thought she was being dramatic given that she’s well, Orin.” You settled yourself fully into a sit against the wall, leaning your head back against it. He always talked so much.
“And here you are calling little old me. Hmm, someone must be desperate.” It was sticky, how satisfied and sweet his voice sounded, like he had plans to hold this over you. Now you hung your head, and with the movement felt fresh liquid dribbling down from fragmented horns. When you opened your mouth to reply, you could taste it.
“I am.” You didn’t have it left in you to fight him, not this time. There was a stretch of silence on the his end of the sending stone before footsteps began to echo on the other side.
“Tell me where you are.” Gone again was the lilt of enjoyment when he spoke. You could almost hear the frown in his voice.
“Sewers.” The amount you were able to speak remained short, the panting and laboring between statements becoming more pronounced. “I don’t” Pant. “know exactly” Pant. “where”.
The stone in your hand was beginning to feel heavy, the same way your eye lids weighed down by fresh blood did. When it clattered out of your palm, you heard Gortash hiss on the other end “Damn it.” but this time not from the sound itself, more from what that sound meant; you really were hurt.
“I’m coming Eve.” His voice sounded far away and your head leaned back again against the slimy rock wall, frame slumping further.
“I’ll find you.”
The blackness took you again, and this time your peace was the sound of his voice as you slipped away.
…..
The sound of hurried feet disrupting the patter of a steady, slow drip brought you back. This time, based on the chill of your limbs and the degree of stiffness in your neck, it may have only been hours that had passed.
Your eyes peeled open, disrupting the layer of blood that had caked them partially shut. When you felt your hand shift in a small puddle of half chilled, sticky liquid you gathered the evenly timed drip came from the blood seeping still at the ends of where your horns once were. With the shock of what all had happened to you partially worn away by time and you’re flitting in and out of consciousness, the thought pricked tears in the corner of your eyes.
They fell before the footsteps grew near enough for you to consciously register them, streaking paths in the scarlet in varying degrees of dryness plastered to your cheeks. The hurt had dulled to something aching and raw, only sharpening when you shifted and the exposed nerve endings and quicks caught cool air, brushing against stone as you sat up.
You would’ve bitten back the sob if you had realized you were no longer alone in the narrow passage way. The sound of rushing sewage only half swallowed up your choked cry, and it’s echoing led the owner of those footsteps straight to you.
He’d gotten so close before you noted him coming through the darkness, the hurriedness of his pace slowing once you’d come into his line of sight. Alive. Alone. His stride steadied out into almost a saunter as he came to a stop directly in front of you.
“You’re bleeding.” Gortash’s dark gaze was half lidded and his jaw, momentarily slackened in a partial gape, steeled shut quickly when his eyes traveled passed your floor bound frame, following the trail of red to the end of the passage where chains and bodies and blood littered the ground. You’d barely made it a dozen feet; how embarrassing.
When he looked back to you his eyes were narrowed in judgement. They searched you, stopping on the fragmented pieces of horn a top your head and becoming stuck there. You watched a muscle feather in his jaw before cautiously lifting your eyes to his, preparing to flinch away from what you saw. The rage in them however was not fixed on you and instead had turned to where the pieces separated from your body lay discarded on the sewer floor.
Gortash continued to evaluate the scene in silence as a hand fished in the pocket of his robe, and without looking he tossed a small bottle down at you. It were as though he couldn’t look at you. Luckily, with what energy you didn’t know, you caught it before it could smash into pieces and the healing potion was lost to the sewage.
“Appreciate it…” Your mumble was almost as sheepish as it was sarcastic before you downed the bottle. It did little besides make you feel as though death was slightly less imminent.
“Good! You should.” You weren’t prepared for the way he snapped back at you, fooled by his previously quiet rage. The exposure of your vessels and flesh inside the end of your horns made everything feel devastatingly raw, especially his suddenly barely tempered anger. When you flinched back at his raised voice, the arm that had held you dangling from the wall came upward just a fraction to shield yourself, exposing the raw flesh the metal cuff had worn into your wrist.
His hand was on your elbow faster than you could register, Gortash kneeling before you in the span of blink. Since when could he move that fast? “How could you let them do this to you!?”
The demand was like salt in a wound, his fingers blanching the flesh of your forearm with how tightly he was gripping it. Though you wanted desperately to shrink away from his stare, now boring into your face, the scent of black berries and steel fixed your own gaze. Neither of you spoke for a moment, a battle of wills, his of rage and yours of slowly bubbling defiance as your mouth set into a thin line to fight its trembling. It prevented you from biting an answer back at him.
Still you could not stop the way your fingers shook, suspended in mid air by his hand where it was a vice on your elbow. Gortash caught the movement from the corner of his gaze, breaking it away from yours to watch those fingers tremor in the space between your bodies. His expression shifted into something unreadable before falling away, dropping your arm and his gaze in one motion though he remained crouching in front of you.
When he spoke again, the edge to his voice was smoothed into softness. He sounded uncharacteristically gentle. “They’re all dead?” It wasn’t really a question; he knew you and therefore knew that they were.
Your voice came in a whisper, hoarse. “Yes.”
“Better get you home to Orin then.” You searched his face, your own expression demanding him to return your gaze where his remained down cast at the pool of your blood now at his feet. His pause was brief, but the way sound traveled in the sewer made it pronounced. When he spoke again his voice was gravelly. “She’s been worried sick.” A blatant lie.
You didn’t fully understand why it was you now who had a slowly bubbling rage. Why wasn’t he yelling anymore. Why would he not turn judgmental and hateful eyes back to you instead of whatever that unreadable expression he cast to the ground was. Was he pitying you? Your voice came out stronger than it had.
“Gortash, look at me.”
Usually, your commands left little room for disobedience, but Gortash was not one of Bhaal’s followers, was not yours to direct. When he did not, your indigence grew and you made to shove both off the wall and him away from you to clear room for yourself to stand. “Whatever then.”
The movements were sloppy and too fast, the little blood you had rushing to your head and blotting black spots in your vision. One step you took forward with sure footing, splashing in that puddle Gortash refused to look away from, and the next had you tilting sideways.
An arm snaked around your waist, broad hand gripping at its side as another, just as warm and large, caught the back of your neck to protect the motion of your head and prevent additional trauma to the ruined horns. When the spinning stilled and your body remained up right, Gortash was looking at you again.
His face was no longer unreadable, tight with fear and worry, and so very close to your own that you could feel his breath, restricted pants, against the drying tears that had split the red down your cheeks. You made to pull out of his grip, but it took barely any effort at all to hold you there. When his brows creased further your look of defiance melted a fraction.
“Just be more careful next time.” His voice was quiet and it sounded more like a plea than an order. As if hearing himself, imaging the expression that accompanied that tone, he quickly followed with something sharper. “The last thing I need is Orin taking your place.”
He let you go, but did so slowly. Your footing held, but you didn’t step away. His stare shifted from your eyes up to the still weeping ends of your broken horns. When his expression bled into something adjacent to pain, unshielded by unreadability this time, you didn’t stop yourself from reaching forward to cup the side of his face. Damn your bleeding heart.
“I’m alright.” The gentleness of your touch and voice snapped a shield back into place over Gortash, and the speed at which he recoiled had you reeling, stumbling a step. This time he did not move to stabilize you. “You aren’t.” It was another statement, but now there was nothing but steel in his tone.
“Come on, we’re leaving.” His back was turned on you in the same breath as he headed back in the direction from which he came “I don’t need any more sewage and blood on me than there already is.” His voice shifted back into sleekness lilted with disgust and annoyance. “I’ll send someone to deal with the mess to your room right away once we’re back.” Part of you knew he wasn’t talking about the sewage and blood covering you and more about your now ugly, tattered horns. You didn’t have the capacity for it to sting more than it already did.
“How gracious.”
You let him keep his back to you as you walked, following him from the sewers in the now fallen silence.