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Somehow, the silence echoes in the room, pounding, throbbing pain bouncing off the walls of Nox’s busy mind. He had been serving his father well without complaint. His following had never been stronger since he was appointed Chosen, and the temple was thriving. He didn’t understand- he didn’t want to.
“I have treated you with great mercy throughout our years working together.” He finally says. So much meaning hidden between the words, more unsaid than said.
“Oh, but master I only desire for your greatness!” Sceleritas stands before him, the useless butler eager in his duty, a grinning reaper of death.
“Stop.” Nox pinches the bridge of his nose. He fights with himself not to scream, and his voice comes out a deep, measured, and dangerous sound, “You watch me, you follow me, you report on my business- my victory and my sin alike. You are nothing but a glorified spy to serve my father.”
“I would never-”
“Then, you will not speak of this. It is only physical, and we have made much growth toward my father’s design.”
“The machinations you have contrived of, I will admit, are beyond that I have seen from any other Bhaalspawn. Nonetheless, you must know Bhaal has sensed some… attachment to the Banite.”
“He is wrong.” Nox hisses, and not even he knows the depths of which the lie runs.
“Wonderful! Simply kill-”
“No.”
The bravado in Sceleritas’ posture all but seeps out of him, his shoulders beginning to wilt toward the floor. “Your refusal will only prove him right.”
“The plan is not finished.” Nox says, and the justification is true.
“Surely m’lord can complete it without the Banite.”
“I cannot.”
“Master, there is no shame in gaining such attachments as long as you divulge yourself of them as they come up.”
“I cannot.”
“If it is sentimentality that concerns you, have you considered the romanticism of whispering your confessions to the Banite as you delve your blessed dagger into his dark heart?”
“I will not.” Nox raises his voice. “I will not. Not now. Not yet. Allow me this one thing.” He feels as though there is a hand in his chest, squeezing his heart as the wretched thing fights for every last beat of blood flowing through his veins. The pain in his head intensifies, sharp spikes stabbing into his frontal lobe.
There is a long silence between them before the butler finally speaks, his voice unusually soft, “You know I am not the one that commands such things.”
“I know.” He sighs, “And yet, I do not know what to do.”
Another long pause hangs in the air until Sceleritas lifts his hand, damned finger pointed toward the heavens. “Perhaps there is hope yet to make your case to our Lord Bhaal. Surely, your loving father will pardon your fondness if only we can convince him the Banite pawn is needed. Perhaps, both your desires may be sated in truly the greatest show of attachment given by our blessed lord.”
“To sacrifice us on my father’s alter? Of course, I’ve considered it.” Noxs huffs, and he has. He’s envisioned it more than once throughout the years since their first coupling- hells, maybe a few times before then, too.
“Oh my, had I known things were so serious, I would have prepared an array of options for the ceremony. Oh- yes, suits, decorations, a feast. My- no-” the butler shakes his head, seemingly pushing the thoughts from his mind, “Not yet my lord. You may instead give your father a sign of your commitment to such a design. To complete his plan then slaughter the failure of Bane in your own last breath.” Sceleritas sighs wistfully, “Nothing could be more romantic.”
Nox mulls it over. He had wished for that moment many times since first feeling the depravity of the Banite’s adoring touch, but to promise it at the end- would it be possible his father could allow him that much time? A greedy mind would imagine years- decades even before the world was truly under their thumb. All that time to live before it was time to die. It was a dream he dared not hold onto too tightly.
“I have officiated such rituals many times.” He thinks back to his followers which had chosen such a fate. The way they held each other close, staring deep into the eyes of their lovers as if they were not bleeding out onto the alter of Bhaal- that was, when both parties cooperated, anyways. “When an outsider is involved, we say they are made holy by their union.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Is that- could that be the case for Enver even?” They were doomed from the start, if he’s being honest with himself. There was no reality in which they could be together forever. This was not a choice he could make, but perhaps, if his father truly loved him, Bhaal could.
“To be taken into Bhaal’s great arms? I do not see why he would say no.” the butler hums.
Yes, he would do that. The next morning, he would rise early while the sun still sat on the edge of night and day, and drew drops clung to every grass blade, and he would procure a wondrous sacrifice for his father. He would bring his bounty to the temple, in the depth of the holiest of holy rooms, and he would conduct his own personal ceremony. Only then would he bow in prayer and scrawl his plea to his father in blood and ink.
* * *
Sceleritas jumps up, his long fingers tapping together impatiently as the door to the Dark Urge’s chambers swings open. It had been not hours but days since the Scion of Bhaal had left the ritual chamber, no food or drink or communication beyond his prayers to their god.
“Master! You are back already! What did your father say?”
He’s draped in his ceremonial garb, a long, white robe seeping with the red of blood from the bottom of it and gold chains which hold the symbol of Bhaal suspended between his horns. Normally, his expression would be alight with desire and excitement, consumed with the pleasing warmth of murder and blood.
Instead, there is nothing behind his eyes; not grief nor joy nor sin. Only emptiness, a void so dark, Shar herself surely stands before him.
He does not answer the butler for a long, unmoving moment. Unfeeling hands pull the prayer of forgiveness out again, and Nox looks down at it one last time, the words burnt into his eyes and soul. Finally, recognition flashes before his eyes, something sharp and dangerous. He folds it neatly and places it into his breast pocket.
“It will not be of concern to me anymore.”
* * *
‘No.’
The word echoes silently in his ears for days, in wake and rest; his father’s words nor the pain they bring can be escaped. He asked again and again, begged for forgiveness, begged for one thing. One. And the answer was 'no'.
Perhaps if Enver was someone else, he could be spared by Bhaal- a member of the church or maybe no one at all. But Bane’s chosen would not be converted. Even if he could, Bhaal would not consider it, it seems. He wants The Dark Urge to kill Enver Gortash.
It wasn’t entirely unexpected, in a way, but the orders from his father come with a realization that Nox is not ready to fully face. ‘Fondness’, ‘attachment’ these were things a weapon should not feel.
But he has done many things a weapon should not do.
A weapon should not laugh. A weapon should not feel joy outside of the hand that forged them. A weapon should not have fine things like warm clothes, good food, or the luxury of silken sheets over a soft bed. A weapon most of all should not have a lover. And yet, in all his life, Nox has always reached for such things. Alas, the Banite is the one who has put them into his blood-soaked hand for all these years now.
“Has that painting offended you so, to deserve such a voracious scowl?”
“Hm?” Nox hums, finally being pulled from his thoughts as he feels one of Gortash’s arms slip around his waist, pulling him tightly against himself. His forehead presses against Nox, and the warmth of his breath tickles over Nox’s pulse. Vulnerable. Vulnerable to have teeth near his neck. Vulnerable to let his guard down knowingly in the presence of another. Yet, all those whispers of weakness feel almost inane to him in the moment.
“If you wish for me to burn it, I may. Though, I would prefer you share your true affliction.” Enver murmurs, and Nox feels his hand travel up to rest on the Banite’s, his fingers quickly grasped in a greedy hold.
“It is nothing,” he lies.
“Hm,” Gortash hums thoughtfully before stepping away, and the sudden rush of coldness at Nox’s back feels like too much to handle. He quickly turns to follow Enver to the tyrant’s desk, and the little grin on his face tells Nox it was the reaction he was hoping for- damned Banite mind games.
“We leave for Moonrise soon. I do not want you distracted.”
Nox rolls his eyes sarcastically, “How thoughtful of you.”
Gortash sits at his desk, and motions to Nox to pull a chair up next to him- always next to. They haven’t done business across as desk in a long time. The symbolism is not lost on the Bhaalspawn, not that he’ll dwell on it. Instead, he follows suit and sits.
“We have much to discuss with our new ally.”
“And I thought having one ally was bad enough,” Nox says, though he doesn’t resist as Enver lifts his feet up to rest on his lap, Nox’s hand instinctively wrapping around his ankle, his fingers reaching for that small spot of exposed skin between his loafers and trousers.
Gortash doesn’t humor him with a retort, only eyeing him incredulously, “Do you have the proper attire for our first meeting?”
“Do you?” He huffs, “The age-old general will respect blood splattered armor more than your frills.”
“Very well, I will don the armor I wore on our last excursion- the set you liked so much.”
Mephistopheles vault. They achieved what no other mortal or immortal had, and yet the mention brings back thoughts of days spent traversing the frozen lands of Cania, curled up together in a shared sleeping roll, the way Enver stitched his wounds so tenderly after their return- part of him knows his mind should fixate on the slaughtered devils and triumph of power over an archdevil, but it doesn’t. Knowing that brings something sour and aching to Nox’s stomach. He feels on edge, his muscles constricting. His fists clench, and he doesn’t notice until his soft touch has turned into a bruising grip on the Banite’s ankle.
“Shit,” he says, “sorry.” Nox pulls his balled-up fists into his lap, his eyes never leaving his cursed hands. He can feel dark eyes scan him, searching for something. He used to be able to keep such a stone face around Gortash. Now, he may as well write his feelings on his forehead with the way his tail twitches irritably.
“Is your Urge acting up?”
“No.” Nox says, then thinks better of it, “Maybe. Not yet.”
“I will hire a group of nameless mercenaries to accompany us to Moonrise. If the Urge strikes you, you may make a sacrifice of them. If not, we can use them yet in our tests. Either way, they will not return with us.” Gortash makes a note on an errant parchment on his desk, and Nox watches the way he drags the quill across the paper so precisely. It is only once the Banite looks back up at him that he remembers to respond.
“Thank you.”
Enver looks at him pensively for a moment more before the expression is wiped away, a smug smirk in its place, “I am always happy to ensure you’re sated, my dearest.”
Nox snorts, an embarrassing laugh that comes out of him unwillingly, but it puts a smile on his face for the first time in days. He used to think he knew how humor and happiness felt; he used to think they were the sensations in his gut when he slaughtered for his father and laughed in the face of his victims. That is not how he feels around Enver Gortash. He feels something so sickly warm that is not the reward of an action but something that hovers, something that stays even when he wants to hate him. And it drives him mad. Or it would, if he were not so indulgent.
He shoves Enver’s feet off his lap and pulls the other man’s chair closer to him until he can reach out and wrap his arms around his waist, pulling Gortash closer. He’s welcomed with arms around his shoulders. When he presses the ghost of a bite to Enver’s throat, Gortash only leans his head back to expose more of himself to the sharp fangs of a Bhaalspawn, so lightly digging into his flesh in some twisted mockery of a love-bite.
Stupid, genius Banite, trusting a thing like him.
He could clench his jaw and tear the tender flesh and tendons there. He could follow his father’s commands. He could, but he presses a kiss there instead- something foolish and sentimental. Something that will surely be the death of him eventually. For now, though, he is content to rest his head on Enver’s shoulder.
“Better.” Gortash hums, and they stay like that for a long moment. When Nox finally pulls back, Gortash tilts his head inquisitively, a habit he’d picked up from the Bhaalspawn, “Are you ready to behave and tell me what concerns you?”
Nox sneers, leering at him “Perhaps you should behave better, lordling. My father grows impatient,” Nox scans the room as he speaks, seeking traces of invisible, listening ears. Even if Sceleritas does not listen, it is easier if the words sound as a threat rather than a warning. “He is restless. Your god may see the need for me, but Bhaal will never see the same for a Banite.”
“You have served him unwaveringly. Surely, your father must think very highly of you for him to consider an allyship unnecessary. However, with the crown in our hands and Myrkle’s armies at our fingertips, we will make him see the need- at least for as long as we require.” Gortash’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping, “If not, we will just have to make alternative plans, won’t we?”
Nox looks away. His head is pounding in a way that he is unsure stems from his Urge or the restless nights he’s had since Sceleritas shared his father’s growing distaste of Enver. But the Banite was right. He had served his father well. He should be loved. He should be rewarded. Is, truly, one person to accompany him to the end too much to ask when his father has asked him to forsake his life and soul and each and every ounce of happiness he has found in Toril? He had given his father everything he wanted, and the answer was still 'no'. He had given Enver only parts of himself, both good and bad, and yet his answer was always 'yes'.
“Anything.” He hears himself say. Conspiratory words whispered against his god, against a part of his very soul. And yet, it almost feels as if a weight is lifted off his shoulders.
“Very good, my dearest.” Enver caresses his cheek gently “Stay the night. You ought to be well-rested before we depart.”
He nods wordlessly. He would stay. He would eat fine food and drink fine wine, and Enver would give him one of his enchanted shirts to push down the worry that would swirl in Nox’s stomach as he slept.
The guilt of sin had lingered in his mind on and off throughout the years. Now, it seeps out of him like the slow-draining life force of blood dripping from a wound. In its stead, he finds betrayal. Where the perverse well of love for his father was once held in his chest, he feels malice begin to bloom like dark oleander. And with it, he finds a sense of comfort- acceptance where he once held resistance, not for Bhaal, but instead Enver Gortash: the tyrant Chosen of Bane who yields to none, except the Chosen spawn of Bhaal.